Kabanata Kabanata 1 · It was during the time I wandered about and starved in Christiania:

Christiania, this singular city, from which no man departs without

carrying away the traces of his sojourn there.

* * * * *

I was lying awake in my attic and I heard a clock below strike six. It

was already broad daylight, and people had begun to go up and down the

stairs. By the door where the wall of the room was papered with old

numbers of the _Morgenbladet_, I could distinguish clearly a notice

from the Director of Lighthouses, and a little to the left of that an

inflated advertisement of Fabian Olsens' new-baked bread.

The instant I opened my eyes I began, from sheer force of habit, to

think if I had anything to rejoice over that day. I had been somewhat

hard-up lately, and one after the other of my belongings had been taken

to my "Uncle." I had grown nervous and irritable. A few times I had

kept my bed for the day with vertigo. Now and then, when luck had

favoured me, I had managed to get five shillings for a feuilleton from

some newspaper or other.

It grew lighter and lighter, and I took to reading the advertisements

near the door. I could even make out the grinning lean letters of

"winding-sheets to be had at Miss Andersen's" on the right of it. That

occupied me for a long while. I heard the clock below strike eight as I

got up and put on my clothes.

I opened the window and looked out. From where I was standing I had a

view of a clothes-line and an open field. Farther away lay the ruins

of a burnt-out smithy, which some labourers were busy clearing away. I

leant with my elbows resting on the window-frame and gazed into open

space. It promised to be a clear day--autumn, that tender, cool time of

the year, when all things change their colour, and die, had come to us.

The ever-increasing noise in the streets lured me out. The bare room,

the floor of which rocked up and down with every step I took across it,

seemed like a gasping, sinister coffin. There was no proper fastening

to the door, either, and no stove. I used to lie on my socks at night

to dry them a little by the morning. The only thing I had to divert

myself with was a little red rocking-chair, in which I used to sit in

the evenings and doze and muse on all manner of things. When it blew

hard, and the door below stood open, all kinds of eerie sounds moaned

up through the floor and from out the walls, and the _Morgenbladet_

near the door was rent in strips a span long.

I stood up and searched through a bundle in the corner by the bed for a

bite for breakfast, but finding nothing, went back to the window.

God knows, thought I, if looking for employment will ever again avail

me aught. The frequent repulses, half-promises, and curt noes, the

cherished, deluded hopes, and fresh endeavours that always resulted in

nothing had done my courage to death. As a last resource, I had applied

for a place as debt collector, but I was too late, and, besides, I

could not have found the fifty shillings demanded as security. There

was always something or another in my way. I had even offered to enlist

in the Fire Brigade. There we stood and waited in the vestibule, some

half-hundred men, thrusting our chests out to give an idea of strength

and bravery, whilst an inspector walked up and down and scanned the

applicants, felt their arms, and put one question or another to them.

Me, he passed by, merely shaking his head, saying I was rejected on

account of my sight. I applied again without my glasses, stood there

with knitted brows, and made my eyes as sharp as needles, but the man

passed me by again with a smile; he had recognized me. And, worse than

all, I could no longer apply for a situation in the garb of a

respectable man.

How regularly and steadily things had gone downhill with me for a long

time, till, in the end, I was so curiously bared of every conceivable

thing. I had not even a comb left, not even a book to read, when things

grew all too sad with me. All through the summer, up in the churchyards

or parks, where I used to sit and write my articles for the newspapers,

I had thought out column after column on the most miscellaneous

subjects. Strange ideas, quaint fancies, conceits of my restless brain;

in despair I had often chosen the most remote themes, that cost me long

hours of intense effort, and never were accepted. When one piece was

finished I set to work at another. I was not often discouraged by the

editors' "no." I used to tell myself constantly that some day I was

bound to succeed; and really occasionally when I was in luck's way, and

made a hit with something, I could get five shillings for an

afternoon's work.

Once again I raised myself from the window, went over to the

washing-stand, and sprinkled some water on the shiny knees of my

trousers to dull them a little and make them look a trifle newer.

Having done this, I pocketed paper and pencil as usual and went out. I

stole very quietly down the stairs in order not to attract my

landlady's attention (a few days had elapsed since my rent had fallen

due, and I had no longer anything wherewith to raise it).

It was nine o'clock. The roll of vehicles and hum of voices filled the

air, a mighty morning-choir mingled with the footsteps of the

pedestrians, and the crack of the hack-drivers' whips. The clamorous

traffic everywhere exhilarated me at once, and I began to feel more and

more contented. Nothing was farther from my intention than to merely

take a morning walk in the open air. What had the air to do with my

lungs? I was strong as a giant; could stop a dray with my shoulders. A

sweet, unwonted mood, a feeling of lightsome happy-go-luckiness took

possession of me. I fell to observing the people I met and who passed

me, to reading the placards on the wall, noted even the impression of a

glance thrown at me from a passing tram-car, let each bagatelle, each

trifling incident that crossed or vanished from my path impress me.

If one only had just a little to eat on such a lightsome day! The sense

of the glad morning overwhelmed me; my satisfaction became

ill-regulated, and for no definite reason I began to hum joyfully.

At a butcher's stall a woman stood speculating on sausage for dinner.

As I passed her she looked up at me. She had but one tooth in the front

of her head. I had become so nervous and easily affected in the last

few days that the woman's face made a loathsome impression upon me. The

long yellow snag looked like a little finger pointing out of her gum,

and her gaze was still full of sausage as she turned it upon me. I

immediately lost all appetite, and a feeling of nausea came over me.

When I reached the market-place I went to the fountain and drank a

little. I looked up; the dial marked ten on Our Saviour's tower.

I went on through the streets, listlessly, without troubling myself

about anything at all, stopped aimlessly at a corner, turned off into a

side street without having any errand there. I simply let myself go,

wandered about in the pleasant morning, swinging myself care-free to

and fro amongst other happy human beings. This air was clear and bright

and my mind too was without a shadow.

For quite ten minutes I had had an old lame man ahead of me. He carried

a bundle in one hand and exerted his whole body, using all his strength

in his endeavours to get along speedily. I could hear how he panted

from the exertion, and it occurred to me that I might offer to bear his

bundle for him, but yet I made no effort to overtake him. Up in

Graendsen I met Hans Pauli, who nodded and hurried past me. Why was he

in such a hurry? I had not the slightest intention of asking him for a

shilling, and, more than that, I intended at the very first opportunity

to return him a blanket which I had borrowed from him some weeks before.

Just wait until I could get my foot on the ladder, I would be beholden

to no man, not even for a blanket. Perhaps even this very day I might

commence an article on the "Crimes of Futurity," "Freedom of Will," or

what not, at any rate, something worth reading, something for which I

would at least get ten shillings.... And at the thought of this article

I felt myself fired with a desire to set to work immediately and to

draw from the contents of my overflowing brain. I would find a suitable

place to write in the park and not rest until I had completed my

article.

But the old cripple was still making the same sprawling movements ahead

of me up the street. The sight of this infirm creature constantly in

front of me, commenced to irritate me--his journey seemed endless;

perhaps he had made up his mind to go to exactly the same place as I

had, and I must needs have him before my eyes the whole way. In my

irritation it seemed to me that he slackened his pace a little at every

cross street, as if waiting to see which direction I intended to take,

upon which he would again swing his bundle in the air and peg away with

all his might to keep ahead of me. I follow and watch this tiresome

creature and get more and more exasperated with him, I am conscious

that he has, little by little, destroyed my happy mood and dragged the

pure, beautiful morning down to the level of his own ugliness. He looks

like a great sprawling reptile striving with might and main to win a

place in the world and reserve the footpath for himself. When we

reached the top of the hill I determined to put up with it no longer. I

turned to a shop window and stopped in order to give him an opportunity

of getting ahead, but when, after a lapse of some minutes, I again

walked on there was the man still in front of me--he too had stood

stock still,--without stopping to reflect I made three or four furious

onward strides, caught him up, and slapped him on the shoulder.

He stopped directly, and we both stared at one another fixedly. "A

halfpenny for milk!" he whined, twisting his head askew.

So that was how the wind blew. I felt in my pockets and said: "For

milk, eh? Hum-m--money's scarce these times, and I don't really know

how much you are in need of it."

"I haven't eaten a morsel since yesterday in Drammen; I haven't got a

farthing, nor have I got any work yet!"

"Are you an artisan?"

"Yes; a binder."

"A what?"

"A shoe-binder; for that matter, I can make shoes too."

"Ah, that alters the case," said I, "you wait here for some minutes

and I shall go and get a little money for you; just a few pence."

I hurried as fast as I could down Pyle Street, where I knew of a

pawnbroker on a second-floor (one, besides, to whom I had never been

before). When I got inside the hall I hastily took off my waistcoat,

rolled it up, and put it under my arm; after which I went upstairs and

knocked at the office door. I bowed on entering, and threw the

waistcoat on the counter.

