FĂRSTE STYKKE
Det var i den Tid,jeg gik omkringog sulted i Kristiania,denne forunderlige By,som ingen forlader,fÞr han har fÄet MÊrker af den . . . .Jeg ligger vÄgen pÄ min Kvistog hÞrer en Klokke nedenunder migslÄ seks Slag;det var allerede ganske lyst,og Folk begyndte at fÊrdesop og ned i Trapperne.Nede ved DÞren,hvor mit Rum var tapetseretmed gamle Numre af »Morgenbladet«,kunde jeg sÄ tydelig seen BekendtgÞrelse fra FyrdirektÞren,og lidt tilvenstre derfraet fedt, bugnende Avertissementfra Bager Fabian Olsenom nybagt BrÞd.
Straks jeg slog Ăjnene op,begyndte jeg af gammel Vaneat tĂŠnke efter,om jeg havde noget at glĂŠde mig til idag.Det havde vĂŠret lidt knapt for migi den sidste Tid;den ene efter den anden af mine Ejendelevar bragt til »Onkel«,jeg var bleven nervĂžs og utĂ„lsom,et Par Gange havde jeg ogsĂ„ ligget tilsengsen Dags Tid af Svimmelhed.Nu og da,nĂ„r Lykken var god,kunde jeg drive det til at fĂ„ fem Kroneraf et eller andet Bladfor en FĂžljeton.
Det lysned mer og mer,og jeg gav mig til at lÊsepÄ Avertissementerne nede ved DÞren;jeg kunde endog skÊlne de magre,grinende Bogstaver om »LigsvÞb hos Jomfru Andersen,tilhÞjre i Porten«.Det sysselsatte mig en lang Stund,jeg hÞrte Klokken slÄ otte nedenunder,inden jeg stod op og klÊdte mig pÄ.
Jeg Äbned Vinduet og sÄ ud.Der, hvor jeg stod,havde jeg Udsigt til en KlÊdesnorog en Äben Mark;langt ude lÄ Gruen tilbageaf en nedbrÊndt Smedje,hvor nogle Arbejdere var i FÊrdmed at rydde op.Jeg lagde mig med Albuerne ned i Vinduetog stirred ud i Luften.Det blev ganske vist en lys Dag,HÞsten var kommet,den fine, svale à rstid,hvori alting skifter Farve og forgÄr.StÞjen var allerede begyndt at lyde i Gaderneog lokked mig ud;dette tomme VÊrelse,hvis Gulv gynged op og nedfor hvert Skridt jeg tog henover det,var som en gisten,uhyggelig Ligkiste;der var ingen ordentlig LÄs for DÞrenog ingen Ovn i Rummet;jeg plejed at ligge pÄ mine StrÞmper om Natten,forat fÄ dem lidt tÞrre til om Morgenen.Det eneste,jeg havde at fornÞje mig ved,var en liden rÞd Gyngestol,som jeg sad i om Aftenerneog dÞsed og tÊnkte pÄ mangehÄnde Ting.NÄr det blÊste hÄrdt,og DÞrene nedenunder stod Äbne,lÞd der alleslags underlige Hvinop gennem Gulvet og ind fra VÊggene,og »Morgenbladet« nede ved DÞrenfik Revner sÄ lange som en HÄnd.
Jeg rejste migog undersĂžgte en Byldt henne i Krogenved Sengen efter lidt til Frokost,men fandt intetog vendte tilbage til Vinduet igen.
Gud ved, tĂŠnkte jeg,om det aldrig skal nytte migat sĂžge efter en Bestilling mer!Disse mange Afslag,disse halve LĂžfter,rene Nej,nĂŠrede og skuffede HĂ„b,nye ForsĂžg,som hver Gang lĂžb ud i intet,havde gjort det af med mit Mod.Jeg havde tilsidst sĂžgt en Pladssom Regningsbud,men var kommet forsent;desuden kunde jeg ikke skaffe Sikkerhedfor femti Kroner.Der var altid et eller andet til Hinder.Jeg mĂŠldte mig ogsĂ„ til Brandkorpset.Vi stod halvhundrede Mand i Forhallenog satte Brystet ud,forat give Indtryk af Kraftog stor Dristighed.En FuldmĂŠgtig gik omkringog besĂ„ disse AnsĂžgere,fĂžlte pĂ„ deres Armeog gav dem et og andet SpĂžrgsmĂ„l,og mig gik han forbi,rysted blot pĂ„ Hovedet og sagde,at jeg var kasseret pĂ„ Grund af mine Briller.Jeg mĂždte op pĂ„ny,uden Briller,jeg stod der med rynkede Brynog gjorde mine Ăjne sĂ„ hvasse som Knive,og Manden gik mig atter forbi,og han smilte, âhan havde kendt mig igen.Det vĂŠrste af alt var,at mine KlĂŠder var begyndt at blive sĂ„ dĂ„rlige,at jeg ikke lĂŠnger kunde fremstille migtil en Plads som et skikkeligt Menneske.
Hvor det havde gÄet jÊvntog regelmÊssig nedad med mighele Tiden!Jeg stod tilsidst sÄ besynderlig blottetfor alt muligt,jeg havde ikke engang en Kam tilbageeller en Bog at lÊse i,nÄr det blev mig for trist.Hele Sommeren udoverhavde jeg sÞgt ud pÄ KirkegÄrdeneeller op i Slotsparken,hvor jeg sad og forfatted Artikler for Bladene,Spalte efter Spalteom de forskelligste Ting,underlige PÄfund, Luner,Indfald af min urolige HjÊrne;i Fortvivlelse havde jeg ofte valgtde fjÊrneste Emner,som voldte mig lange Tiders AnstrÊngelseog aldrig blev optaget.NÄr et Stykke var fÊrdigt,tog jeg fat pÄ et nyt,og jeg blev ikke ofte nedslagenaf RedaktÞrernes Nej;jeg sagde stadig vÊk til mig selv,at engang vilde det jo lykkes.Og virkelig, stundom,nÄr jeg havde Held med migog fik det lidt godt til,kunde jeg fÄ fem Kronerfor en Eftermiddags Arbejde.
Jeg rejste mig atter op fra Vinduet,gik hen til Vaskevandsstolenog dynked en Smule VandpÄ mine blanke BukseknÊ,forat svÊrte dem lidtog fÄ dem til at se lidt nye ud.Da jeg havde gjort dette,stak jeg som sÊdvanligtPapir og Blyant i Lommen og gik ud.Jeg gled meget stille nedad Trapperne,for ikke at vÊkke min VÊrtindes OpmÊrksomhed;der var gÄet et Par Dage,siden min Husleje forfaldt,og jeg havde ikke noget at betale med nu mere.
Klokken var ni.Vognrammel og Stemmer fyldte Luften,et uhyre Morgenkor,blandet med FodgÊngernes Skridtog SmÊldene fra Hyrekuskenes SvÞber.Denne stÞjende FÊrdsel overaltoplived mig straks,og jeg begyndte at fÞle migmer og mer tilfreds.Intet var fjÊrnere fra min Tankeend blot at gÄ en Morgentur i frisk Luft.Hvad kom Luften mine Lunger ved?Jeg var stÊrk som en Riseog kunde standse en Vogn med min Skulder.En fin, sÊlsom Stemning,FÞlelsen af den lyse Ligegladhed,havde bemÊgtiget sig mig.Jeg gav mig til at iagttage de Mennesker,jeg mÞdte og gik forbi,lÊste Plakaterne pÄ VÊggene,modtog Indtryk fra et Blik,slÊngt til mig fra en forbifarende Sporvogn,lod hver Bagatel trÊnge ind pÄ mig,alle smÄ TilfÊldigheder,som krydsed min Vej og forsvandt.
NĂ„r man bare havde sig lidt til Maden sĂ„dan lys Dag!Indtrykket af den glade Morgen overvĂŠlded mig,jeg blev uregerlig tilfredsog gav mig til at nynne af GlĂŠde,uden nogĂ©n bestemt Grund.Ved en Slagterbutikstod en Kone med en Kurv pĂ„ Armenog spekulered pĂ„ PĂžlser til Middag;idet jeg passered hende,sĂ„ hun hen pĂ„ mig.Hun havde blot Ă©n Tand i Formunden.NervĂžs og let pĂ„virkeligsom jeg var bleven de sidste Dage,gjorde Konens Ansigt strakset modbydeligt Indtryk pĂ„ mig;den lange, gule TandsĂ„ ud som en liden Finger,der stod op fra KĂŠven,og hendes Blik var endnu fuldt af PĂžlse,da hun vendte det mod mig.Jeg tabte med en Gang Appetitenog fĂžlte Kvalme.Da jeg kom til Basarerne,gik jeg hen til Springet og drak lidt Vand;jeg sĂ„ op âKlokken var ti i Vor Frelsers TĂ„rn.
Jeg gik videre gennem Gaderne,drev om uden Bekymring for nogetsomhelst,standsed ved et HjĂžrne,uden at behĂžve det,bĂžjed af og gik en Sidegade,uden at have Ărinde derhen;jeg lod det stĂ„ til,fĂžrtes omkring i den glade Morgen,vugged mig sorgfrit frem og tilbageblandt andre lykkelige Mennesker;Luften var tom og lys,og mit Sind var uden en Skygge.
