wrapped up my blanket and headed back to the city. There was no sun to be seen today either, and I was frozen stiff; my legs were dead and my eyes started watering as though they couldnât stand the daylight.
It was three oâclock. My hunger was getting rather bad, I felt faint and threw up a bit here and there on the sly. I took a turn down to the Steam Kitchen, read the items on the board and shrugged my shoulders conspicuously, as though salt meat and pork werenât food for me. From there I went on to Jærnbanetorvet Square.
Suddenly a curious confusion flashed through my head; I walked on, refusing to pay any attention to it, but it got worse and worse and finally I had to sit down on a doorstep. My mind was suffering a complete transformation, a tissue in my brain had snapped. I gasped for air a couple of times and remained sitting there, wondering. I was not insensible, being clearly aware of the slight pain in my ear from yesterday, and when an acquaintance came by I knew him at once, got up and bowed.
What sort of painful new sensation was this, coming on top of all the others? Was it a result of sleeping on the damp ground? Or was it due to the fact that I hadnât had breakfast yet? All in all, it was simply absurd to live like this. Holy Christ, what had I done to deserve this special persecution anyway! I simply couldnât understand. It struck me suddenly that I might as well turn myself into a crook right away and take the blanket to âUncleâsâ basement. I could pawn it for one krone in cash, get myself three decent meals and keep going until I thought of something else. I would put off Hans Pauli with a fib. I was already on my way to the basement but stopped in front of the entrance, shook my head doubtfully and turned around.
As I walked away I felt more and more pleased that I had conquered this great temptation. The consciousness of being honest went to my head, filling me with the glorious sensation that I was a man of character, a white beacon in the midst of a turbid human sea with floating wreckage everywhere. To hock someone elseâs property for a meal, to eat and drink and your soul be damned, 2 to call yourself a crook to your face and hide from your own eyesânever! Never! The idea had never been in earnest, it had scarcely even occurred to me; you couldnât really be held responsible for your idle, fleeting thoughts by the way, especially when you had an awful headache and were nearly killing yourself schlepping a blanket that belonged to someone else.
Anyhow, something was bound to turn up in the way of help at the right time! There was that shopkeeper on Grøn-landsleret, for example. Had I been pestering him every hour of the day since sending in my application? Had I rung his bell at all times and been turned away? I hadnât as much as reported back to him for his answer. It didnât have to be an entirely fruitless attempt, perhaps I had been lucky this time. Luck often followed such a strangely winding path. So I set out for Grønlandsleret Street.
The last shock that had passed through my brain had left me somewhat weak, and I walked extremely slowly, thinking about what I would say to the shopkeeper. Maybe he was a good soul; if he was in the right mood, he might even let me have a krone in advance without my asking. Such people were apt to come up with some really excellent ideas every now and then.
I sneaked into a doorway and blackened the knees of my trousers with spit so Iâd look fairly respectable, left my blanket behind a box in a dark corner, crossed the street and stepped into the little store.
A man stands before me, busy pasting together bags from old newspapers.
âI would like to see Mr. Christie,â I said.
âThatâs me,â the man replied.
Well! My name was such and such, I had taken the liberty of sending him an application, and I was wondering if it had done me any good.
He repeated my
It was three oâclock. My hunger was getting rather bad, I felt faint and threw up a bit here and there on the sly. I took a turn down to the Steam Kitchen, read the items on the board and shrugged my shoulders conspicuously, as though salt meat and pork werenât food for me. From there I went on to Jærnbanetorvet Square.
Suddenly a curious confusion flashed through my head; I walked on, refusing to pay any attention to it, but it got worse and worse and finally I had to sit down on a doorstep. My mind was suffering a complete transformation, a tissue in my brain had snapped. I gasped for air a couple of times and remained sitting there, wondering. I was not insensible, being clearly aware of the slight pain in my ear from yesterday, and when an acquaintance came by I knew him at once, got up and bowed.
What sort of painful new sensation was this, coming on top of all the others? Was it a result of sleeping on the damp ground? Or was it due to the fact that I hadnât had breakfast yet? All in all, it was simply absurd to live like this. Holy Christ, what had I done to deserve this special persecution anyway! I simply couldnât understand. It struck me suddenly that I might as well turn myself into a crook right away and take the blanket to âUncleâsâ basement. I could pawn it for one krone in cash, get myself three decent meals and keep going until I thought of something else. I would put off Hans Pauli with a fib. I was already on my way to the basement but stopped in front of the entrance, shook my head doubtfully and turned around.
As I walked away I felt more and more pleased that I had conquered this great temptation. The consciousness of being honest went to my head, filling me with the glorious sensation that I was a man of character, a white beacon in the midst of a turbid human sea with floating wreckage everywhere. To hock someone elseâs property for a meal, to eat and drink and your soul be damned, 2 to call yourself a crook to your face and hide from your own eyesânever! Never! The idea had never been in earnest, it had scarcely even occurred to me; you couldnât really be held responsible for your idle, fleeting thoughts by the way, especially when you had an awful headache and were nearly killing yourself schlepping a blanket that belonged to someone else.
Anyhow, something was bound to turn up in the way of help at the right time! There was that shopkeeper on Grøn-landsleret, for example. Had I been pestering him every hour of the day since sending in my application? Had I rung his bell at all times and been turned away? I hadnât as much as reported back to him for his answer. It didnât have to be an entirely fruitless attempt, perhaps I had been lucky this time. Luck often followed such a strangely winding path. So I set out for Grønlandsleret Street.
The last shock that had passed through my brain had left me somewhat weak, and I walked extremely slowly, thinking about what I would say to the shopkeeper. Maybe he was a good soul; if he was in the right mood, he might even let me have a krone in advance without my asking. Such people were apt to come up with some really excellent ideas every now and then.
I sneaked into a doorway and blackened the knees of my trousers with spit so Iâd look fairly respectable, left my blanket behind a box in a dark corner, crossed the street and stepped into the little store.
A man stands before me, busy pasting together bags from old newspapers.
âI would like to see Mr. Christie,â I said.
âThatâs me,â the man replied.
Well! My name was such and such, I had taken the liberty of sending him an application, and I was wondering if it had done me any good.
He repeated my
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