"One-and-six," said the man.

"Yes, yes, thanks," I replied. "If it weren't that it was beginning to

be a little tight for me, of course I wouldn't part with it."

I got the money and the ticket, and went back. Considering all things,

pawning that waistcoat was a capital notion. I would have money enough

over for a plentiful breakfast, and before evening my thesis on the

"Crimes of Futurity" would be ready. I began to find existence more

alluring; and I hurried back to the man to get rid of him.

"There it is," said I. "I am glad you applied to me first."

The man took the money and scrutinized me closely. At what was he

standing there staring? I had a feeling that he particularly examined

the knees of my trousers, and his shameless effrontery bored me. Did

the scoundrel imagine that I really was as poor as I looked? Had I not

as good as begun to write an article for half-a-sovereign? Besides, I

had no fear whatever for the future. I had many irons in the fire. What

on earth business was it of an utter stranger if I chose to stand him a

drink on such a lovely day? The man's look annoyed me, and I made up my

mind to give him a good dressing-down before I left him. I threw back

my shoulders, and said:

"My good fellow, you have adopted a most unpleasant habit of staring at

a man's knees when he gives you a shilling."

He leant his head back against the wall and opened his mouth widely;

something was working in that empty pate of his, and he evidently came

to the conclusion that I meant to best him in some way, for he handed

me back the money. I stamped on the pavement, and, swearing at him,

told him to keep it. Did he imagine I was going to all that trouble for

nothing? If all came to all, perhaps I owed him this shilling; I had

just recollected an old debt; he was standing before an honest man,

honourable to his finger-tips--in short, the money was his. Oh, no

thanks were needed; it had been a pleasure to me. Good-bye!

I went on. At last I was freed from this work-ridden plague, and I

could go my way in peace. I turned down Pyle Street again, and stopped

before a grocer's shop. The whole window was filled with eatables, and

I decided to go in and get something to take with me.

"A piece of cheese and a French roll," I said, and threw my sixpence on

to the counter.

"Bread and cheese for the whole of it?" asked the woman ironically,

without looking up at me.

"For the whole sixpence? Yes," I answered, unruffled.

I took them up, bade the fat old woman good-morning, with the utmost

politeness, and sped, full tilt, up Castle Hill to the park.

I found a bench to myself, and began to bite greedily into my

provender. It did me good; it was a long time since I had had such a

square meal, and, by degrees, I felt the same sated quiet steal over me

that one feels after a good long cry. My courage rose mightily. I could

no longer be satisfied with writing an article about anything so simple

and straight-ahead as the "Crimes of Futurity," that any ass might

arrive at, ay, simply deduct from history. I felt capable of a much

greater effort than that; I was in a fitting mood to overcome

difficulties, and I decided on a treatise, in three sections, on

"Philosophical Cognition." This would, naturally, give me an

opportunity of crushing pitiably some of Kant's sophistries ... but, on

taking out my writing materials to commence work, I discovered that I

no longer owned a pencil: I had forgotten it in the pawn-office. My

pencil was lying in my waistcoat pocket.

Good Lord! how everything seems to take a delight in thwarting me

today! I swore a few times, rose from the seat, and took a couple of

turns up and down the path. It was very quiet all around me; down near

the Queen's arbour two nursemaids were trundling their perambulators;

otherwise, there was not a creature anywhere in sight. I was in a

thoroughly embittered temper; I paced up and down before my seat like a

maniac. How strangely awry things seemed to go! To think that an

article in three sections should be downright stranded by the simple

fact of my not having a pennyworth of pencil in my pocket. Supposing I

were to return to Pyle Street and ask to get my pencil back? There

would be still time to get a good piece finished before the promenading

public commenced to fill the parks. So much, too, depended on this

treatise on "Philosophical Cognition"--mayhap many human beings'

welfare, no one could say; and I told myself it might be of the

greatest possible help to many young people. On second thoughts, I

would not lay violent hands on Kant; I might easily avoid doing that; I

would only need to make an almost imperceptible gliding over when I

came to query Time and Space; but I would not answer for Renan, old

Parson Renan....

At all events, an article of so-and-so many columns has to be

completed. For the unpaid rent, and the landlady's inquiring look in

the morning when I met her on the stairs, tormented me the whole day;

it rose up and confronted me again and again, even in my pleasant

hours, when I had otherwise not a gloomy thought.

I must put an end to it, so I left the park hurriedly to fetch my

pencil from the pawnbroker's.

As I arrived at the foot of the hill I overtook two ladies, whom I

passed. As I did so, I brushed one of them accidentally on the arm. I

looked up; she had a full, rather pale, face. But she blushes, and,

becomes suddenly surprisingly lovely. I know not why she blushes; maybe

at some word she hears from a passer-by, maybe only at some lurking

thought of her own. Or can it be because I touched her arm? Her high,

full bosom heaves violently several times, and she closes her hand

tightly above the handle of her parasol. What has come to her?

I stopped, and let her pass ahead again. I could, for the moment, go no

further; the whole thing struck me as being so singular. I was in a

tantalizing mood, annoyed with myself on account of the pencil

incident, and in a high degree disturbed by all the food I had taken on

a totally empty stomach. Suddenly my thoughts, as if whimsically

inspired, take a singular direction. I feel myself seized with an odd

desire to make this lady afraid; to follow her, and annoy her in some

way. I overtake her again, pass her by, turn quickly round, and meet

her face-to-face in order to observe her well. I stand and gaze into

her eyes, and hit, on the spur of the moment, on a name which I have

never heard before--a name with a gliding, nervous sound--Ylajali! When

she is quite close to me I draw myself up and say impressively:

"You are losing your book, madam!" I could hear my heart beat audibly

as I said it.

"My book?" she asks her companion, and she walks on.

My devilment waxed apace, and I followed them. At the same time, I was

fully conscious that I was playing a mad prank without being able to

stop myself. My disordered condition ran away with me; I was inspired

with the craziest notions, which I followed blindly as they came to me.

I couldn't help it, no matter how much I told myself that I was playing

the fool. I made the most idiotic grimaces behind the lady's back, and

coughed frantically as I passed her by. Walking on in this manner--very

slowly, and always a few steps in advance--I felt her eyes on my back,

and involuntarily put down my head with shame for having caused her

annoyance. By degrees, a wonderful feeling stole over me of being far,

far away in other places; I had a half-undefined sense that it was not

I who was going along over the gravel hanging my head.

A few minutes later, they reached Pascha's bookshop. I had already

stopped at the first window, and as they go by I step forward and

repeat:

"You are losing your book, madam!"

"No; what book?" she asks affrightedly. "Can you make out what book it

is he is talking about?" and she comes to a stop.

I hug myself with delight at her confusion; the irresolute perplexity

in her eyes positively fascinates me. Her mind cannot grasp my short,

passionate address. She has no book with her; not a single page of a

book, and yet she fumbles in her pockets, looks down repeatedly at her

hands, turns her head and scrutinizes the streets behind her, exerts

her sensitive little brain to the utmost in trying to discover what

book it is I am talking about. Her face changes colour, has now one,

now another expression, and she is breathing quite audibly--even the

very buttons on her gown seem to stare at me, like a row of frightened

eyes.

"Don't bother about him!" says her companion, taking her by the arm.

"He is drunk; can't you see that the man is drunk?"

Strange as I was at this instant to myself, so absolutely a prey to

peculiar invisible inner influences, nothing occurred around me without

my observing it. A large, brown dog sprang right across the street

towards the shrubbery, and then down towards the Tivoli; he had on a

very narrow collar of German silver. Farther up the street a window

opened on the second floor, and a servant-maid leant out of it, with

her sleeves turned up, and began to clean the panes on the outside.

Nothing escaped my notice; I was clear-headed and ready-witted.

Everything rushed in upon me with a gleaming distinctness, as if I were

suddenly surrounded by a strong light. The ladies before me had each a

blue bird's wing in their hats, and a plaid silk ribbon round their

necks. It struck me that they were sisters.

They turned, stopped at Cisler's music-shop, and spoke together. I

stopped also. Thereupon they both came back, went the same road as they

had come, passed me again, and turned the corner of University Street

and up towards St. Olav's place. I was all the time as close at their

heels as I dared to be. They turned round once, and sent me a

half-fearful, half-questioning look, and I saw no resentment nor any

trace of a frown in it.

This forbearance with my annoyance shamed me thoroughly and made me

lower my eyes. I would no longer be a trouble to them; out of sheer

gratitude I would follow them with my gaze, not lose sight of them

until they entered some place safely and disappeared.