I ti Minutters Tidhavde jeg stadig havten gammel, halt Mand foran mig.Han bar en Byldt i den ene HÄndog gik med hele sit Legeme,arbejded af al Magt,forat skyde Fart.Jeg hÞrte, hvor han pusted af AnstrÊngelse,og det faldt mig ind,at jeg kunde bÊre hans Byldt;jeg sÞgte dog ikke at indhente ham.Oppe i GrÊndsenmÞdte jeg Hans Pauli,som hilste og skyndte sig forbi.Hvorfor hav de han sÄdant HastvÊrk?Jeg havde slet ikke i Sindeat bede ham om en Krone,jeg vilde ogsÄ med det allerfÞrstesende ham tilbage et TÊppe,som jeg havde lÄnt af hamfor nogle Uger siden.SÄsnart jeg var kommet lidt ovenpÄ,vilde jeg ikke vÊre nogen Mandnoget TÊppe skyldig;kanske begyndte jeg allerede idagen Artikel om Fremtidens Forbrydelsereller om Viljens Frihed,hvadsomhelst,noget lÊsevÊrdigt noget,som jeg vilde fÄ ti Kroner for mindst . . . .Og ved Tanken pÄ denne ArtikelfÞlte jeg mig med en Gang gennemstrÞmmetaf Trang til at tage fat straksog Þse af min fulde HjÊrne;jeg vilde finde mig et passende Stedi Slotsparken og ikke hvile,fÞr jeg havde fÄet den fÊrdig.
Men den gamle KrĂžblinggjorde fremdeles de samme sprĂŠllende BevĂŠgelserforan mig i Gaden.Det begyndte tilsidst at irritere migat have dette skrĂžbelige Menneske foran mighele Tiden.Hans Rejse syntes aldrig at ville tage Ende;mĂ„ske havde han bestemt sig til akkurat det samme Stedsom jeg,og jeg skulde hele Vejenhave ham for mine Ăjne.I min Ophidselse forekom det mig,at han ved hver Tvergade sagtned en Smuleog ligesom vented pĂ„,hvilken Retning jeg vilde tage,hvorpĂ„ han igen svang Byldten hĂžjt i Luftenog gik til af yderste Magt,forat fĂ„ Forsprang.Jeg gĂ„r og ser pĂ„ dette masede VĂŠsenog blir mer og mer opfyldt af Forbittrelse mod ham;jeg fĂžlte,at han lidt efter lidt Ăždelagde min lyse Stemningog trak den rene,skĂžnne Morgen med sig ned i HĂŠslighedmed det samme.Han sĂ„ ud som et stort humpende Insekt,der med Vold og Magtvilde slĂ„ sig til en Plads i Verdenog forbeholde sig Fortougetfor sig selv alene.Da vi var kommet pĂ„ Toppen af Bakken,vilde jeg ikke lĂŠnger finde mig i det,jeg vendte mig mod et Butiksvinduog standsed,forat give ham Anledning til at komme vĂŠk.Da jeg efter nogle Minutters ForlĂžbatter begyndte at gĂ„,var Manden foran mig igen,ogsĂ„ han havde stĂ„et bom stille.Jeg gjorde,uden at tĂŠnke mig om,tre fire rasende Skridt fremad,indhented ham og slog Manden pĂ„ Skulderen.
Han standsed med ét.Vi gav os begge til at stirre pÄ hinanden.
»En liden Skilling til Melk!«sagde han endeligog lagde Hovedet pÄ Siden.
Se sÄ,nu stod jeg godt i det!Jeg fÞlte i Lommerne og sagde:
»Til Melk ja.Hm.Det er smÄt med Pengene i disse Tider,og jeg ved ikke,hvor trÊngende De kan vÊre.«
»Jeg har ikke spist siden igĂ„r i Drammen,«sagde Manden;»jeg ejer ikke en Ăre,og jeg har ikke fĂ„et Arbejde endnu.«
»Er De HÄndvÊrker?«
»Ja,jeg er NÄdler.«
»Hvilket?«
»NÄdler.Forresten kan jeg ogsÄ gÞre Sko.«
»Det forandrer Sagen,«sagde jeg.»De fĂ„r vente her i nogle Minutter,sĂ„ skal jeg gĂ„ efter lidt Penger til Dem,nogle Ăre.«
Jeg gik i stÞrste Hast nedad PilestrÊdet,hvor jeg vidste om en PantelÄner i anden Etage;jeg havde forÞvrigt aldrig vÊret hos ham fÞr.Da jeg kom ind i Porten,trak jeg skyndsomt min Vest af,rulled den sammen og stak den under Armen;derpÄ gik jeg opad Trappen og banked pÄ til Sjappen.Jeg bukked og kasted Vesten pÄ Disken.
»Halvanden Krone,«sagde Manden.
»Ja ja, Tak,«svared jeg.»Havde det ikke vÊret det,at den begyndte at blive lidt for knap til mig,sÄ vilde jeg ikke have skilt mig ved den,naturligvis.«
Jeg fik Pengene og Sedlenog begav mig tilbage.Det var i Grunden et udmÊrket PÄfund,dette med Vesten;jeg vilde endog fÄ Penge tiloverstil en rigelig Frokost,og inden Aften skulde sÄ min Afhandlingom Fremtidens Forbrydelser vÊre istand.Jeg begyndte pÄ Stedetat finde TilvÊrelsen blidere,og jeg skyndte mig tilbage til Manden,forat fÄ ham fra HÄnden.
»VÊrsÄgod!«sagde jeg til ham.»Det glÊder mig,at De har henvendt Dem til mig fÞrst.«
Manden tog Pengeneog begyndte at mĂžnstre mig med Ăjnene.Hvad stod han og stirred efter?Jeg havde det Indtryk,at han isĂŠr undersĂžgte mine BukseknĂŠ,og jeg blev trĂŠt af denne Uforskammethed.Troed Slyngelen,at jeg virkelig var sĂ„ fattigsom jeg sĂ„ ud for?Havde jeg mĂ„ske ikke sĂ„godtsombegyndt at skrive pĂ„ en Artikeltil ti Kroner?Overhovedet frygted jeg ikke for Fremtiden,jeg havde mange JĂŠrn i Ilden.Hvad kom det sĂ„ et vild fremmed Menneske ved,om jeg gav bort en DrikkeskillingpĂ„ en sĂ„dan lys Dag?Mandens Blik irritered mig,og jeg beslutted mig til at give ham en IrettesĂŠttelse,inden jeg forlod ham.Jeg trak pĂ„ Skuldrene og sagde:
»Min gode Mand,De har lagt Dem til den stygge Uvaneat glo en Mand pÄ KnÊerne,nÄr han giver Dem en Krones Penge.«
Han lagde Hovedet helt tilbage mod Murenog spÊrred Munden op.Der arbejded noget bag hans Stodderpande,han tÊnkte ganske vist,at jeg vilde narre ham pÄ en eller anden MÄde,og han rakte mig Pengene tilbage.
Jeg stamped i Gadenog svor pÄ,at han skulde beholde dem.Indbildte han sig,at jeg vilde have alt det Bryderifor ingenting?NÄr alt kom til altskyldte jeg ham mÄske denne Krone,jeg havde det med at huske en gammel GÊld,han stod foran et retskaffent Menneske,Êrlig ud i Fingerspidserne.Kortsagt,Pengene var hans . . . .à , ikke noget at takke for,det havde vÊret mig en GlÊde.Farvel.
Jeg gik.Endelig havde jeg denne vÊrkbrudne PlageÄnd afvejen,og jeg kunde vÊre uforstyrret.Jeg tog atter ned gennem PilestrÊdetog standsed udenfor en Husholdningshandel.Der lÄ fuldt op af Mad i Vinduet,og jeg bestemte mig til at gÄ indog fÄ mig lidt med pÄ Vejen.
»Et Stykke Ost og et FranskbrÞd!«sagde jeg og slÊngte min Halvkrone pÄ Disken.
»Ost og BrÞd for altsammen?«spurgte Konen ironisk,uden at se pÄ mig.
»For hele femti Ăre ja,«svared jeg uforstyrret.
Jeg fik mine Sager,sagde yderst hÞfligt Godmorgentil den gamle, fede Koneog begav mig sporenstrÊngs opad Slotsbakken til Parken.Jeg fandt mig en BÊnk for mig selvog begyndte at gnave grÄdigt af min Niste.Det gjorde godt;det var lÊnge sidenjeg havde fÄet et sÄ rundeligt MÄltid,og jeg fÞlte lidt efter lidtden samme mÊtte Ro i mig,som én fÞler efter en lang GrÄd.Mit Mod steg stÊrkt;det var mig ikke lÊnger nokat skrive en Artikelom noget sÄ enkelt og ligetilsom Fremtidens Forbrydelser,som desuden hvemsomhelst kunde gÊtte sig til,ligefrem lÊse sig til i Historien;jeg fÞlte mig istand til en stÞrre AnstrÊngelse,jeg var i Stemning til at overvinde Vanskeligheder,og jeg bestemte mig for en Afhandlingi tre Afsnit om den filosofiske Erkendelse.Naturligvis vilde jeg fÄ Lejlighed tilat knÊkke ynkeligtnogle af Kants Sofismer . . . .Da jeg vilde tage mine Skrivesager fremog begynde Arbejdet,opdaged jeg,at jeg ikke lÊnger havde nogen Blyant hos mig;jeg havde glemt den efter migi PantelÄnersjappen;min Blyant lÄ i Vestelommen.
