Hunger (14 page)

Just why, then, had I been procrastinating? Running around the livelong day for the sake of a krone to keep body and soul together for a few more hours! When all was said and done, wasn't it a matter of indifference whether the inevitable happened one day earlier or one day later? If I had acted like a respectable person, I would have gone home and laid myself to rest a long time ago—given up. At this moment my mind was lucid: I was going to die. It was fall now and everything had gone to sleep. I had tried every way out, made the most of every resource I knew of. I indulged myself sentimentally with this thought, and every time I still cherished hopes of a possible rescue I whispered dismissively, “You fool, you've started to die already!” I ought to write a few letters, have everything ready, get prepared. I would wash myself with great care and fix up my bed nicely; I would lay my head on a few sheets of white writing paper, the cleanest thing I had left, and the green blanket I could . . .

The green blanket! The same instant I was wide-awake, the blood rose to my head and my heart went pitapat. I get up from the bench and start walking; with life stirring afresh in every recess of my body, I repeat over and over again these isolated words: The green blanket! The green blanket! I walk faster and faster, as though I had to catch up with something, and shortly I find myself at home in my tinsmith's shop once more.

Without pausing a moment or wavering in my decision, I go over to the bed and roll up Hans Pauli's blanket. I would be very surprised if this clever idea of mine didn't save me. I rose infinitely above the stupid misgivings that sprang up in me,
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I didn't give a hoot for them. I was no saint, carrying virtue to the point of idiocy, my sanity was intact. . . .

I took the blanket under my arm and went to 5 Stener Street.

I knocked and stepped into the large unfamiliar hall for the first time; the bell on the door gave lots of desperate strokes above my head. Chewing, his mouth full of food, a man comes in from an adjoining room and takes his place behind the counter.

“Please, lend me half a krone on my glasses!” I said. “I'll redeem them in a couple of days, without fail.”

“What? They are steel frames, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

“No, I can't.”

“Well, no, I suppose you can't. Anyway, it was just idle talk. But here I've got a blanket that I really haven't any use for anymore, and it occurred to me you might be willing to take it off my hands.”

“Unfortunately I have an entire storeroom full of bedclothes,” he replied. And when I had unfolded it, he just threw one glance at it and shouted, “Pardon me, but no, I haven't any use for it either.”

“I wanted to show you the poorest side first,” I said. “The other side is much better.”

“Maybe so, but it's no use—I don't want it, and you won't get ten øre for it anywhere.”

“I know it isn't worth anything,” I said, “but I thought it could be thrown in with another old blanket at the auction.”

“No, it won't do.”

“Twenty-five øre?” I said.

“No! I just don't want it, man, I won't have it in my house.”

I took the blanket under my arm again and went home.

I pretended to myself that nothing had happened, spread the blanket on the bed again, smoothed it nicely the way I used to, and tried to erase every trace of my last action. I couldn't possibly have had all my wits about me the moment I decided to play this dirty trick. The more I thought about it, the more preposterous it appeared to me. It must have been an attack of weakness, some relaxation in my innermost being that had caught me off guard. Anyway, I hadn't fallen into the trap, something told me I was letting myself in for trouble, and I had expressly tried with the glasses first. And I was extremely happy that I hadn't had the opportunity to go through with this sin, which would have stained the last hours of my life.

I wandered out onto the streets again.

I sat down once more on a bench near the Church of Our Savior and dozed with my head on my breast, limp after my last excitement, sick and worn-out with hunger. Time passed.

I'd better sit this hour out, too; it was a bit lighter outdoors than in the house. Moreover, it seemed to me that my chest didn't labor quite so hard in the open air. I would get home soon enough anyway.

So I dozed and mused and hurt quite badly. I had picked up a little stone, which I brushed off and stuck in my mouth to have something to munch on. Otherwise I didn't stir, didn't even move my eyes. People came and went. The clatter of carriages, clopping of horses' hoofs, and talk filled the air.