Outside No. 2, a large four-storeyed house, they turned again before

going in. I leant against a lamp-post near the fountain and listened

for their footsteps on the stairs. They died away on the second floor.

I advanced from the lamp-post and looked up at the house. Then

something odd happened. The curtains above were stirred, and a second

after a window opened, a head popped out, and two singular-looking eyes

dwelt on me. "Ylajali!" I muttered, half-aloud, and I felt I grew red.

Why does she not call for help, or push over one of these flower-pots

and strike me on the head, or send some one down to drive me away? We

stand and look into one another's eyes without moving; it lasts a

minute. Thoughts dart between the window and the street, and not a word

is spoken. She turns round, I feel a wrench in me, a delicate shock

through my senses; I see a shoulder that turns, a back that disappears

across the floor. That reluctant turning from the window, the

accentuation in that movement of the shoulders was like a nod to me. My

blood was sensible of all the delicate, dainty greeting, and I felt all

at once rarely glad. Then I wheeled round and went down the street.

I dared not look back, and knew not if she had returned to the window.

The more I considered this question the more nervous and restless I

became. Probably at this very moment she was standing watching closely

all my movements. It is by no means comfortable to know that you are

being watched from behind your back. I pulled myself together as well

as I could and proceeded on my way; my legs began to jerk under me, my

gait became unsteady just because I purposely tried to make it look

well. In order to appear at ease and indifferent, I flung my arms

about, spat out, and threw my head well back--all without avail, for I

continually felt the pursuing eyes on my neck, and a cold shiver ran

down my back. At length I escaped down a side street, from which I took

the road to Pyle Street to get my pencil.

I had no difficulty in recovering it; the man brought me the waistcoat

himself, and as he did so, begged me to search through all the pockets.

I found also a couple of pawn-tickets which I pocketed as I thanked the

obliging little man for his civility. I was more and more taken with

him, and grew all of a sudden extremely anxious to make a favourable

impression on this person. I took a turn towards the door and then back

again to the counter as if I had forgotten something. It struck me that

I owed him an explanation, that I ought to elucidate matters a little.

I began to hum in order to attract his attention. Then, taking the

pencil in my hand, I held it up and said:

"It would never have entered my head to come such a long way for any

and every bit of pencil, but with this one it was quite a different

matter; there was another reason, a special reason. Insignificant as it

looked, this stump of pencil had simply made me what I was in the

world, so to say, placed me in life." I said no more. The man had come

right over to the counter.

"Indeed!" said he, and he looked inquiringly at me.

"It was with this pencil," I continued, in cold blood, "that I wrote my

dissertation on 'Philosophical Cognition,' in three volumes." Had he

never heard mention of it?

Well, he did seem to remember having heard the name, rather the title.

"Yes," said I, "that was by me, so it was." So he must really not be

astonished that I should be desirous of having the little bit of pencil

back again. I valued it far too highly to lose it; why, it was almost

as much to me as a little human creature. For the rest I was honestly

grateful to him for his civility, and I would bear him in mind for it.

Yes, truly, I really would. A promise was a promise; that was the sort

of man I was, and he really deserved it. "Good-bye!" I walked to the

door with the bearing of one who had it in his power to place a man in

a high position, say in the fire-office. The honest pawnbroker bowed

twice profoundly to me as I withdrew. I turned again and repeated my

good-bye.

On the stairs I met a woman with a travelling-bag in her hand, who

squeezed diffidently against the wall to make room for me, and I

voluntarily thrust my hand in my pocket for something to give her, and

looked foolish as I found nothing and passed on with my head down. I

heard her knock at the office door; there was an alarm over it, and I

recognized the jingling sound it gave when any one rapped on the door

with his knuckles.

The sun stood in the south; it was about twelve. The whole town began

to get on its legs as it approached the fashionable hour for

promenading. Bowing and laughing folk walked up and down Carl Johann

Street. I stuck my elbows closely to my sides, tried to make myself

look small, and slipped unperceived past some acquaintances who had

taken up their stand at the corner of University Street to gaze at the

passers-by. I wandered up Castle Hill and fell into a reverie.

How gaily and lightly these people I met carried their radiant heads,

and swung themselves through life as through a ball-room! There was no

sorrow in a single look I met, no burden on any shoulder, perhaps not

even a clouded thought, not a little hidden pain in any of the happy

souls. And I, walking in the very midst of these people, young and

newly-fledged as I was, had already forgotten the very look of

happiness. I hugged these thoughts to myself as I went on, and found

that a great injustice had been done me. Why had the last months

pressed so strangely hard on me? I failed to recognize my own happy

temperament, and I met with the most singular annoyances from all

quarters. I could not sit down on a bench by myself or set my foot any

place without being assailed by insignificant accidents, miserable

details, that forced their way into my imagination and scattered my

powers to all the four winds. A dog that dashed by me, a yellow rose in

a man's buttonhole, had the power to set my thoughts vibrating and

occupy me for a length of time.

* * * * *

What was it that ailed me? Was the hand of the Lord turned against me?

But why just against me? Why, for that matter, not just as well against

a man in South America? When I considered the matter over, it grew more

and more incomprehensible to me that I of all others should be selected

as an experiment for a Creator's whims. It was, to say the least of it,

a peculiar mode of procedure to pass over a whole world of other humans

in order to reach me. Why not select just as well Bookseller Pascha, or

Hennechen the steam agent?

As I went my way I sifted this thing, and could not get quit of it. I

found the most weighty arguments against the Creator's arbitrariness in

letting me pay for all the others' sins. Even after I had found a seat

and sat down, the query persisted in occupying me, and prevented me

from thinking of aught else. From the day in May when my ill-luck began

I could so clearly notice my gradually increasing debility; I had

become, as it were, too languid to control or lead myself whither I

would go. A swarm of tiny noxious animals had bored a way into my inner

man and hollowed me out.

Supposing God Almighty simply intended to annihilate me? I got up and

paced backwards and forwards before the seat.

My whole being was at this moment in the highest degree of torture, I

had pains in my arms, and could hardly bear to hold them in the usual

way. I experienced also great discomfort from my last full meal; I was

oversated, and walked backwards and forwards without looking up. The

people who came and went around me glided past me like faint gleams. At

last my seat was taken up by two men, who lit cigars and began to talk

loudly together. I got angry and was on the point of addressing them,

but turned on my heel and went right to the other end of the Park, and

found another seat. I sat down.

* * * * *

The thought of God began to occupy me. It seemed to me in the highest

degree indefensible of Him to interfere every time I sought for a

place, and to upset the whole thing, while all the time I was but

imploring enough for a daily meal.

I had remarked so plainly that, whenever I had been hungry for any

length of time, it was just as if my brains ran quite gently out of my

head and left me with a vacuum--my head grew light and far off, I no

longer felt its weight on my shoulders, and I had a consciousness that

my eyes stared far too widely open when I looked at anything.

I sat there on the seat and pondered over all this, and grew more and

more bitter against God for His prolonged inflictions. If He meant to

draw me nearer to Him, and make me better by exhausting me and placing

obstacle after obstacle in my way, I could assure Him He made a slight

mistake. And, almost crying with defiance, I looked up towards Heaven

and told Him so mentally, once and for all.

Fragments of the teachings of my childhood ran through my memory. The

rhythmical sound of Biblical language sang in my ears, and I talked

quite softly to myself, and held my head sneeringly askew. Wherefore

should I sorrow for what I eat, for what I drink, or for what I may

array this miserable food for worms called my earthy body? Hath not my

Heavenly Father provided for me, even as for the sparrow on the

housetop, and hath He not in His graciousness pointed towards His lowly

servitor? The Lord stuck His finger in the net of my nerves

gently--yea, verily, in desultory fashion--and brought slight disorder

among the threads. And then the Lord withdrew His finger, and there

were fibres and delicate root-like filaments adhering to the finger,

and they were the nerve-threads of the filaments. And there was a

gaping hole after the finger, which was God's finger, and a wound in my

brain in the track of His finger. But when God had touched me with His

finger, He let me be, and touched me no more, and let no evil befall

me; but let me depart in peace, and let me depart with the gaping hole.

And no evil hath befallen me from the God who is the Lord God of all

Eternity.

The sound of music was borne up on the wind to me from the Students'

Allée. It was therefore past two o'clock. I took out my writing

materials to try to write something, and at the same time my book of

shaving-tickets [Footnote: Issued by the barbers at cheaper rates, as

few men in Norway shave themselves.] fell out of my pocket. I opened

it, and counted the tickets; there were six. "The Lord be praised," I

exclaimed involuntarily; "I can still get shaved for a couple of weeks,

and look a little decent"; and I immediately fell into a better frame

of mind on account of this little property which still remained to me.

I smoothed the leaves out carefully, and put the book safely into my

pocket.