Herregud hvor dog alting havde Lysttil at gĂ„ forkĂŠrt for mig!Jeg banded nogle Gange,rejste mig op fra BĂŠnkenog drev frem og tilbage i Gangene.Det var meget stille overalt;langt borte,ved Dronningens Lysthus,rulled et Par Barnepigersine Vogne omkring,ellers var der ikke et Menneske at senoget Sted.Jeg var dygtig forbittret i Sindog spadsered som en rasende foran min BĂŠnk,Hvor mĂŠrkelig vrangt gik det dog ikkepĂ„ alle Kanter!En Artikel i tre Afsnitskulde ligefrem strande pĂ„ den simple Ting,at jeg ikke havde et Stykketi Ăres Blyant i Lommen!Hvad om jeg gik ned i PilestrĂŠdet igenog fik min Blyant tilbageleveret?Der vilde endda blive Tidtil at fĂ„ et godt Stykke fĂŠrdigt,inden de spadserende begyndte at fylde Parken.Der var ogsĂ„ sĂ„ meget,som afhang af denne Afhandlingom den filosofiske Erkendelse,mĂ„ske flere Menneskers Lykke,ingen kunde vide det.Jeg sagde til mig selv,at den kanske vilde blivetil stor HjĂŠlp for mange unge Mennesker.Ret betĂŠnkt vilde jeg ikke forgribe mig pĂ„ Kant;jeg kunde jo undgĂ„ det,jeg behĂžved blot at gĂžre en ganske umĂŠrkelig BĂžjning,nĂ„r jeg kom til SpĂžrgsmĂ„let Tid og Rum;men Renan vilde jeg ikke svare for,gamle SogneprĂŠst Renan . . . .Under alle OmstĂŠndigheder galdt detat gĂžre en Artikel pĂ„ sĂ„ og sĂ„ mange Spalter;den ubetalte Husleje,VĂŠrtindens lange Blik om Morgenen,nĂ„r jeg traf hende i Trapperne,pinte mig hele Dagenog dukked frem igen endog i mine glade Stunder,nĂ„r jeg ellers ikke havde en mĂžrk Tanke.Dette mĂ„tte jeg have en Ende pĂ„.Jeg gik hurtigt ud af Parken,forat hente min Blyant hos PantelĂ„neren.
Da jeg kom ned i Slotsbakken,indhented jeg to Damer,som jeg gik forbi.Idet jeg passered dem,strejfed jeg den enes Ărme,jeg sĂ„ op,hun havde et fyldigt,lidt blegt Ansigt.Med Ă©t blusser hunog blir forunderlig skĂžn,jeg ved ikke hvorfor,mĂ„ske af et Ord,hun hĂžrer af en forbigĂ„ende,mĂ„ske blot af en stille Tankehos hende selv.Eller skulde det vĂŠre fordijeg berĂžrte hendes Arm?Det hĂžje Bryst bĂžlger heftigt nogle Gange,og hun klemmer HĂ„nden hĂ„rdt om Parasolskaftet.Hvad gik der af hende?
Jeg standsed og lod hende komme foran mig igen,jeg kunde ikke i Ăjeblikket gĂ„ videre,det hele forekom mig sĂ„ besynderligt.Jeg var i et pirreligt Lune,ĂŠrgerlig pĂ„ mig selvfor HĂŠndelsen med Blyantenog i hĂžj Grad ophidsetaf al den Mad,jeg havde nydt pĂ„ tom Mave.Med en Gang tager min Tankeved et lunefuldt Indfald en mĂŠrkelig Retning,jeg fĂžler mig grebenaf en sĂŠlsom Lyst til at gĂžre denne Dame bange,fĂžlge efter hendeog fortrĂŠdige hende pĂ„ en eller anden MĂ„de.Jeg indhenter hende atterog gĂ„r hende forbi,vender mig pludselig omog mĂžder hende Ansigt til Ansigt,forat iagttage hende.Jeg stĂ„r og ser hende ind i Ăjneneog hitter pĂ„ Stedet et Navn,som jeg aldrig havde hĂžrt,et Navn med en glidende,nervĂžs Lyd:Ylajali.Da hun var kommet mig ganske nĂŠr,retter jeg mig ivejretog siger indtrĂŠngende:
»De mister Deres Bog,FrÞken.«
Jeg kunde hĂžre,hvor mit HjĂŠrte slog hĂžrligt,da jeg sagde det.
»Min Bog?«spÞrger hun sin Ledsagerinde.Og hun gÄr videre.
Min Ondskabsfuldhed tiltog,og jeg fulgte efter Damen.Jeg var mig i Ăjeblikket fuldt bevidst,at jeg begik gale Streger,uden at jeg kunde gĂžre noget ved det;min forvirrede TilstandlĂžb af med migog gav mig de mest forrykte Indskydelser,som jeg lystred efter Tur.Det nytted ikke,hvormeget jeg sagde til mig selv,at jeg bar mig idiotisk ad,jeg gjorde de dummeste Grimaserbag Damens Ryg,og jeg hosted rasende nogle Gange,idet jeg passered hende.SĂ„ledes vandrende ganske sagte fremad,altid i nogle Skridts Forspring,fĂžlte jeg hendes Ăjne i min Ryg,og jeg dukked mig uvilkĂ„rlig ned af Skamover at have vĂŠret hende til Plage.Lidt efter lidt fik jeg en forunderlig Fornemmelseaf at vĂŠre langt borte,andre Steder henne,jeg havde en halvt ubestemt FĂžlelse af,at det ikke var mig,som gik der pĂ„ Stenfliserneog dukked mig ned.
Nogle Minutter efterer Damen kommet til Paschas Boglade,jeg har allerede standset ved det fÞrste Vindu,og idet hun gÄr forbi mig,trÊder jeg frem og gentager:
»De mister Deres Bog, FrÞken.«
»Nej, hvilken Bog?«siger hun i Angst.»Kan du forstÄ,hvad det er for en Bog,han taler om?«
Og hun standser.Jeg gotter mig grusomtover hendes Forvirring,denne RĂ„dvildhed i hendes Ăjnehenrykker mig.Hendes Tanke kan ikke fattemin lille desperate Tiltale;hun har slet ingen Bog med,ikke et eneste Blad af en Bog,og alligevel leder hun i sine Lommer,ser sig gentagne Gange ind i HĂŠnderne,vender Hovedet og undersĂžger Gaden bag sig,anstrĂŠnger sin lille ĂžmtĂ„lige HjĂŠrne til det yderste,forat finde ud,hvad det er for en Bog,jeg taler om.Hendes Ansigt skifter Farve,har snart det ene,snart det andet Udtryk,og hun Ă„nder ganske hĂžrligt;selv Knapperne i hendes Kjolesynes at stirre pĂ„ migsom en RĂŠkke forfĂŠrdede Ăjne.
»Bryd dig ikke om ham,«siger hendes Ledsagerskeog trÊkker hende i Armen;»han er jo fuld;kan du ikke se,at Manden er fuld!«
SĂ„ fremmed,som jeg i dette Ăjeblik var for mig selv,sĂ„ fuldstĂŠndig et Bytte for sĂŠre,usynlige Indflydelser,foregik der intet omkring mig,uden at jeg lagde MĂŠrke til det.En stor brun Hundsprang tvĂŠrs over Gaden,henimod Lunden og ned til Tivoli;den havde et ganske smalt HalsbĂ„nd af NysĂžlv.HĂžjere op i GadenĂ„bnedes et Vindu i anden Etage,og en Pige lagde sig ud af detmed opbrĂŠttede Ărmerog gav sig til at pudse RudernepĂ„ Ydersiden.Intet undgik min OpmĂŠrksomhed,jeg var klar og Ă„ndsnĂŠrvĂŠrende,alle Ting strĂžmmed ind pĂ„ migmed en skinnende Tydelighed,som om der pludselig var blevenet stĂŠrkt Lys omkring mig.Damerne foran mig havde beggeen blĂ„ Fuglevinge i Hattenog et skotsk SilkebĂ„nd om Halsen.Det faldt mig ind,at de var SĂžstre.
De bĂžjed af og standsed ved Cislers Musikhandelog talte sammen,jeg standsed ogsĂ„.DerpĂ„ kom de begge to tilbage,gik den samme Vej,som de var kommet,passered mig igen,drejed om HjĂžrnet ved Universitetsgadenog gik lige op til St. Olafs Plads.Jeg var dem hele TidensĂ„ nĂŠr i HĂŠlene som jeg turde.De vendte sig engangog sendte mig et halvt bange,halvt nysgĂŠrrigt Blik,og jeg sĂ„ ingen FortĂžrnelse i deres Minerog ingen rynkede Bryn.Denne TĂ„lmodighed med mine Plageriergjorde mig meget skamfuld,og jeg slog Ăjnene ned.Jeg vilde ikke lĂŠnger vĂŠre dem til FortrĂŠd,jeg vilde af ren TaknemmelighedfĂžlge dem med Ăjnene,ikke tabe dem afsyne,helt til de gik ind et Stedog blev borte.
Udenfor Numer 2,et stort fire Etages Hus,vendte de sig endnu engang,hvorpĂ„ de gik ind.Jeg lĂŠned mig til en Gaslygte ved FontĂŠnenog lytted efter deres Skridt i Trapperne;de dĂžde hen i anden Etage.Jeg trĂŠder frem fra Lygtenog ser opad Huset.Da sker der noget besynderligt.Gardinerne bevĂŠger sig hĂžjt oppe,et Ăjeblik efter Ă„bnes et Vindu,et Hoved stikker ud,og to sĂŠrt seende Ăjnehviler pĂ„ mig.Ylajali!sagde jeg halvhĂžjt,og jeg fĂžlte, at jeg blev rĂžd.Hvorfor rĂ„bte hun ikke om HjĂŠlp?Hvorfor stĂždte hun ikke tilen af Blomsterpotterneog rammed mig i Hovedet,eller sendte nogen ned,forat jage mig vĂŠk?Vi stĂ„r og ser hinanden ind i Ăjneneuden at rĂžre os;det varer et Minut;der skyder Tanker mellem Vinduet og Gaden,og der siges ikke et OrdHun vender sig om,det giver et Ryk i mig,et fint StĂžd gennem mit Sind;jeg ser en Skulder, der drejer sig,en Ryg, der forsvinder indad Gulvet.Denne langsomme Gang bort fra Vinduet,Betoningen i denne BevĂŠgelse med Skuldrenvar som et Nik til mig;mit Blod fornam denne fine Hilsen,og jeg fĂžlte mig i samme Stundvidunderlig glad.SĂ„ vendte jeg omog gik nedad Gaden.