I could try with the buttons though, couldn't I? But it obviously wouldn't do any good, and besides I was rather sick. On second thought, however, walking home I would have to go in the direction of “Uncle's”—my proper “Uncle's”—anyway.

I got up at last and dragged myself, slowly and shakily, along the streets. I began to feel a burning sensation above my eyebrows, a fever was coming on and I hurried along as best I could. Once more I passed the bakery with the loaf of bread in the window. Come, we won't stop here, I said with affected firmness. But what if I walked in and asked for a piece of bread? It was a fleeting thought, a flash. Phooey! I whispered, shaking my head. And I walked on,
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bristling with irony at my own expense. I knew very well it was no use making any appeals for help in that shop.

In the Ropewalk, a pair of lovers were whispering in an entranceway; a little further on a girl stuck her head out of the window. Walking so slowly and warily, I might have all sorts of ideas in my head, and the girl came out on the street.

“How are you doing, old man? What, are you sick? God help us, what a face!” And the girl beat a hasty retreat.

I stopped immediately. What was the matter with my face? Had I really started dying? I passed my hand up along my cheeks: thin—of course I was thin, my cheeks were like two bowls with the bottoms in. Oh Lord! I shuffled on.

But I stopped again. I must be just incredibly thin. My eyes were sinking deep into my skull. What, exactly, did I look like? The devil only knew why you had to be turned into a veritable freak just because of hunger! I experienced rage once more, its final flare-up, a spasm. God help us, what a face, eh? Here I was, with a head on my shoulders without its equal in the whole country, and with a pair of fists, by golly, that could grind the town porter to fine dust, and yet I was turning into a freak from hunger, right here in the city of Kristiania! Was there any rhyme or reason in that? I had put my shoulder to the wheel and toiled day and night, like a nag lugging a parson; I had read till my eyes were bursting from their sockets and starved till my wits took leave of my brain—and where the hell had it gotten me? Even the street-walkers prayed to God to free them from the sight of me. But now it was going to stop, understand; it was going to
stop
, or I'd be damned! . . . With ever-increasing rage, grinding my teeth in response to my fatigue, sobbing and cursing, I continued to rant and rave, paying no heed to the people passing by. I began once more to torture myself, running my head against the lampposts on purpose, digging my fingernails deep into the backs of my hands, and biting my tongue in frenzy when it didn't speak clearly, and I laughed madly whenever it fairly hurt.

“Yes, but what shall I do?” I asked myself at last. I stamp my feet on the pavement several times and repeat, “What shall I do?” A gentleman just walking by remarks with a smile, “You should go and ask to be committed.”

I followed him with my eyes. It was one of our well-known women's physicians, going by the name the “Duke.” Not even he understood my condition, a man I knew and whose hand I had shaken. I fell silent. Committed? Sure, I was mad; he was right. I felt the insanity in my blood, felt it tearing through my brain. That was what I would come to, was it? Oh, well. I resumed my slow, sad walk. So that was where I would end up!

All of a sudden I stop again. But not committed, I say, not that! I was almost hoarse with fear. I begged for mercy, making wild entreaties not to be committed. For then I would land in jail again, be confined in a dark cell where there wasn't a glimmer of light. Not that! There were other ways open which I hadn't yet tried. I would try them; I would work harder at it, take my time, walk tirelessly from house to house. There was Cisler, the music dealer, for example, I hadn't been to him at all. Something would be sure to turn up. . . . I went along talking this way until I made myself cry from emotion once more. Anything rather than being committed!

Cisler? Was this perhaps a higher hint, a pointer? His name had occurred to me for no reason at all and he lived so far away, but I would go and see him all the same, walking slowly and resting once in a while. I knew the place, had been there often in the good old days to buy sheet music. Should I ask him for a half krone? That might embarrass him; I had better ask for a whole krone.

I entered the store and asked for the boss; I was shown into his office. There he sat, a handsome and fashionably dressed man, looking through some papers.

I stammered forth an apology and stated my errand. Forced by need to turn to him . . . Wouldn't be too long before I should pay him back . . . As soon as I received the fee for my newspaper article . . . He would be doing me such a kindness. . . .