But write I could not. After a few lines nothing seemed to occur to me;

my thought ran in other directions, and I could not pull myself

together enough for any special exertion.

Everything influenced and distracted me; everything I saw made a fresh

impression on me. Flies and tiny mosquitoes stick fast to the paper and

disturb me. I blow at them to get rid of them--blow harder and harder;

to no purpose, the little pests throw themselves on their backs, make

themselves heavy, and fight against me until their slender legs bend.

They are not to be moved from the spot; they find something to hook on

to, set their heels against a comma or an unevenness in the paper, or

stand immovably still until they themselves think fit to go their way.

These insects continued to busy me for a long time, and I crossed my

legs to observe them at leisure. All at once a couple of high clarionet

notes waved up to me from the bandstand, and gave my thoughts a new

impulse.

Despondent at not being able to put my article together, I replaced the

paper in my pocket, and leant back in the seat. At this instant my head

is so clear that I can follow the most delicate train of thought

without tiring. As I lie in this position, and let my eyes glide down

my breast and along my legs, I notice the jerking movement my foot

makes each time my pulse beats. I half rise and look down at my feet,

and I experience at this moment a fantastic and singular feeling that I

have never felt before--a delicate, wonderful shock through my nerves,

as if sparks of cold light quivered through them--it was as if catching

sight of my shoes I had met with a kind old acquaintance, or got back a

part of myself that had been riven loose. A feeling of recognition

trembles through my senses; the tears well up in my eyes, and I have a

feeling as if my shoes are a soft, murmuring strain rising towards me.

"Weakness!" I cried harshly to myself, and I clenched my fists and I

repeated "Weakness!" I laughed at myself, for this ridiculous feeling,

made fun of myself, with a perfect consciousness of doing so, talked

very severely and sensibly, and closed my eyes very tightly to get rid

of the tears.

As if I had never seen my shoes before, I set myself to study their

looks, their characteristics, and, when I stir my foot, their shape and

their worn uppers. I discover that their creases and white seams give

them expression--impart a physiognomy to them. Something of my own

nature had gone over into these shoes; they affected me, like a ghost

of my other I--a breathing portion of my very self.

I sat and toyed with these fancies a long time, perhaps an entire hour.

A little, old man came and took the other end of the seat; as he seated

himself he panted after his walk, and muttered:

"Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay; very true!"

As soon as I heard his voice, I felt as if a wind had swept through my

head. I let shoes be shoes, and it seemed to me that the distracted

phase of mind I had just experienced dated from a long-vanished period,

maybe a year or two back, and was about to be quietly effaced from my

memory. I began to observe the old fellow.

Did this little man concern me in any way? Not in the least, not in the

very slightest degree! Only that he held a newspaper in his hand, an

old number (with the advertisement sheet on the outside), in which

something or other seemed to be rolled up; my curiosity was aroused,

and I could not take my eyes away from this paper. The insane idea

entered my head that it might be a quite peculiar newspaper--unique of

its kind. My curiosity increased, and I began to move backwards and

forwards on the seat. It might contain deeds, dangerous documents

stolen from some archive or other; something floated before me about a

secret treaty--a conspiracy.

The man sat quietly, and pondered. Why did he not carry his newspaper

as every other person carries a paper, with its name out? What species

of cunning lurked under that? He did not seem either to like letting

his package out of his hands, not for anything in the world; perhaps he

did not even dare trust it into his own pocket. I could stake my life

there was something at the bottom of that package--I considered a bit.

Just the fact of finding it so impossible to penetrate this mysterious

affair distracted me with curiosity. I searched my pockets for

something to offer the man in order to enter into conversation with

him, took hold of my shaving-book, but put it back again. Suddenly it

entered my head to be utterly audacious; I slapped my empty

breast-pocket, and said:

"May I offer you a cigarette?"

"Thank you!" The man did not smoke; he had to give it up to spare his

eyes; he was nearly blind. Thank you very much all the same. Was it

long since his eyes got bad? In that case, perhaps, he could not read

either, not even a paper?

No, not even the newspaper, more's the pity. The man looked at me; his

weak eyes were each covered with a film which gave them a glassy

appearance; his gaze grew bleary, and made a disgusting impression on

me.

"You are a stranger here?" he said.

"Yes." Could he not even read the name of the paper he held in his hand?

"Barely." For that matter, he could hear directly that I was a

stranger. There was something in my accent which told him. It did not

need much; he could hear so well. At night, when every one slept, he

could hear people in the next room breathing....

"What I was going to say was, 'where do you live?'"

On the spur of the moment a lie stood, ready-made, in my head. I lied

involuntarily, without any object, without any _arrière pensée_, and I

answered--

"St. Olav's Place, No. 2."

"Really?" He knew every stone in St. Olav's Place. There was a

fountain, some lamp-posts, a few trees; he remembered all of it. "What

number do you live in?"

Desirous to put an end to this, I got up. But my notion about the

newspaper had driven me to my wit's end; I resolved to clear the thing

up, at no matter what cost.

"When you cannot read the paper, why--"

"In No. 2, I think you said," continued the man, without noticing my

disturbance. "There was a time I knew every person in No. 2; what is

your landlord's name?"

I quickly found a name to get rid of him; invented one on the spur of

the moment, and blurted it out to stop my tormentor.

"Happolati!" said I.

"Happolati, ay!" nodded the man; and he never missed a syllable of this

difficult name.

I looked at him with amazement; there he sat, gravely, with a

considering air. Before I had well given utterance to the stupid name

which jumped into my head the man had accommodated himself to it, and

pretended to have heard it before.

In the meantime, he had laid his package on the seat, and I felt my

curiosity quiver through my nerves. I noticed there were a few grease

spots on the paper.

"Isn't he a sea-faring man, your landlord?" queried he, and there was

not a trace of suppressed irony in his voice; "I seem to remember he

was."

"Sea-faring man? Excuse me, it must be the brother you know; this man

is namely J. A. Happolati, the agent."

I thought this would finish him; but he willingly fell in with

everything I said. If I had found a name like Barrabas Rosebud it would

not have roused his suspicions.

"He is an able man, I have heard?" he said, feeling his way.

"Oh, a clever fellow!" answered I; "a thorough business head; agent for

every possible thing going. Cranberries from China; feathers and down

from Russia; hides, pulp, writing-ink--"

"He, he! the devil he is?" interrupted the old chap, highly excited.

This began to get interesting. The situation ran away with me, and one

lie after another engendered in my head. I sat down again, forgot the

newspaper, and the remarkable documents, grew lively, and cut short the

old fellow's talk.

The little goblin's unsuspecting simplicity made me foolhardy; I would

stuff him recklessly full of lies; rout him out o' field grandly, and

stop his mouth from sheer amazement.

Had he heard of the electric psalm-book that Happolati had invented?

"What? Elec--"

"With electric letters that could give light in the dark! a perfectly

extraordinary enterprise. A million crowns to be put in circulation;

foundries and printing-presses at work, and shoals of regular mechanics

to be employed; I had heard as many as seven hundred men."

"Ay, isn't it just what I say?" drawled out the man calmly.

He said no more, he believed every word I related, and for all that, he

was not taken aback. This disappointed me a little; I had expected to

see him utterly bewildered by my inventions.

I searched my brain for a couple of desperate lies, went the whole hog,

hinted that Happolati had been Minister of State for nine years in

Persia. "You perhaps have no conception of what it means to be Minister

of State in Persia?" I asked. It was more than king here, or about the

same as Sultan, if he knew what that meant, but Happolati had managed

the whole thing, and was never at a loss. And I related about his

daughter Ylajali, a fairy, a princess, who had three hundred slaves,

and who reclined on a couch of yellow roses. She was the loveliest

creature I had ever seen; I had, may the Lord strike me, never seen her

match for looks in my life!

"So--o; was she so lovely?" remarked the old fellow, with an absent

air, as he gazed at the ground.

"Lovely? She was beauteous, she was sinfully fascinating. Eyes like raw

silk, arms of amber! Just one glance from her was as seductive as a

kiss; and when she called me, her voice darted like a wine-ray right

into my soul's phosphor. And why shouldn't she be so beautiful?" Did he

imagine she was a messenger or something in the fire brigade? She was

simply a Heaven's wonder, I could just inform him, a fairy tale.

"Yes, to be sure!" said he, not a little bewildered. His quiet bored

me; I was excited by the sound of my own voice and spoke in utter

seriousness; the stolen archives, treaties with some foreign power or

other, no longer occupied my thoughts; the little flat bundle of paper

lay on the seat between us, and I had no longer the smallest desire to

examine it or see what it contained. I was entirely absorbed in stories

of my own which floated in singular visions across my mental eye. The

blood flew to my head, and I roared with laughter.