Jeg turde ikke se mig tilbageog vidste ikke,om hun atter var kommet til Vinduet;efterhvert som jeg overvejed dette SpĂžrgsmĂ„l,blev jeg mer og mer urolig og nervĂžs.Formodentlig stod hun i dette Ăjeblikog fulgte nĂžje alle mine BevĂŠgelser,og det var pĂ„ ingen MĂ„de til at holde udat vide sig sĂ„ledes undersĂžgt bagfra.Jeg strammed mig op sĂ„ godt jeg kundeog gik videre;det begyndte at rykke i mine Ben,min Gang blev ustĂž,fordi jeg med Viljevilde gĂžre den smuk.Forat synes rolig og ligegyldigslĂŠngte jeg meningslĂžst med Armene,spytted i Gadenog satte NĂŠsen ivejret;men intet hjalp.Jeg fĂžlte stadig de forfĂžlgende Ăjnei min Nakke,og det lĂžb mig koldt gennem Kroppen.Endelig redded jeg mig ind i en Sidegade,hvorfra jeg tog Vejen ned i PilestrĂŠdet,forat fĂ„ fat pĂ„ min Blyant.
Jeg havde ingen MÞje med at fÄ den tilbageleveret.Manden bragte mig Vesten selvog bad mig undersÞge alle Lommerne med det samme;jeg fandt ogsÄ et Par LÄnesedler,som jeg stak til mig,og takked den venlige Mandfor hans ImÞdekommenhed.Jeg blev mer og mer tiltalt af ham,det blev mig i samme Stund meget om at gÞreat give dette Menneskeet godt Indtryk af mig.Jeg gjorde et Slag henimod DÞrenog vendte atter tilbage til Disken,som om jeg havde glemt noget;jeg mente at skylde ham en Forklaring,en Oplysning,og jeg gav mig til at nynne,forat gÞre ham opmÊrksom.Da tog jeg Blyanten i HÄndenog holdt den ivejret.
Det kunde ikke falde mig ind,sagde jeg,at gÄ lange Vejefor en hvilkensom helst sÄdan Blyant;men med denne var det en anden Sag,en egen à rsag.SÄ ringe som den sÄ ud,havde denne Blyantstumpsimpelthen gjort mig til det,jeg var i Verden,sÄ at sige sat mig pÄ min Plads i Livet . . . .
Jeg sagde ikke mer.Manden kom helt hen til Disken.
»Ja sÄ?«sagde han og sÄ nysgÊrrigt pÄ mig.
Med den Blyant,fortsatte jeg koldblodigt,havde jeg skrevet min Afhandlingom den filosofiske Erkendelse i tre Bind.Om han ikke havde hĂžrt den omtale?
Og Manden synes nok,at han havde hĂžrt Navnet,Titlen.
Ja, sagde jeg,den var af mig, den!SĂ„ det mĂ„tte endelig ikke forundre ham,at jeg vilde have den lille Stump Blyant tilbage;den havde altfor stort VĂŠrd for mig,den var mig nĂŠsten som et lidet Menneske.Forresten var jeg ham oprigtig taknemmeligfor hans Velvilje,og jeg vilde huske ham for den âjo, jo,jeg vilde virkelig huske ham for den;et Ord var et Ord,den Slags Mand var jeg,og han fortjente det.Farvel.
Jeg gik til DÞren med en Holdning,som om jeg kunde anbringe en Mandi en hÞj Post i BrandvÊsenet.Den skikkelige PantelÄnerbukked to Gange for mig,idet jeg fjÊrned mig,og jeg vendte mig endnu engangog sagde Farvel.
I Trappen mÞdte jeg en Kone,som bar en VadsÊk i HÄnden.Hun trykked sig Êngsteligt til Siden,forat give mig Plads,og jeg greb uvilkÄrligt i Lommenefter noget at give hende;da jeg ikke fandt nogen Ting,blev jeg flau og gik hende duknakket forbi.Lidt efter hÞrte jeg,at ogsÄ hun banked pÄ til Sjappen;der var et StÄltrÄdsprinkel pÄ DÞren,og jeg kendte straks igen den klirrende Lyd,nÄr et Menneskes Knoger berÞrte det.
Solen stod i Syd,Klokken var omtrent tolv.Byen begyndte at komme pÄ Benene,det nÊrmed sig Spadsertiden,og hilsende og leende FolkbÞlged op og ned ad Karl Johan.Jeg klemte Albuerne i Siden,gjorde mig lidenog slap ubemÊrket forbinogle Bekendte,som havde indtaget et HjÞrne ved Universitetet,forat beskue de forbigÄende.Jeg vandred opad Slotsbakken og faldt i Tanker.
Disse Mennesker, jeg mĂždte,hvor let og lystigt vugged de ikkesine lyse Hovederog svinged sig gennem Livetsom gennem en Balsal!Der var ikke Sorg i et eneste Ăje,jeg sĂ„,ingen Byrde pĂ„ nogen Skulder,kanske ikke en skyet Tanke,ikke en liden hemmelig Pinei noget af disse glade Sind.Og jeg gik der lige ved Sidenaf disse Mennesker,ung og nys udsprungen,og jeg havde allerede glemt,hvordan Lykken sĂ„ ud!Jeg dĂŠgged for mig selv med denne Tankeog fandt, at der var skeet mig gruelig Uret.Hvorfor havde de sidste MĂ„nederfaret sĂ„ mĂŠrkelig hĂ„rdt frem med mig?Jeg kendte slet ikke mit lyse Sind igen,og jeg havde de underligste PlagerpĂ„ alle Kanter.Jeg kunde ikke sĂŠtte mig pĂ„ en BĂŠnk for mig selveller rĂžre min Fod noget Sted hen,uden at blive overfaldtaf smĂ„ og betydningslĂžse TilfĂŠldigheder,jammerlige Bagateller,som trĂŠngte ind i mine Forestillingerog spredte mine KrĂŠfter for alle Vinde.En Hund, som strĂžg mig forbi,en gul Rose i en Herres Knaphul,kunde sĂŠtte mine Tanker i Vibrenog optage mig for lĂŠngere Tid.Hvad var det, som fejled mig?Havde Herrens Finger pegt pĂ„ mig?Men hvorfor just pĂ„ mig?Hvorfor ikke lige sĂ„ godtpĂ„ en Mand i Sydamerika,for den Skyld?NĂ„r jeg overvejed Tingen,blev det mig mer og mer ubegribeligt,at netop jeg skulde vĂŠre udsettil PrĂžveklud for Guds NĂ„des Lune.Det var en noksĂ„ ejendommelig FremgangsmĂ„deat springe over en hel Verden,forat rĂŠkke mig;der var nu bĂ„de Antikvarboghandler Paschaog DampskibsekspeditĂžr Hennechen.
Jeg gik og drÞfted denne Sagog kunde ikke blive den kvit,jeg fandt de vÊgtigste Indvendingermod denne Herrens VilkÄrlighedat lade mig undgÊlde for alles Skyld.Endog efterat jeg havde fundet mig en BÊnkog sat mig ned,vedblev dette SpÞrgsmÄl at sysselsÊtte migog hindre mig fra at tÊnke pÄ andre Ting.Fra den Dag i MajmÄned,da mine Genvordigheder begyndte,kunde jeg sÄ tydeligt mÊrkeen lidt efter lidt tiltagende Svaghed,jeg var ligesom bleven for mattil at styre og lede mighvorhen jeg vilde;en Sverm af smÄ Skadedyrhavde trÊngt ind i mit Indreog udhulet mig.Hvad om Gud ligefrem havde i Sindeat ÞdelÊgge mig ganske?Jeg rejste mig opog drev frem og tilbage foran BÊnken.
Mit hele VĂŠsen var i dette Ăjebliki den hĂžjeste Grad af Pine;jeg havde endog SmĂŠrter i Armeneog kunde knapt holde ud at bĂŠre dempĂ„ sĂŠdvanlig MĂ„de.Af mit sidste svĂŠre MĂ„ltidfĂžlte jeg ogsĂ„ et stĂŠrkt Ubehag,jeg var overmĂŠt og ophidsetog spadsered frem og tilbage,uden at se op;de Mennesker,som kom og gik omkring mig,gled mig forbi som Skimt.Endelig blev min BĂŠnk optagenaf et Par Herrer,som tĂŠndte sine Cigarer og passiared hĂžjt;jeg blev vred og vilde tiltale dem,men vendte om og gik helt overtil den anden Kant af Parken,hvor jeg fandt mig en ny BĂŠnk.Jeg satte mig.
Tanken pĂ„ Gud begyndte atter at optage mig.Jeg syntes,det var hĂžjst uforsvarligt af hamat lĂŠgge sig imellem hver Gang,jeg sĂžgte efter en Post,og forstyrre det hele,aldenstund det blot var Mad for Dagen,jeg bad om.Jeg havde sĂ„ tydelig mĂŠrket,at nĂ„r jeg sulted lidt lĂŠnge ad Gangen,var det ligesom min HjĂŠrne randt migganske stille ud af Hovedetog gjorde mig tom.Mit Hoved blev let og fravĂŠrende,jeg fĂžlte ikke lĂŠnger dets TyngdepĂ„ mine Skuldre,og jeg havde en Fornemmelse af,at mine Ăjne glante altfor vidtĂ„bent,nĂ„r jeg sĂ„ pĂ„ nogen.