Even while I was talking he turned back to his desk and went on with his work. When I was through he gave me a sidelong glance, shook his handsome head and said, “No.” Simply no. No explanation. Not a word.

My knees shook violently and I leaned against the small polished counter. I had to try once more. Why should exactly his name occur to me as I was standing way down in the Vaterland section? I felt repeated twitches in my left side and I started perspiring. Hmm. I was really terribly rundown, I said, quite sick, I was afraid. It would almost certainly be no more than two or three days before I could pay him back. If he would be so kind?

“My dear man, why do you come to me?” he said. “You are a perfect stranger to me, come in straight off the street. Go to the paper, where they know you.”

“Only for tonight,” I said. “The office is closed now and I'm very hungry.”

He kept shaking his head, continued to shake it even after I had my hand on the latch.

“Goodbye,” I said.

There wasn't any higher hint or pointer, I thought, smiling bitterly; as high as that I could point, too, if it came to that. I struggled along block after block, resting briefly on some front steps every once in a while. If only I didn't get locked up! My dread of the cell pursued me all along, refusing to leave me alone; every time I saw a policeman ahead of me, I shuffled into a side street to avoid meeting him. Now we'll count one hundred steps, I said, and try our luck again! Something will turn up eventually.

It was a small yarn store, a place where I had never set foot before. A lone man behind the counter, an office further back with a porcelain name plate on the door, long rows of packed shelves and tables. I waited until the last customer had left the store, a young lady with dimples. How happy she looked! I decided against trying to impress her with the pin in my coat and turned away.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

“Is the boss in?” I said.

“He's on a hiking tour in the Jotunheimen mountains,” he replied. “Is it something special?”

“It's about a few øre for a meal,” I said, trying to smile. “I'm hungry and I haven't got a single øre.”

“Then you're just as rich as I am,” he said, and set about arranging some parcels of yarn.

“Oh, don't turn me away—not now!” I said, suddenly feeling cold all over. “Believe me, I'm almost dead with hunger, it's been many days since I had anything to eat.”

With the utmost seriousness, without saying a word, he started turning his pockets inside out, one by one. Wouldn't I take his word for it?

“Just five øre,” I said. “And I'll give you ten back in a couple of days.”

“My dear man, do you want me to steal from the till?” he asked impatiently.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, take five øre from the till.”

“I don't do that sort of thing,” he wound up. Then he added, “And while we're at it, let me tell you I've had enough of this.”

I dragged myself out, sick with hunger and hot with shame.
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Why, this would have to stop! Things had really gone too far with me. I had held my head above water for so many years, I'd kept upright in such hard times, and now all of a sudden I had lowered myself to the crassest sort of panhandling. This one day had brutalized my mind through and through, spattered my heart with shamelessness. I'd had the gall to become maudlin, shedding tears in front of petty shopkeepers. And what good had it done me? Wasn't I still without a piece of bread to stick in my mouth? I had managed to make me disgusted with myself. Yes, it had to stop, right now! But at this very moment they were locking the gate at home, and I had to hurry if I didn't want to spend the night in the jail again.

This gave me strength, I didn't want to spend the night in jail. My body bent over, one hand pressed against my left ribs to ease the stinging pain a little, I struggled on, keeping my eyes fixed upon the sidewalk to avoid forcing eventual acquaintances to say hello, and hurried over to the fire station. Thank God, it was only seven by Our Savior's clock, I had still three hours before the gate closed. How scared I had been!

I had now done everything I could, no stone had been left unturned. That a whole day should go by without my succeeding even once! I thought. If I told that to someone, nobody would believe me, and if I wrote it down they would say it had been fabricated. Not in a single place! Well, it couldn't be helped; above all, don't go around being maudlin anymore. Phooey, how sickening—on my word, it makes me feel disgusted with you! When all hope was gone, it was gone. By the way, couldn't I steal a handful of oats in the stable? A shaft of light, a stray beam—I knew that the stable was locked.