At this moment the little man seemed about to go. He stretched himself,

and in order not to break off too abruptly, added: "He is said to own

much property, this Happolati?"

How dared this bleary-eyed, disgusting old man toss about the rare name

I had invented as if it were a common name stuck up over every

huckster-shop in the town? He never stumbled over a letter or forgot a

syllable. The name had bitten fast in his brain and struck root on the

instant. I got annoyed; an inward exasperation surged up in me against

this creature whom nothing had the power to disturb and nothing render

suspicious.

I therefore replied shortly, "I know nothing about that! I know

absolutely nothing whatever about that! Let me inform you once for all

that his name is Johann Arendt Happolati, if you go by his own

initials."

"Johannn Arendt Happolati!" repeated the man, a little astonished at my

vehemence; and with that he grew silent.

"You should see his wife!" I said, beside myself. "A fatter creature

... Eh? what? Perhaps you don't even believe she is really fat?"

Well, indeed he did not see his way to deny that such a man might

perhaps have a rather stout wife. The old fellow answered quite gently

and meekly to each of my assertions, and sought for words as if he

feared to offend and perhaps make me furious.

"Hell and fire, man! Do you imagine that I am sitting here stuffing you

chock-full of lies?" I roared furiously. "Perhaps you don't even

believe that a man of the name of Happolati exists! I never saw your

match for obstinacy and malice in any old man. What the devil ails you?

Perhaps, too, into the bargain, you have been all this while thinking

to yourself I am a poverty-stricken fellow, sitting here in my

Sunday-best without even a case full of cigarettes in my pocket. Let me

tell you such treatment as yours is a thing I am not accustomed to, and

I won't endure it, the Lord strike me dead if I will--neither from you

nor any one else, do you know that?"

The man had risen with his mouth agape; he stood tongue-tied and

listened to my outbreak until the end. Then he snatched his parcel from

off the seat and went, ay, nearly ran, down the patch, with the short,

tottering steps of an old man.

I leant back and looked at the retreating figure that seemed to shrink

at each step as it passed away. I do not know from where the impression

came, but it appeared to me that I had never in my life seen a more

vile back than this one, and I did not regret that I had abused the

creature before he left me.

The day began to decline, the sun sank, it commenced to rustle lightly

in the trees around, and the nursemaids who sat in groups near the

parallel bars made ready to wheel their perambulators home. I was

calmed and in good spirit. The excitement I had just laboured under

quieted down little by little, and I grew weaker, more languid, and

began to feel drowsy. Neither did the quantity of bread I had eaten

cause me any longer any particular distress. I leant against the back

of the seat in the best of humours, closed my eyes, and got more and

more sleepy. I dozed, and was just on the point of falling asleep, when

a park-keeper put his hand on my shoulder and said:

"You must not sit here and go to sleep!"

"No?" I said, and sprang immediately up, my unfortunate position rising

all at once vividly before my eyes. I must do something; find some way

or another out of it. To look for situations had been of no avail to

me. Even the recommendations I showed had grown a little old, and were

written by people all too little known to be of much use; besides that,

constant refusals all through the summer had somewhat disheartened me.

At all events, my rent was due, and I must raise the wind for that; the

rest would have to wait a little.

Quite involuntarily I had got paper and pencil into my hand again, and

I sat and wrote mechanically the date, 1848, in each corner. If only

now one single effervescing thought would grip me powerfully, and put

words into my mouth. Why, I had known hours when I could write a long

piece, without the least exertion, and turn it off capitally, too.

I am sitting on the seat, and I write, scores of times, 1848. I write

this date criss-cross, in all possible fashions, and wait until a

workable idea shall occur to me. A swarm of loose thoughts flutter

about in my head. The feeling of declining day makes me downcast,

sentimental; autumn is here, and has already begun to hush everything

into sleep and torpor. The flies and insects have received their first

warning. Up in the trees and down in the fields the sounds of

struggling life can be heard rustling, murmuring, restless; labouring

not to perish. The down-trodden existence of the whole insect world is

astir for yet a little while. They poke their yellow heads up from the

turf, lift their legs, feel their way with long feelers and then

collapse suddenly, roll over, and turn their bellies in the air.

Every growing thing has received its peculiar impress: the delicately

blown breath of the first cold. The stubbles straggle wanly sunwards,

and the falling leaves rustle to the earth, with a sound as of errant

silkworms.

It is the reign of Autumn, the height of the Carnival of Decay, the

roses have got inflammation in their blushes, an uncanny hectic tinge,

through their soft damask.

I felt myself like a creeping thing on the verge of destruction,

gripped by ruin in the midst of a whole world ready for lethargic

sleep. I rose, oppressed by weird terrors, and took some furious

strides down the path. "No!" I cried out, clutching both my hands;

"there must be an end to this," and I reseated myself, grasped the

pencil, and set seriously to work at an article.

There was no possible use in giving way, with the unpaid rent staring

me straight in the face.

Slowly, quite slowly, my thoughts collected. I paid attention to them,

and wrote quietly and well; wrote a couple of pages as an introduction.

It would serve as a beginning to anything. A description of travel, a

political leader, just as I thought fit--it was a perfectly splendid

commencement for something or anything. So I took to seeking for some

particular subject to handle, a person or a thing, that I might grapple

with, and I could find nothing. Along with this fruitless exertion,

disorder began to hold its sway again in my thoughts. I felt how my

brain positively snapped and my head emptied, until it sat at last,

light, buoyant, and void on my shoulders. I was conscious of the gaping

vacuum in my skull with every fibre of my being. I seemed to myself to

be hollowed out from top and toe.

In my pain I cried: "Lord, my God and Father!" and repeated this cry

many times at a stretch, without adding one word more.

The wind soughed through the trees; a storm was brewing. I sat a while

longer, and gazed at my paper, lost in thought, then folded it up and

put it slowly into my pocket. It got chilly; and I no longer owned a

waistcoat. I buttoned my coat right up to my throat and thrust my hands

in my pockets; thereupon I rose and went on.

If I had only succeeded this time, just this once. Twice my landlady

had asked me with her eyes for payment, and I was obliged to hang my

head and slink past her with a shamefaced air. I could not do it again:

the very next time I met those eyes I would give warning and account

for myself honestly. Well, any way, things could not last long at this

rate.

On coming to the exit of the park I saw the old chap I had put to

flight. The mysterious new paper parcel lay opened on the seat next

him, filled with different sorts of victuals, of which he ate as he

sat. I immediately wanted to go over and ask pardon for my conduct, but

the sight of food repelled me. The decrepit fingers looked like ten

claws as they clutched loathsomely at the greasy bread and butter; I

felt qualmish, and passed by without addressing him. He did not

recognize me; his eyes stared at me, dry as horn, and his face did not

move a muscle.

And so I went on my way.

As customary, I halted before every newspaper placard I came to, to

read the announcements of situations vacant, and was lucky enough to

find one that I might try for.

A grocer in Groenlandsleret wanted a man every week for a couple of

hours' book-keeping; remuneration according to agreement. I noted my

man's address, and prayed to God in silence for this place. I would

demand less than any one else for my work; sixpence was ample, or

perhaps fivepence. That would not matter in the least.

On going home, a slip of paper from my landlady lay on my table, in

which she begged me to pay my rent in advance, or else move as soon as

I could. I must not be offended, it was absolutely a necessary request.

Friendlily Mrs. Gundersen.

I wrote an application to Christy the grocer, No. 13 Groenlandsleret,

put it in an envelope, and took it to the pillar at the corner. Then I

returned to my room and sat down in the rocking-chair to think, whilst

the darkness grew closer and closer. Sitting up late began to be

difficult now.

I woke very early in the morning. It was still quite dark as I opened

my eyes, and it was not till long after that I heard five strokes of

the clock down-stairs. I turned round to doze again, but sleep had

down. I grew more and more wakeful, and lay and thought of a thousand

things.

Suddenly a few good sentences fitted for a sketch or story strike me,

delicate linguistic hits of which I have never before found the equal.

I lie and repeat these words over to myself, and find that they are

capital. Little by little others come and fit themselves to the

preceding ones. I grow keenly wakeful. I get up and snatch paper and

pencil from the table behind my bed. It was as if a vein had burst in

me; one word follows another, and they fit themselves together

harmoniously with telling effect. Scene piles on scene, actions and

speeches bubble up in my brain, and a wonderful sense of pleasure

empowers me. I write as one possessed, and fill page after page,

without a moment's pause.

Thoughts come so swiftly to me and continue to flow so richly that I

miss a number of telling bits, that I cannot set down quickly enough,

although I work with all my might. They continue to invade me; I am

full of my subject, and every word I write is inspired.