Jeg sad der pÄ BÊnkenog tÊnkte over alt detteog blev mer og mer bitter mod Gudfor hans vedholdende Plagerier.Hvis han mente at drage mig nÊrmere til sigog gÞre mig bedre ved at udpine migog lÊgge Modgang pÄ Modgang i min Vej,sÄ tog han lidt fejl,kunde jeg forsikkre ham.Og jeg sÄ op mod det hÞjenÊsten grÊdende af Trodsog sagde ham dette en Gang for allei mit stille Sind.
Stumper af min BĂžrnelĂŠrdom randt mig ihu,Bibelens Stiltone sang for mine Ăren,og jeg talte ganske sagte med mig selvog lagde Hovedet spydigt pĂ„ Siden.Hvi bekymred jeg mig for,hvad jeg skulde ĂŠde,hvad jeg skulde drikke,og hvad jeg skulde ifĂžreden usle MaddiksĂŠk kaldet mit jordiske Legem?Havde ikke min himmelske Fader sĂžrget for mig,som for Spurvene under Himlen,og vist mig den NĂ„deat pege pĂ„ sin ringe Tjener?Gud havde stukket sin Finger ned i mit Nervenetog lempeligt,ganske lĂžseligtbragt lidt Uorden i TrĂ„dene.Og Gud havde trukket sin Finger tilbage,og der var Trevler og fine RodtrĂ„depĂ„ Fingeren af mine Nervers TrĂ„de.Og der var et Ă„bent Hul efter hans Finger,som var Guds Finger,og SĂ„r i min HjĂŠrne efter hans Fingers Veje.Men der Gud havde berĂžrt mig med sin HĂ„nds Finger,lod han mig vĂŠreog berĂžrte mig ikke merog lod mig intet ondt vederfares.Men han lod mig gĂ„ med Fred,og han lod mig gĂ„ med det Ă„bne Hul.Og intet ondt vederfores mig af Gud,som er Herren i al Evighed . . . .
StÞd af Musik bares af Vinden op til migfra Studenterlunden,Klokken var altsÄ over to.Jeg tog mine Papirsager frem,forat forsÞge at skrive noget,i det samme faldt min Barberbog ud af Lommen.Jeg Äbned den og talte Bladene,der var seks Billetter tilbage.Gudskelov!sagde jeg uvilkÄrlig;jeg kunde endnu blive barberet i nogle Ugerog se lidt godt ud!Og jeg kom straks i en bedre Sindsstemningved denne lille Ejendom,som jeg endnu havde tilbage;jeg glatted Billetterne omhyggeligt udog forvared Bogen i Lommen.
Men skrive kunde jeg ikke.Efter et Par Linjervilde der ikke falde mig noget ind;mine Tanker vare andre Steder,og jeg kunde ikke stramme mig optil nogen bestemt AnstrÊngelse.Alle Ting indvirked pÄ migog distrahered mig,alt, hvad jeg sÄ,gav mig nye Indtryk.Fluer og smÄ Mygsatte sig fast pÄ Papiretog forstyrred mig;jeg pusted pÄ dem,forat fÄ dem vÊk,blÊste hÄrdere og hÄrdere,men uden Nytte.De smÄ BÊster lÊgger sig bagud,gÞr sig tunge og stritter imod,sÄ deres tynde Ben bugner.De er slet ikke til at flytte af Pletten.De finder sig noget at hage sig fast i,spÊnder HÊlene mod et Kommaeller en UjÊvnhed i Papiretog stÄr uryggelig stille sÄlÊnge,til de selv finder for godtat gÄ sin Vej.
En Tidlang vedblev disse smĂ„ Udyrat beskĂŠftige mig,og jeg lagde Benene overkorsog gav mig god Tidmed at iagttage dem.Med Ă©n Gang bĂŠved en eller to hĂžje Klarinettonerop til mig fra Lundenog gav min Tanke et nyt StĂžd.Mismodig over ikke at kunne gĂžremin Artikel istand,stak jeg igen Papirerne i Lommenog lĂŠned mig bagover pĂ„ BĂŠnken.I dette Ăjeblik er mit Hoved sĂ„ klart,at jeg kan tĂŠnke de fineste Tanker,uden at trĂŠttes.Idet jeg ligger i denne Stillingog lader Ăjnene lĂžbe nedad mit Brystog mine Ben,lĂŠgger jeg MĂŠrke til den sprĂŠttende BevĂŠgelse,min Fod gĂžr,hver Gang Pulsen slĂ„r.Jeg rejser mig halvt opog ser ned pĂ„ mine FĂždder,og jeg gennemgĂ„r i denne Stunden fantastisk og fremmed Stemning,som jeg aldrig tidligere havde fĂžlt;det gav et fint,vidunderligt SĂŠt gennem mine Nerver,som om der gik Ilinger af koldt Lysgennem dem.Ved at kaste Ăjnene pĂ„ mine Sko,var det som jeg havde truffeten god Bekendteller fĂ„et en lĂžsreven Partaf mig selv tilbage;en GenkendelsesfĂžlelse sittrer gennem mine Sandser,TĂ„rerne kommer mig i Ăjnene,og jeg fornemmer mine Skosom en sagte susende Tone imod mig.Svaghed!sagde jeg hĂ„rdt til mig selv,og jeg knytted HĂŠnderne og sagde Svaghed.Jeg gjorde Nar ad mig selvfor disse latterlige FĂžlelser,havde mig tilbedste med fuld Bevidsthed;jeg talte meget strĂŠngt og forstandigt,og jeg kneb Ăjnene heftigt sammen,forat fĂ„ TĂ„rerne bort.Som om jeg aldrig havde set mine Sko fĂžr,giver jeg mig til at studere deres Udseende,deres Mimik,nĂ„r jeg rĂžrte pĂ„ Foden,deres Form og de slidte Overdele,og jeg opdager,at deres Rynker og hvide SĂžmmegiver dem Udtryk,meddeler dem Fysiognomi.Der var noget af mit eget VĂŠsengĂ„et over i disse Sko,de virked pĂ„ mig som en Ă nde mod mit Jeg,en pustende Del af mig selv . . . .
Jeg sad og fabledmed disse Fornemmelser en lang Stund,mÄske en hel Time.En liden, gammel Mand kom og optogden anden Ende af min BÊnk;idet han satte sig,pusted han tungt ud efter Gangen og sagde:
»Ja,ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, san!«
SÄ snart jeg hÞrte hans Stemme,var det som en Vind fejed gennem mit Hoved,jeg lod Sko vÊre Sko,og det forekom mig allerede,at den forvirrede Sindsstemning,jeg just havde oplevet,skrev sig fra en lÊngst svunden Tid,kanske et à r eller to tilbage,og var sÄ smÄt i FÊrd medat udviskes af min Erindring.Jeg satte mig til at se pÄ den gamle.
Hvad angik han mig,denne lille Mand?Intet,ikke det ringeste!Kun at han holdt en Avis i HĂ„nden,et gammelt Numer,med Avertissementssiden ud,hvori der syntes at liggeen eller anden Ting indpakket.Jeg blev nysgĂŠrrigog kunde ikke fĂ„ mine Ăjne bortfra den Avis;jeg fik den vanvittige IdĂ©,at det kunde vĂŠre en ganske mĂŠrkelig Avis,enestĂ„ende i sit Slags;min NysgĂŠrrighed steg,og jeg begyndte at flytte migfrem og tilbage pĂ„ BĂŠnken.Det kunde vĂŠre Dokumenter,farlige Aktstykker,stjĂ„let fra et Arkiv.Og der foresvĂŠved mig nogetom en hemmelig Traktat,en SammensvĂŠrgelse.
Manden sad stille og tÊnkte.Hvorfor bar han ikke sin Avis,som ethvert andet Menneske bar en Avis,med Titlen ud?Hvad var det for Slags Underfundigheder?Han sÄ ikke ud til at ville slippesin Pakke af HÄnden,ikke for alt i Verden,han turde mÄske ikke engangbetro den til sin egen Lomme.Jeg kunde dÞ pÄ,at der stak noget under med Pakken.
Jeg sÄ ud i Luften.Netop det,at det var sÄ umuligt at trÊnge indi denne mystiske Sag,gjorde mig forstyrret af NysgÊrrighed.Jeg ledte i mine Lommerefter noget at give Manden,forat komme i Samtale med ham,og jeg fik fat i min Barberbog,men gÊmte den igen.Pludselig fik jeg i Sindeat vÊre yderst frÊk,jeg klapped mig pÄ min tomme Brystlommeog sagde:
»TÞr jeg byde Dem en Cigaret?«
Tak, Manden rĂžgte ikke,han havde mĂ„ttet hĂžre op,forat spare sine Ăjne,han var nĂŠsten blind.Takker forresten sĂ„ meget!
Om det var lĂŠnge siden hans Ăjne tog Skade?SĂ„ kunde han mĂ„ske ikke lĂŠse heller?Ikke engang Aviser?
Ikke engang Aviser,desvĂŠrre!
Manden sĂ„ pĂ„ mig.De syge Ăjne havde hver sin Hinde,der gav dem et glasagtigt Udseende,hans Blik blev hvidtog gjorde et modbydeligt Indtryk.
»De er fremmed her?«sagde han.
Ja. âOm han ikke engang kunde lĂŠse TitlenpĂ„ den Avis,han holdt i HĂ„nden?
NĂŠppe. âForresten havde han straks hĂžrt,at jeg var fremmed;der var noget i mit Tonefald,som sagde ham det.Der skulde sĂ„ lidet til,han hĂžrte sĂ„ godt;om Natten, nĂ„r alle sov,kunde han hĂžre Menneskene i SidevĂŠrelset puste . . . .Hvad jeg vilde sige,hvor bor De henne?
En LĂžgn stod mig med Ă©t fuldt fĂŠrdig i Hovedet.Jeg lĂžj ufrivilligt,uden ForsĂŠt og uden Bagtanke,jeg svared:
»PÄ St. Olafs Plads Numer 2.«
Virkelig?Manden kendte hver Brosten pÄ St. Olafs Plads.Der var en FontÊne,nogle Gaslygter,et Par TrÊer,han husked det hele . . . .Hvad Numer bor De i?
Jeg vilde gÞre en Ende pÄ detog rejste mig,dreven til det ydersteaf min fikse Idé med Avisen.Hemmeligheden skulde opklares,hvad det sÄ end skulde koste.
»NÄr De ikke kan lÊse den Avis,hvorfor . . . .«
»I Numer 2,syntes jeg, De sagde?«fortsatte Manden,uden at agte pÄ min Uro.»Jeg kendte i sin Tidalle Mennesker i Numer 2.Hvad hedder Deres VÊrt?«
Jeg fandt i Hast et Navn,forat blive ham kvit,laved dette Navn i Ăjeblikketog slynged det ud,forat standse min PlageĂ„nd.
»Happolati,«sagde jeg.
»Happolati, ja,«nikked Manden,og han misted ikke en Stavelsei dette vanskelige Navn.
Jeg sÄ forbauset pÄ ham;han sad meget alvorligog havde en tÊnksom Mine.Ikke fÞr havde jeg udtaltdette dumme Navn,som faldt mig ind,fÞr Manden fandt sig tilrette med detog lod til at have hÞrt det fÞr.Imidlertid lagde han sin Pakke fra sigpÄ BÊnken,og jeg fÞlte al min NysgÊrrigheddirre mig gennem Nerverne.Jeg lagde MÊrke til,at der var et Par fede Pletter pÄ Avisen.
»Er han ikke SjÞmand,Deres VÊrt?«spurgte Manden,og der var ikke Sporaf undertrykt Ironi i hans Stemme.»Jeg synes huske,at han var SjÞmand?«
»SjÞmand?Om Forladelse,det mÄ vÊre Broderen, De kender;dette her er nemlig J. A. Happolati,Agent.«
Jeg troed,at dette vilde gÞre det af med ham;men Manden gik villigt med pÄ alt;om jeg havde fundet et Navnsom Barabas Rosenknopsen,vilde det ikke have vakt hans Mistanke.
»Det skal vÊre en flink Mand,har jeg hÞrt.«sagde han,forsÞgende sig frem.
»à , en forslagen Mand,«svared jeg,»et dygtigt Forretningshoved,Agent for alt muligt,TyttebÊr pÄ Kina,FjÊr og Dun fra Rusland,Huder,TrÊmasse,SkriveblÊk . . . .«
»He-he,det var da Fan!«afbrÞd Oldingen i hÞj Grad oplivet.
Dette begyndte at blive interessant.Situationen lÞb af med mig,og den ene LÞgn efter den andenopstod i mit Hoved.Jeg satte mig igen,glemte Avisen,de mÊrkelige Dokumenter,blev ivrig og faldt den anden i Talen.Den lille DvÊrgs Godtroenhedgjorde mig dumdristig,jeg vilde lyve ham hensynslÞst fuld,slÄ ham storslagent af Markenog bringe ham til at tie af Forbauselse.
Om han havde hĂžrt om den elektriske Salmebog,som Happolati havde opfundet?
Hvad,elek . . . .
Med elektriske Bogstaver,som kunde lyse i MĂžrke!Et aldeles storartet Foretagende,Millioner Kroner i BevĂŠgelse,StĂžberier og Trykkerier i Arbejde,Skarer af fast lĂžnnede Mekanikere sysselsat,jeg havde hĂžrt sige syv hundrede Mand.
»Ja, er det ikke som jeg siger!«sagde Manden stille.Mer sagde han ikke;han troed hvert Ord,jeg fortalte,og faldt alligevel ikke i Staver.Dette skuffed mig en Smule,jeg havde ventet at se ham forvildetaf mine PÄfund.
Jeg opfandt endnu et Par desperate LÞgne,drev det til Hazard,ymted om, at Happolati havde vÊret Ministeri ni à r i Persien.De har det mÄske ikke pÄ Anelsen,hvad det vil sige at vÊre Minister i Persien?spurgte jeg.Det var mere end Konge her,eller omtrent som Sultan,om han vidste, hvad det var.Men Happolati havde klaret det heleog aldrig stÄet fast.Og jeg fortalte om Ylajali,hans Datter,en Fé, en Prinsesse,som havde tre hundrede Slavinderog lÄ pÄ et Leje af gule Roser;hun var det skÞnneste VÊsen,jeg havde set,jeg havde Gud straffe mig aldrig oplevetMagen til Syn i mit Liv!
»SÄ,hun var sÄ vakker?«yttred den gamle med en fravÊrende Mineog sÄ ned i Marken.
Vakker?Hun var dejlig,hun var syndigt sĂžd!Ăjne som RĂ„silke,Arme af Rav!Bare et enkelt Blik af hendevar forfĂžrende som et Kys,og nĂ„r hun kaldte pĂ„ mig,jog hendes Stemme migsom en StrĂ„le af Vinlige ind i min SjĂŠls Fosfor.Hvorfor skulde hun ikke vĂŠre sĂ„pas dejlig?Tog han hende for et Regningsbudeller for noget i BrandvĂŠsenet?Hun var simpelthen en Himlens Herlighed,skulde jeg sige ham,et Ăventyr.
»Ja, ja!«sagde Manden lidt betuttet.
Hans Ro keded mig;jeg var bleven ophidsetaf min egen Stemmeog talte i fuldt Alvor.De stjĂ„lne Arkivsager,Traktaten med en eller anden fremmed Magt,var ikke mere i min Tanke;den lille, flade PakkelĂ„ der pĂ„ BĂŠnken imellem os,og jeg havde ikke lĂŠngerden ringeste Lyst til at undersĂžge denog se,hvad den indeholdt.Jeg var helt optagenaf mine egne Historier,der drev underlige Syner forbi mine Ăjne,Blodet steg mig til Hovedet,og jeg lĂžj af fuld Hals.
I dette Ăjeblik syntes Manden at ville gĂ„.Han letted pĂ„ sigog spurgte,for ikke at bryde for brat af:
»Han skal have svÊre Ejendommedenne Happolati?«
Hvor turde denne blinde,modbydelige Olding tumle med det fremmede Navn,jeg havde digtet op,som om det var et almindeligt Navnog stod pÄ hvert HÞkerskildt i Byen?Han snubled aldrig pÄ et Bogstavog glemte ikke en Stavelse;dette Navn havde bidt sig fast i hans HjÊrneog slÄet RÞdder i samme Stund.Jeg blev Êrgerlig,en indre Forbittrelsebegyndte at opstÄ i migmod dette Menneske,som intet kunde bringe i Knibeog intet gÞre mistÊnksom.
»Det kender jeg ikke til,«svared jeg derfor tvÊrt;»jeg kender aldeles ikke til det.Lad mig forresten sige Dem nuen Gang for alle,at han hedder Johan Arendt Happolati,at dÞmme efter hans egne Forbogstaver.«
»Johan Arendt Happolati«,gentog Manden lidt forundretover min Heftighed.SÄ taug han.
»De skulde set hans Kone,«sagde jeg rasende;»tykkere Menneske . . . .Ja, De tror kanske ikke,at hun var videre tyk?«
Jo, det syntes han nok,han ikke kunde fragÄ;en sÄdan Mand havde mÄskeen lidt tyk Kone.
Oldingen svared sagtmodig og stillepÄ hvert af mine Udfaldog sÞgte efter Ord,som om han var bange for at forgÄ sigog gÞre mig vred.
»Helvedes Pine,Mand, tror De mÄske,at jeg sidder herog lyver Dem kapitalt fuld?«rÄbte jeg ude af mig selv.»Tror De kanske ikke engang,at der gives en Mandved Navn Happolati?Jeg har aldrig set pÄ Magen til Trodsog Ondskab hos en gammel Mand!Hvad Fan gÄr der af Dem?De har kanske ovenikÞbet tÊnkt ved Dem selv,at jeg var en yderlig fattig Mand,som sad her i min bedste Puds,uden et Etui fuldt af Cigaretter i Lommen?En sÄdan Behandling,som Deres,er jeg ikke vant til,skal jeg sige Dem,og jeg tÄler den Gud dÞde mig ikke,hverken af Dem eller nogen anden,sÄ meget De ved det!«
Manden havde rejst sig.Med gabende Mundstod han stumog hÞrte pÄ mit Udbrudindtil det var tilende,sÄ greb han hurtigt sin Pakke pÄ BÊnkenog gik,nÊsten lÞb henad Gangenmed smÄ Oldingeskridt.
Jeg sad tilbage og sÄ pÄ hans Ryg,som gled mer og mer bortog syntes at lude mer og mer sammen.Jeg ved ikke,hvor jeg fik det Indtryk fra,men det forekom mig,at jeg aldrig havde set en uÊrligere,lastefuldere Ryg end denne,og jeg angred ikke,at jeg havde skÊldt Mennesket ud,fÞr han forlod mig . . . .