This strange period lasts--lasts such a blessedly long time before it

comes to an end. I have fifteen--twenty written pages lying on my knees

before me, when at last I cease and lay my pencil aside, So sure as

there is any worth in these pages, so sure am I saved. I jump out of

bed and dress myself. It grows lighter. I can half distinguish the

lighthouse director's announcement down near the door, and near the

window it is already so light that I could, in case of necessity, see

to write. I set to work immediately to make a fair copy of what I have

written.

An intense, peculiar exhalation of light and colour emanates from these

fantasies of mine. I start with surprise as I note one good thing after

another, and tell myself that this is the best thing I have ever read.

My head swims with a sense of satisfaction; delight inflates me; I grow

grandiose.

I weigh my writing in my hand, and value it, at a loose guess, for five

shillings on the spot.

It could never enter any one's head to chaffer about five shillings; on

the contrary, getting it for half-a-sovereign might be considered

dirt-cheap, considering the quality of the thing.

I had no intention of turning off such special work gratis. As far as I

was aware, one did not pick up stories of that kind on the wayside, and

I decided on half-a-sovereign.

The room brightened and brightened. I threw a glance towards the door,

and could distinguish without particular trouble the skeleton-like

letters of Miss Andersen's winding-sheet advertisement to the right of

it. It was also a good while since the clock has struck seven.

I rose and came to a standstill in the middle of the floor. Everything

well considered, Mrs. Gundersen's warning came rather opportunely. This

was, properly speaking, no fit room for me: there were only common

enough green curtains at the windows, and neither were there any pegs

too many on the wall. The poor little rocking-chair over in the corner

was in reality a mere attempt at a rocking-chair; with the smallest

sense of humour, one might easily split one's sides with laughter at

it. It was far too low for a grown man, and besides that, one needed,

so to speak, the aid of a boot-jack to get out of it. To cut it short,

the room was not adopted for the pursuit of things intellectual, and I

did not intend to keep it any longer. On no account would I keep it. I

had held my peace, and endured and lived far too long in such a den.

Buoyed up by hope and satisfaction, constantly occupied with my

remarkable sketch, which I drew forth every moment from my pocket and

re-read, I determined to set seriously to work with my flitting. I took

out my bundle, a red handkerchief that contained a few clean collars

and some crumpled newspapers, in which I had occasionally carried home

bread. I rolled my blanket up and pocketed my reserve white

writing-paper. Then I ransacked every corner to assure myself that I

had left nothing behind, and as I could not find anything, went over to

the window and looked out.

The morning was gloomy and wet; there was no one about at the burnt-out

smithy, and the clothesline down in the yard stretched tightly from

wall to wall shrunken by the wet. It was all familiar to me, so I

stepped back from the window, took the blanket under my arm, and made a

low bow to the lighthouse director's announcement, bowed again to Miss

Andersen's winding-sheet advertisement, and opened the door. Suddenly

the thought of my land-lady struck me; she really ought to be informed

of my leaving, so that she could see she had had an honest soul to deal

with.

I wanted also to thank her in writing for the few days' overtime in

which I occupied the room. The certainty that I was now saved for some

time to come increased so strongly in me that I even promised her five

shillings. I would call in some day when passing by.

Besides that, I wanted to prove to her what an upright sort of person

her roof had sheltered.

I left the note behind me on the table.

Once again I stopped at the door and turned round; the buoyant feeling

of having risen once again to the surface charmed me, and made me feel

grateful towards God and all creation, and I knelt down at the bedside

and thanked God aloud for His great goodness to me that morning.

I knew it; ah! I knew that the rapture of inspiration I had just felt

and noted down was a miraculous heaven-brew in my spirit in answer to

my yesterday's cry for aid.

"It was God! It was God!" I cried to myself, and I wept for enthusiasm

over my own words; now and then I had to stop and listen if any one was

on the stairs. At last I rose up and prepared to go. I stole

noiselessly down each flight and reached the door unseen.

The streets were glistening from the rain which had fallen in the early

morning. The sky hung damp and heavy over the town, and there was no

glint of sunlight visible. I wondered what the day would bring forth? I

went as usual in the direction of the Town Hall, and saw that it was

half-past eight. I had yet a few hours to walk about; there was no use

in going to the newspaper office before ten, perhaps eleven. I must

lounge about so long, and think, in the meantime, over some expedient

to raise breakfast. For that matter, I had no fear of going to bed

hungry that day; those times were over, God be praised! That was a

thing of the past, an evil dream. Henceforth, Excelsior!

But, in the meanwhile, the green blanket was a trouble to me. Neither

could I well make myself conspicuous by carrying such a thing about

right under people's eyes. What would any one think of me? And as I

went on I tried to think of a place where I could have it kept till

later on. It occurred to me that I might go into Semb's and get it

wrapped up in paper; not only would it look better, but I need no

longer be ashamed of carrying it.

I entered the shop, and stated my errand to one of the shop boys.

He looked first at the blanket, then at me. It struck me that he

shrugged his shoulders to himself a little contemptuously as he took

it; this annoyed me.

"Young man," I cried, "do be a little careful! There are two costly

glass vases in that; the parcel has to go to Smyrna."

This had a famous effect. The fellow apologized with every movement he

made for not having guessed that there was something out of the common

in this blanket. When he had finished packing it up I thanked him with

the air of a man who had sent precious goods to Smyrna before now. He

held the door open for me, and bowed twice as I left.

I began to wander about amongst the people in the market place, kept

from choice near the woman who had potted plants for sale. The heavy

crimson roses--the leaves of which glowed blood-like and moist in the

damp morning--made me envious, and tempted me sinfully to snatch one,

and I inquired the price of them merely as an excuse to approach as

near to them as possible.

If I had any money over I would buy one, no matter how things went;

indeed, I might well save a little now and then out of my way of living

to balance things again.

It was ten o'clock, and I went up to the newspaper office. "Scissors"

is running through a lot of old papers. The editor has not come yet. On

being asked my business, I delivered my weighty manuscript, lead him to

suppose that it is something of more than uncommon importance, and

impress upon his memory gravely that he is to give it into we editor's

own hands as soon as he arrives.

I would myself call later on in the day for an answer.

"All right," replied "Scissors," and busied himself again with his

papers.

It seemed to me that he treated the matter somewhat too coolly; but I

said nothing, only nodded rather carelessly to him, and left.

I had now time on hand! If it would only clear up! It was perfectly

wretched weather, without either wind or freshness. Ladies carried

their umbrellas, to be on the safe side, and the woollen caps of the

men looked limp and depressing.

I took another turn across the market and looked at the vegetables and

roses. I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn round--"Missy" bids me

good morning! "Good-morning!" I say in return, a little questioningly.

I never cared particularly for "Missy."

He looks inquisitively at the large brand-new parcel under my arm, and

asks:

"What have you got there?"

"Oh, I have been down to Semb and got some cloth for a suit," I reply,

in a careless tone. "I didn't think I could rub on any longer; there's

such a thing as treating oneself too shabbily."

He looks at me with an amazed start.

"By the way, how are you getting on?" He asks it slowly.

"Oh, beyond all expectation!"

"Then you have got something to do now?"

"Something to do?" I answer and seem surprised. "Rather! Why, I am

book-keeper at Christensen's--a wholesale house."

"Oh, indeed!" he remarks and draws back a little.

"Well, God knows I am the first to be pleased at your success. If only

you don't let people beg the money from you that you earn. Good-day!"

A second after he wheels round and comes back and, pointing with his

cane to my parcel, says:

"I would recommend my tailor to you for the suit of clothes. You won't

find a better tailor than Isaksen--just say I sent you, that's all!"

This was really rather more than I could swallow. What did he want to

poke his nose in my affairs for? Was it any concern of his which tailor

I employed? The sight of this empty-headed dandified "masher"

embittered me, and I reminded him rather brutally of ten shilling he

had borrowed from me. But before he could reply I regretted that I had

asked for it. I got ashamed and avoided meeting his eyes, and, as a

lady came by just then, I stepped hastily aside to let her pass, and

seized the opportunity to proceed on my way.

What should I do with myself whilst I waited? I could not visit a cafe

with empty pockets, and I knew of no acquaintance that I could call on

at this time of day. I wended my way instinctively up town, killed a

good deal of time between the marketplace and the Graendsen, read the

_Aftenpost,_ which was newly posted up on the board outside the office,

took a turn down Carl Johann, wheeled round and went straight on to Our

Saviour's Cemetery, where I found a quiet seat on the slope near the

Mortuary Chapel.

I sat there in complete quietness, dozed in the damp air, mused,

half-slept and shivered.

And time passed. Now, was it certain that the story really was a little

masterpiece of inspired art? God knows if it might not have its faults

here and there. All things well weighed, it was not certain that it

would be accepted; no, simply not even accepted. It was perhaps

mediocre enough in its way, perhaps downright worthless. What security

had I that it was not already at this moment lying in the waste-paper

basket?... My confidence was shaken. I sprang up and stormed out of the

graveyard.