Dagen begyndte at hĂŠlde.Solen sank,det tog pĂ„ at suse lidt i TrĂŠerne omkring,og Barnepigerne,som sad i Klyngerhenne ved Balancerstangen,belaved sig pĂ„ at trille sine Vogne hjem.Jeg var rolig og vel tilmode.Den Ophidselse,jeg just havde vĂŠret i,lagde sig lidt efter hvert,jeg faldt sammen,blev slap og begyndte at fĂžle mig sĂžvnig;den store MĂŠngde BrĂžd,jeg havde spist,var mig heller ikke lĂŠnger til synderlig MĂ©n.I den bedste StemninglĂŠned jeg mig bagover pĂ„ BĂŠnken,lukked Ăjneneog blev mer og mer dĂžsig,jeg blunded og var lige ved at faldei fast SĂžvn,da en Parkmand lagde sin HĂ„ndpĂ„ min Skulder og sagde:
»De mÄ ikke sidde og sove herinde.«
»Nej,«sagde jeg og rejste mig straks.Og med Ă©t Slagstod atter min sĂžrgelige Stillinglyslevende for mine Ăjne.Jeg mĂ„tte gĂžre noget,finde pĂ„ et eller andet!At sĂžge Pladse havde ikke nyttet mig;de Anbefalinger,jeg gik og viste frem,var blevet lidt gamleog skrev sig fra altfor ukendte Personertil at kunne virke kraftigt;desuden havde disse stadige Afslagudefter Sommerengjort mig noget forknyt.NĂ„ âunder alle OmstĂŠndighedervar min Husleje forfalden,og jeg mĂ„tte gĂžre en Udvej til den.SĂ„ fik det bero med det Ăžvrige sĂ„lĂŠnge.
Ganske uvilkÄrligthavde jeg igen fÄet Blyant og Papir i HÊnderne,og jeg sad og skrev mekaniskà rstallet 1848 i alle HjÞrner.Om nu blot en enkelt brusende Tankevilde betage mig vÊldigtog lÊgge mig Ordene i Munden!Det havde jo hÊndt fÞr,det havde virkelig hÊndt,at sÄdanne Stunder var kommet over mig,da jeg kunde skrive et langt Stykkeuden AnstrÊngelseog fÄ det velsignet godt til.
Jeg sidder der pÄ BÊnkenog skriver Snese Gange 1848,skriver dette Tal pÄkryds og tversi alle mulige Façoner,og venter pÄ,at en brugbar Idé skal falde mig ind.En Sverm af lÞse Tankerflagrer om i mit Hoved,Stemningen i den hÊldende DaggÞr mig mismodig og sentimental.HÞsten er kommetog har allerede begyndt at lÊgge alting i Dvale,Fluer og SmÄdyrhar fÄet det fÞrste KnÊk,oppe i TrÊerneog nede pÄ MarkenhÞres Lyden af det stridende Liv,puslende, susende uroligt,arbejdende for ikke at forgÄ.Alle Krybverdenens nedtrampede TilvÊrelserrÞrer sig endnu engang,stikker sine gule Hoveder op af Mosen,lÞfter sine Ben,fÞler sig frem med lange TrÄdeog synker sÄ pludselig sammen,vÊlter om og vender Bugen ivejret.Hver VÊkst har fÄet sit SÊrprÊg,et fint henÄndende Pustaf den fÞrste Kulde;StrÄene stritter blege op mod Solen,og det affaldne LÞv hvisler henad Jordenmed en Lyd som af vandrende Silkeorme.Det er HÞstens Tid,midt i ForgÊngelsens Karneval;Roserne har fÄet BetÊndelse i RÞdmen,et hektisk, vidunderligt SkÊrover den blodrÞde Farve.
Jeg fĂžlte mig selv som et Kryb i Undergang,greben af ĂdelĂŠggelsenmidt i denne dvalefĂŠrdige Alverden.Jeg rejste mig op,besat af sĂŠre RĂŠdsler,og tog nogle voldsomme Skridt henad Gangen.Nej! rĂ„bte jegog knytted begge mine HĂŠnder,dette mĂ„ der blive en Ende pĂ„!Og jeg satte mig igen,tog atter Blyanten i HĂ„ndenog vilde gĂžre Alvor af det med en Artikel.Det kunde aldeles ikke nytte at give sig over,nĂ„r man stod med en ubetalt Huslejelige for TĂŠnderne.
Langsomt,ganske langsomt begyndte mine Tankerat samle sig.Jeg passed pÄ og skrev sagteog vel overvejet et Par Sidersom en Indledning til noget;det kunde vÊre Begyndelsen til hvadsomhelst,en Rejseskildring,en politisk Artikel,eftersom jeg selv fandt for godt.Det var en ganske fortrÊffelig Begyndelsetil noget af hvert.
SÄ gav jeg mig til at sÞge efter et bestemt SpÞrgsmÄl,jeg kunde behandle,en Mand,en Ting at kaste mig over,og jeg kunde ikke finde noget.Under denne frugteslÞse AnstrÊngelsebegyndte der igen at komme Uordeni mine Tanker,jeg fÞlte,hvorledes min HjÊrne formelig slog Klik,mit Hoved tÞmtes, tÞmtes,og det stod tilsidst letog uden Indhold tilbagepÄ mine Skuldre.Jeg fornam denne glanende Tomhedi mit Hoved med hele Legemet,jeg syntes mig selv udhuletfra Þverst til nederst.
»Herre,min Gud og Fader!«rÄbte jeg i SmÊrte,og jeg gentog dette RÄbmange Gange i TrÊk,uden at sige mer.
Vinden rasled i LÞvet,det trak op til Uvejr.Jeg sad endnu en Stundog stirred fortabt pÄ mine Papirer,lagde dem sÄ sammenog stak dem langsomt i Lommen.Det blev kÞligt,og jeg havde ingen Vest mere;jeg knapped Frakken helt op i Halsenog stak HÊnderne i Lommen.SÄ rejste jeg mig og gik.
Om det bare havde lykkedes mig denne Gang,denne ene Gang!To Gange havde min VĂŠrtinde spurgt migmed Ăjnene efter Betalingen,og jeg havde mĂ„ttet dukke mig nedog snige mig forbi hendemed en forlegen Hilsen.Jeg kunde ikke gĂžre det igen;nĂŠste Gang jeg mĂždte disse Ăjne,vilde jeg opsige mit Rumog gĂžre ĂŠrligt Rede for mig;det kunde sĂ„ alligevel ikke vare vedi LĂŠngden pĂ„ denne MĂ„de.
Da jeg kom til Udgangen af Parken,sĂ„ jeg igen den gamle DvĂŠrg,som jeg i mit Raseri havde jaget pĂ„ Flugt.Den mystiske Avispakke lĂ„ opslagenved Siden af ham pĂ„ BĂŠnken,fuld af Mad af forskellige Sorter,som han sad og bed af.Jeg vilde lige med Ă©t gĂ„ hen til hamog undsylde mig,bede om Tilgivelse for min OpfĂžrsel,men hans Mad stĂždte mig tilbage;de gamle Fingre,der sĂ„ ud som ti rynkede KlĂžr,klemte modbydeligt om de fede SmĂžrogbrĂžd,jeg fĂžlte Kvalme og gik ham forbi,uden at tiltale ham.Han kendte mig ikke,hans Ăjne stirred pĂ„ mig tĂžrre som Horn,og hans Ansigt fortrak ikke en Mine.
Og jeg fortsatte min Vej.
Efter SĂŠdvane standsed jegved hver udhĂŠngt Avis,som jeg passered,forat studere BekendtgĂžrelserneom ledige Pladse,og jeg var sĂ„ heldig at finde Ă©n,som jeg kunde pĂ„tage mig:En KĂžbmand pĂ„ GrĂžnlandsleretsĂžgte efter en Mand til et Par Timers BogfĂžrselhver Aften;LĂžn efter Overenskomst.Jeg notered mig Mandens Adresseog bad i Taushed til Gudom denne Plads;jeg vilde forlange mindre end nogen andenfor Arbejdet,femti Ăre var rigeligt,eller kanske firti Ăre;det fik blive ganske som det vilde med det.
Da jeg kom hjem,lÄ der pÄ mit Bord en Seddelfra min VÊrtinde,hvori hun bad mig omat betale min Husleje i Forskudeller flytte ud,sÄ snart jeg kunde.Jeg mÄtte ikke optage det fortrydeligt,det var aleneste en nÞdig BegÊring.Venskabeligst Madam Gundersen.
Jeg skrev en AnsÞgningtil KÞbmand Christie GrÞnlandsleret Numer 31,lagde den i en Konvolutog bragte den ned i KassenpÄ HjÞrnet.SÄ gik jeg op pÄ mit VÊrelse igenog satte mig til at tÊnke i Gyngestolen,mens MÞrket blev tÊttere og tÊttere.Det begyndte at blive vanskeligtat holde sig oppe nu.
FIRST PART
It was during that timeI went abouthungry in Kristiania,that wondrous citywhich no one leavesuntil it has left its mark on himâŠI lie awake in my garret,hearing a clock below mestrike six;it was already quite light,and people were beginning to stir,ascending and descending the stairs.By the door,where the wall was paperedwith old issues of Morgenbladet,I could clearly seea notice from the Director of Lighthousesand, a little to its left,a fat, opulent advertisementfrom Baker Fabian Olsenfor freshly-baked bread.
The moment I opened my eyes,I began, as was my habit,to considerif I had anything to look forward to that day.Times had been lean for meof late;one by one my possessionshad been taken to âUncle,âand I had grown nervous and impatient;on a couple of occasions, I had even stayed in bedfor a day with spells of dizziness.Now and then,when fortune smiled,I could manage to earn five kronerfrom some paper or otherfor a feuilleton.