Down in Akersgaden I peeped into a shop window, and saw that it was

only a little past noon. There was no use in looking up the editor

before four. The fate of my story filled me with gloomy forebodings;

the more I thought about it the more absurd it seemed to me that I

could have written anything useable with such suddenness, half-asleep,

with my brain full of fever and dreams. Of course I had deceived myself

and been happy all through the long morning for nothing!... Of

course!... I rushed with hurried strides up Ullavold-sveien, past St.

Han's Hill, until I came to the open fields; on through the narrow

quaint lanes in Sagene, past waste plots and small tilled fields, and

found myself at last on a country road, the end of which I could not

see.

Here I halted and decided to turn.

I was warm from the walk, and returned slowly and very downcast. I met

two hay-carts. The drivers were lying flat upon the top of their loads,

and sang. Both were bare-headed, and both had round, care-free faces. I

passed them and thought to myself that they were sure to accost me,

sure to fling some taunt or other at me, play me some trick; and as I

got near enough, one of them called out and asked what I had under my

arm?

"A blanket!"

"What o'clock is it?" he asked then.

"I don't know rightly; about three, I think!" Whereupon they both

laughed and drove on. I felt at the same moment the lash of a whip curl

round one of my ears, and my hat was jerked off. They couldn't let me

pass without playing me a trick. I raised my hand to my head more or

less confusedly, picked my hat out of the ditch, and continued on my

way. Down at St. Han's Hill I met a man who told me it was past four.

Past four! already past four! I mended my pace, nearly ran down to the

town, turned off towards the news office. Perhaps the editor had been

there hours ago, and had left the office by now. I ran, jostled against

folk, stumbled, knocked against cars, left everybody behind me,

competed with the very horses, struggled like a madman to arrive there

in time. I wrenched through the door, took the stairs in four bounds,

and knocked.

No answer.

"He has left, he has left," I think. I try the door which is open,

knock once again, and enter. The editor is sitting at his table, his

face towards the window, pen in hand, about to write. When he hears my

breathless greeting he turns half round, steals a quick look at me,

shakes his head, and says:

"Oh, I haven't found time to read your sketch yet."

I am so delighted, because in that case he has not rejected it, that I

answer:

"Oh, pray, sir, don't mention it. I quite understand--there is no

hurry; in a few days, perhaps--"

"Yes, I shall see; besides, I have your address."

I forgot to inform him that I no longer had an address, and the

interview is over. I bow myself out, and leave. Hope flames up again in

me; as yet, nothing is lost--on the contrary, I might, for that matter,

yet win all. And my brain began to spin a romance about a great council

in Heaven, in which it had just been resolved that I should win--ay,

triumphantly win ten shillings for a story.

If I only had some place in which to take refuge for the night! I

consider where I can stow myself away, and am so absorbed in this query

that I come to a standstill in the middle of the street. I forget where

I am, and pose like a solitary beacon on a rock in mid-sea, whilst the

tides rush and roar about it.

A newspaper boy offers me _The Viking_.

"It's real good value, sir!"

I look up and start; I am outside Semb's shop again. I quickly turn to

the right-about, holding the parcel in front of me, and hurry down

Kirkegaden, ashamed and afraid that any one might have seen me from the

window. I pass by Ingebret's and the theatre, turn round by the

box-office, and go towards the sea, near the fortress. I find a seat

once more, and begin to consider afresh.

Where in the world shall I find a shelter for the night?

Was there a hole to be found where I could creep in and hide myself

till morning? My pride forbade my returning to my lodging--besides, it

could never really occur to me to go back on my word; I rejected this

thought with great scorn, and I smiled superciliously as I thought of

the little red rocking-chair. By some association of ideas, I find

myself suddenly transported to a large, double room I once occupied in

Haegdehaugen. I could see a tray on the table, filled with great slices

of bread-and-butter. The vision changed; it was transformed into

beef--a seductive piece of beef--a snow-white napkin, bread in plenty,

a silver fork. The door opened; enter my landlady, offering me more

tea....

Visions; senseless dreams! I tell myself that were I to get food now my

head would become dizzy once more, fever would fill my brain, and I

would have to fight again against many mad fancies. I could not stomach

food, my inclination did not lie that way; that was peculiar to me--an

idiosyncrasy of mine.

Maybe as night drew on a way could be found to procure shelter. There

was no hurry; at the worst, I could seek a place out in the woods. I

had the entire environs of the city at my disposal; as yet, there was

no degree of cold worth speaking of in the weather.

And outside there the sea rocked in drowsy rest; ships and clumsy,

broad-nosed prams ploughed graves in its bluish surface, and scattered

rays to the right and left, and glided on, whilst the smoke rolled up

in downy masses from the chimney-stacks, and the stroke of the engine

pistons pierced the clammy air with a dull sound. There was no sun and

no wind; the trees behind me were almost wet, and the seat upon which I

sat was cold and damp.

Time went. I settled down to doze, waxed tired, and a little shiver ran

down my back. A while after I felt that my eyelids began to droop, and

I let them droop....

When I awoke it was dark all around me. I started up, bewildered and

freezing. I seized my parcel and commenced to walk. I went faster and

faster in order to get warm, slapped my arms, chafed my legs--which by

now I could hardly feel under me--and thus reached the watch-house of

the fire brigade. It was nine o'clock; I had been asleep for several

hours.

Whatever shall I do with myself? I must go to some place. I stand there

and stare up at the watch-house, and query if it would not be possible

to succeed in getting into one of the passages if I were to watch for a

moment when the watchman's back was turned. I ascend the steps, and

prepare to open a conversation with the man. He lifts his ax in salute,

and waits for what I may have to say. The uplifted ax, with its edge

turned against me, darts like a cold slash through my nerves. I stand

dumb with terror before this armed man, and draw involuntarily back. I

say nothing, only glide farther and farther away from him. To save

appearances I draw my hand over my forehead, as if I had forgotten

something or other, and slink away. When I reached the pavement I felt

as much saved as if I had just escaped a great peril, and I hurried

away.

Cold and famished, more and more miserable in spirit, I flew up Carl

Johann. I began to swear out aloud, troubling myself not a whit as to

whether any one heard me or not. Arrived at Parliament House, just near

the first trees, I suddenly, by some association of ideas, bethought

myself of a young artist I knew, a stripling I had once saved from an

assault in the Tivoli, and upon whom I had called later on. I snap my

fingers gleefully, and wend my way to Tordenskjiolds Street, find the

door, on which is fastened a card with C. Zacharias Bartel on it, and

knock.

He came out himself, and smelt so fearfully of ale and tobacco that it

was horrible.

"Good-evening!" I say.

"Good-evening! is that you? Now, why the deuce do you come so late? It

doesn't look at all its best by lamplight. I have added a hayrick to it

since, and have made a few other alterations. You must see it by

daylight; there is no use our trying to see it now!"

"Let me have a look at it now, all the same," said I; though, for that

matter, I did not in the least remember what picture he was talking

about.

"Absolutely impossible," he replied; "the whole thing will look yellow;

and, besides, there's another thing"--and he came towards me,

whispering: "I have a little girl inside this evening, so it's clearly

impracticable."

"Oh, in that case, of course there's no question about it."

I drew back, said good-night, and went away.

So there was no way out of it but to seek some place out in the woods.

If only the fields were not so damp. I patted my blanket, and felt more

and more at home at the thought of sleeping out. I had worried myself

so long trying to find a shelter in town that I was wearied and bored

with the whole affair. It would be a positive pleasure to get to rest,

to resign myself; so I loaf down the street without thought in my head.

At a place in Haegdehaugen I halted outside a provision shop where some

food was displayed in the window. A cat lay there and slept beside a

round French roll. There was a basin of lard and several basins of meal

in the background. I stood a while and gazed at these eatables; but as

I had no money wherewith to buy, I turned quickly away and continued my

tramp. I went very slowly, passed by Majorstuen, went on, always on--it

seemed to me for hours,--and came at length at Bogstad's wood.

I turned off the road here, and sat down to rest. Then I began to look

about for a place to suit me, to gather together heather and juniper

leaves, and make up a bed on a little declivity where it was a bit dry.

I opened the parcel and took out the blanket; I was tired and exhausted

with the long walk, and lay down at once. I turned and twisted many

times before I could get settled. My ear pained me a little--it was

slightly swollen from the whip-lash--and I could not lie on it. I

pulled off my shoes and put them under my head, with the paper from

Semb on top.

And the great spirit of darkness spread a shroud over me ... everything

was silent--everything. But up in the heights soughed the everlasting

song, the voice of the air, the distant, toneless humming which is

never silent. I listened so long to this ceaseless faint murmur that it

began to bewilder me; it was surely a symphony from the rolling spheres

above. Stars that intone a song....

"I am damned if it is, though," I exclaimed; and I laughed aloud to

collect my wits. "They're night-owls hooting in Canaan!"

I rose again, pulled on my shoes, and wandered about in the gloom, only

to lay down once more. I fought and wrestled with anger and fear until

nearly dawn, then fell asleep at last.

* * * * *

It was broad daylight when I opened my eyes, and I had a feeling that

it was going on towards noon.

I pulled on my shoes, packed up the blanket again, and set out for

town. There was no sun to be seen today either; I shivered like a dog,

my feet were benumbed, and water commenced to run from my eyes, as if

they could not bear the daylight.

It was three o'clock. Hunger began to assail me downright in earnest. I

was faint, and now and again I had to retch furtively. I swung round by

the Dampkökken, [Footnote: Steam cooking-kitchen and famous cheap

eating-house] read the bill of fare, and shrugged my shoulders in a way

to attract attention, as if corned beef or salt port was not meet food

for me. After that I went towards the railway station.

A singular sense of confusion suddenly darted through my head. I

stumbled on, determined not to heed it; but I grew worse and worse, and

was forced at last to sit down on a step. My whole being underwent a

change, as if something had slid aside in my inner self, or as if a

curtain or tissue of my brain was rent in two.

I was not unconscious; I felt that my ear was gathering a little, and,

as an acquaintance passed by, I recognized him at once and got up and

bowed.

What sore of fresh, painful perception was this that was being added to

the rest? Was it a consequence of sleeping in the sodden fields, or did

it arise from my not having had any breakfast yet? Looking the whole

thing squarely in the face, there was no meaning in living on in this

manner, by Christ's holy pains, there wasn't. I failed to see either

how I had made myself deserving of this special persecution; and it

suddenly entered my head that I might just as well turn rogue at once

and go to my "Uncle's" with the blanket. I could pawn it for a

shilling, and get three full meals, and so keep myself going until I

thought of something else. 'Tis true I would have to swindle Hans

Pauli. I was already on my way to the pawn-shop, but stopped outside

the door, shook my head irresolutely, then turned back. The farther

away I got the more gladsome, ay, delighted I became, that I had

conquered this strong temptation. The consciousness that I was yet pure

and honourable rose to my head, filled me with a splendid sense of

having principle, character, of being a shining white beacon in a

muddy, human sea amidst floating wreck.

Pawn another man's property for the sake of a meal, eat and drink one's

self to perdition, brand one's soul with the first little scar, set the

first black mark against one's honour, call one's self a blackguard to

one's own face, and needs must cast one's eyes down before one's self?

Never! never! It could never have been my serious intention--it had

really never seriously taken hold of me; in fact, I could not be

answerable for every loose, fleeting, desultory thought, particularly

with such a headache as I had, and nearly killed carrying a blanket,

too, that belonged to another fellow.

There would surely be some way or another of getting help when the

right time came! Now, there was the grocer in Groenlandsleret. Had I

importuned him every hour in the day since I sent in my application?

Had I rung the bell early and late, and been turned away? Why, I had

not even applied personally to him or sought an answer! It did not

follow, surely, that it must needs be an absolutely vain attempt.

Maybe I had luck with me this time. Luck often took such a devious

course, and I started for Groenlandsleret.

The last spasm that had darted through my head had exhausted me a

little, and I walked very slowly and thought over what I would say to

him.

Perhaps he was a good soul; if the whim seized him he might pay me for

my work a shilling in advance, even without my asking for it. People of

that sort had sometimes the most capital ideas.

I stole into a doorway and blackened the knees of my trousers with

spittle to try and make them look a little respectable, left the parcel

behind me in a dark corner at the back of a chest, and entered the

little shop.

A man is standing pasting together bags made of old newspaper.

"I would like to see Mr. Christie," I said.

"That's me!" replied the man.

"Indeed!" Well, my name was so-and-so. I had taken the liberty of

sending him an application, I did not know if it had been of any use.

He repeated my name a couple of times and commenced to laugh.

"Well now, you shall see," he said, taking my letter out of his

breast-pocket, "if you will just be good enough to see how you deal

with dates, sir. You dated your letter 1848," and the man roared with

laughter.

"Yes, that was rather a mistake," I said, abashed--a distraction, a

want of thought; I admitted it.

"You see I must have a man who, as a matter of fact, makes no mistakes

in figures," said he. "I regret it, your handwriting is clear, and I

like your letter, too, but--"

I waited a while; this could not possibly be the man's final say. He

busied himself again with the bags.

"Yes, it was a pity," I said; "really an awful pity, but of course it

would not occur again; and, after all, surely this little error could

not have rendered me quite unfit to keep books?"

"No, I didn't say that," he answered, "but in the meantime it had so

much weight with me that I decided at once upon another man."

"So the place is filled?"

"Yes."

"A--h, well, then there's nothing more to be said about it!"

"No! I'm sorry, but--"

"Good-evening!" said I.

Fury welled up in me, blazing with brutal strength. I fetched my parcel

from the entry, set my teeth together, jostled against the peaceful

folk on the footpath, and never once asked their pardon.

As one man stopped and set me to rights rather sharply for my

behaviour, I turned round and screamed a single meaningless word in his

ear, clenched my fist right under his nose, and stumbled on, hardened

by a blind rage that I could not control.

He called a policeman, and I desired nothing better than to have one

between my hands just for one moment. I slackened my pace intentionally

in order to give him an opportunity of overtaking me; but he did not

come. Was there now any reason whatever that absolutely every one of

one's most earnest and most persevering efforts should fail? Why, too,

had I written 1848? In what way did that infernal date concern me? Here

I was going about starving, so that my entrails wriggle together in me

like worms, and it was, as far as I knew, not decreed in the book of

fate that anything in the shape of food would turn up later on in the

day.

I was becoming mentally and physically more and more prostrate; I was

letting myself down each day to less and less honest actions, so that I

lied on each day without blushing, cheated poor people out of their

rent, struggled with the meanest thoughts of making away with other

men's blankets--all without remorse or prick of conscience.

Foul places began to gather in my inner being, black spores which

spread more and more. And up in Heaven God Almighty sat and kept a

watchful eye on me, and took heed that _my_ destruction proceeded in

accordance with all the rules of art, uniformly and gradually, without

a break in the measure.

But in the abysses of hell the angriest devils bristled with range

because it lasted such a long time until I committed a mortal sin, an

unpardonable offence for which God in His justice must cast me--down....

I quickened my pace, hurried faster and faster, turned suddenly to the

left and found myself, excited and angry, in a light ornate doorway. I

did not pause, not for one second, but the whole peculiar ornamentation

of the entrance struck on my perception in a flash; every detail of the

decoration and the tiling of the floor stood clear on my mental vision

as I sprang up the stairs. I rang violently on the second floor. Why

should I stop exactly on the second floor? And why just seize hold of

this bell which was some little way from the stairs?

A young lady in a grey gown with black trimming came out and opened the

door. She looked for a moment in astonishment at me, then shook her

head and said:

"No, we have not got anything today," and she made a feint to close the

door.

What induced me to thrust myself in this creature's way? She took me

without further ado for a beggar.

I got cool and collected at once. I raised my hat, made a respectful

bow, and, as if I had not caught her words, said, with the utmost

politeness:

"I hope you will excuse me, madam, for ringing so hard, the bell was

new to me. Is it not here that an invalid gentleman lives who has

advertised for a man to wheel him about in a chair?"

She stood awhile and digested this mendacious invention and seemed to

be irresolute in her summing up of my person.

"No!" she said at length; "no, there is no invalid gentleman living

here."

"Not really? An elderly gentleman--two hours a day--sixpence an hour?"

"No!"

"Ah! in that case, I again ask pardon," said I. "It is perhaps on the

first floor. I only wanted, in any case, to recommend a man I know, in

whom I am interested; my name is Wedel-Jarlsberg," [Footnote: The last

family bearing title of nobility in Norway.] and I bowed again and drew

back. The young lady blushed crimson, and in her embarrassment could

not stir from the spot, but stood and stared after me as I descended

the stairs.

My calm had returned to me, and my head was clear. The lady's saying

that she had nothing for me today had acted upon me like an icy shower.

So it had gone so far with me that any one might point at me, and say

to himself, "There goes a beggar--one of those people who get their

food handed out to them at folk's back-doors!"

I halted outside an eating-house in Möller Street, and sniffed the

fresh smell of meat roasting inside; my hand was already upon the

door-handle, and I was on the point of entering without any fixed

purpose, when I bethought myself in time, and left the spot. On

reaching the market, and seeking for a place to rest for a little, I