The light grew,and I began to readthe advertisements by the door;I could even make out the gaunt,grinning letters announcing âShrouds at Miss Andersenâs,to the right in the gateway.âThis occupied me for a long while;I heard the clock below strike eightbefore I rose and dressed.
I opened the window and looked out.From where I stood,I had a view of a clotheslineand an open field;far in the distance lay the ruinsof a burnt-down smithy,where a few labourers were busyclearing the debris.I leaned my elbows on the windowsilland stared into the air.It would certainly be a bright day;autumn had come,that fine, cool seasonin which all things change colour and perish.The cityâs clamour had already begun to rise from the streets,luring me out;this empty room,whose floorboards swayedwith every step I took,felt like a gaping,ghastly coffin.There was no proper lock on the doorand no stove in the room;at night, I used to lie on my stockingsto get them somewhat dry for the morning.The only thingI had to amuse myself withwas a little red rocking chair,where I would sit in the evenings,dozing and pondering all manner of things.When the wind blew hardand the doors below stood open,all sorts of strange shrieks would soundup through the floor and from within the walls,and the Morgenbladet by the doorwould develop tears as long as my hand.
I stood upand searched a bundle in the cornerby the bed for something for breakfast,but found nothingand returned to the window.
God knows, I thought,if it will ever be any use for meto look for a position again!The many rejections,the half-promises,the outright refusals;the nurtured and disappointed hopes;the fresh attempts,each one coming to nothingâthey had all undone my courage.I had finally sought a postas a debt collectorâs messengerbut had been too late;besides, I could not providethe fifty kroner security.There was always some hindrance.I also applied to the fire brigade.We stood, fifty men or so, in the entrance hall,chests puffed outto give an impression of strengthand great daring.A senior clerk walked aboutinspecting the applicants,feeling their armsand asking a question here and there;he walked right past me,merely shaking his head and sayingI was disqualified on account of my spectacles.I presented myself again,without spectacles;I stood there with knitted brow,making my eyes as sharp as knives,and the man passed me by again,and he smiledâhe had recognised me.The worst of it all wasthat my clothes had begun to grow so shabbythat I could no longer present myselffor a post as a respectable person.
How steadilyand methodically everything had gone downhill for meall this time!In the end, I stood so curiously bereftof everything;I did not even have a comb left,or a book to readwhen things became too dreary.All summer longI had sought out the cemeteriesor gone up to the Palace Park,where I sat and composed articles for the papers,column after columnon the most varied topics,strange inventions, fancies,impulses from my restless mind;in desperation, I had often chosenthe most remote subjects,which cost me long periods of exertionand were never accepted.When one piece was finished,I would start on a new one,and I was not often disheartenedby the editorsâ refusals;I kept telling myselfthat one day it would surely work out.And indeed, sometimes,when I had a stroke of luckand things looked up a little,I could get five kronerfor an afternoonâs work.
I rose again from the window,went over to the washstand,and sprinkled a little waterupon the shiny knees of my trousersto darken themand make them look a little newer.Having done this,I put paper and pencil in my pocket,as was my custom, and went out.I slipped down the stairs very quietlyso as not to draw the attention of my landlady;a couple of days had passedsince my rent was due,and I had nothing to pay with now.
It was nine oâclock.The rumble of wagons and the sound of voices filled the air,a tremendous morning chorus,mingled with the steps of pedestriansand the cracks of coachmenâs whips.This bustling traffic everywhereimmediately enlivened me,and I began to feelmore and more content.Nothing was further from my mindthan simply taking a morning stroll in the fresh air.What did the air matter to my lungs?I was strong as a giantand could stop a carriage with my shoulder.A fine, peculiar mood,a feeling of luminous indifference,had taken hold of me.I began to observe the peopleI met and passed,read the posters on the walls,received impressions from a glancethrown at me from a passing tram,letting every trifle penetrate my senses,all the small coincidencesthat crossed my path and vanished.
If only one had a little something to eaton such a bright day!The impression of the cheerful morning overwhelmed me;I became irrepressibly contentand began to hum with joyfor no particular reason.At a butcherâs shop,a woman with a basket on her armstood contemplating sausages for dinner;as I passed her,she looked over at me.She had only one tooth in the front of her mouth.Nervous and easily affectedas I had become these last few days,the womanâs face immediately madea repulsive impression on me;the long, yellow toothlooked like a little fingerrising from her jaw,and her gaze was still full of sausagewhen she turned it towards me.I lost my appetite at onceand felt a wave of nausea.When I reached the Bazaars,I went to the fountain and drank a little water;I looked upâthe clock on Our Saviourâs tower read ten.
I walked on through the streets,drifting about without a care in the world,stopping at a cornerfor no reason,turning down a side streetwith no errand there;I let things happen,was carried along by the joyous morning,swaying carefree back and forthamong other happy people.The air was clear and bright,and my mind was without a shadow.
For ten minutes,I had continually hadan old, lame man ahead of me.He carried a bundle in one handand walked with his entire body,labouring with all his mightto make headway.I could hear him panting from the effort,and it occurred to methat I could carry his bundle;yet I made no attempt to catch up with him.Up on Grensen street,I met Hans Pauli,who greeted me and hurried past.Why was he in such a rush?I had no intentionof asking him for a krone;I also meant, at the very first opportunity,to return a blanketI had borrowed from himsome weeks ago.As soon as I was back on my feet,I would owe no mana blanket;perhaps today I would beginan article on the crimes of the future,or on the freedom of the will,whatever,something worth reading,for which I would get ten kroner at leastâŠAnd at the thought of this article,I was suddenly suffused withan urge to begin at onceand pour out the contents of my full mind;I would find a suitable placein the Palace Park and not restuntil I had it finished.
But the old cripplewas still making the same spasmodic movementsahead of me on the street.It finally began to irritate me,having this frail creature before methe entire time.His journey seemed as if it would never end;perhaps he was bound for the very same spotas I,and I would have to look at himthe whole way.In my agitation, it seemed to methat at every cross street he slowed down a little,as if waiting to seewhich direction I would take,whereupon he would again swing the bundle high in the airand press on with all his mightto gain a lead.I walk and watch this toiling creatureand become more and more filled with bitterness towards him;I feltthat he was, bit by bit, destroying my bright moodand dragging the pure,beautiful morning down into uglinesswith him.He looked like a large, lurching insect,determinedto fight its way to a place in the worldand reserve the pavementfor itself alone.When we reached the top of the hill,I could bear it no longer;I turned towards a shop windowand stoppedto give him a chance to get away.When, after a few minutes,I started walking again,the man was in front of me once more;he, too, had stood stock-still.Without thinking,I tookthree or four furious strides forward,caught up with him, and tapped the man on the shoulder.
He stopped abruptly.We both began to stare at each other.
âA small coin for milk!âhe said finally,tilting his head to one side.
Well,now I was in a fine fix!I felt in my pockets and said:
âFor milk, yes.Hmm.Money is scarce these days,and I donât knowhow needy you might be.â
âI havenât eaten since yesterday in Drammen,âsaid the man.âI donât own a single Ăžre,and I havenât found work yet.â
âAre you a craftsman?â
âYes,Iâm a needle-maker.â
âA what?â
âA needle-maker.Besides, I can also make shoes.â
âThat changes things,âI said.âYou must wait here a few minutes,and I shall fetch some money for you,a few Ăžre.â
I walked with great haste down PilestrĂŠdet,where I knew of a pawnbroker on the second floor;I had, however, never been to him before.When I entered the gateway,I swiftly pulled off my waistcoat,rolled it up, and tucked it under my arm;then I went up the stairs and knocked at the pawnshop door.I bowed and threw the waistcoat on the counter.
âOne and a half kroner,âsaid the man.
âYes, yes, thank you,âI replied.âHad it not been for the factthat it was starting to get a bit too tight for me,I would not have parted with it,of course.â
I received the money and the ticketand went back on my way.It was, in fact, an excellent idea,this business with the waistcoat;I would even have money left overfor a plentiful breakfast,and by evening, my treatiseon the crimes of the future would be ready.On the spot,I began to find existence gentler,and I hurried back to the manto be rid of him.
âHere you are!âI said to him.âI am gladyou addressed yourself to me first.â
The man took the moneyand began to survey me with his eyes.What was he standing and staring at?I had the impressionthat he was particularly examining the knees of my trousers,and I grew tired of this impertinence.Did the scoundrel thinkI was really as pooras I looked?Had I not, for all intents and purposes,already begun to write on an articleworth ten kroner?In any case, I had no fear for the future;I had many irons in the fire.What business was it of a perfect stranger,if I gave away a little moneyon such a bright day?The manâs gaze irritated me,and I decided to give him a reprimandbefore I left.I shrugged my shoulders and said:
âMy good man,you have acquired the ugly habitof staring at a manâs kneeswhen he gives you a krone.â
He threw his head back against the walland his mouth fell open.Something was working behind his beggarâs brow;he surely thoughtI meant to trick him in some way,and he held the money back out to me.
I stamped my foot on the pavementand sworethat he should keep it.Did he imagineI would go to all that troublefor nothing?When all was said and done,perhaps I owed him this krone;I had a way of remembering old debts,he stood before an upright man,honest to his fingertips.In short,the money was hisâŠOh, no need to thank me,it had been a pleasure.Farewell.
I left.At last, I was rid of this aching pestand could be undisturbed.I went back down PilestrĂŠdetand stopped outside a provisions shop.The window was filled with food,and I decided to go inand get myself something for the road.
âA piece of cheese and a loaf of French bread!âI said, tossing my half-krone coin on the counter.
âCheese and bread for all of it?âasked the woman ironically,without looking at me.
âFor the whole fifty Ăžre, yes,âI answered, unperturbed.
I got my things,wished the old, fat woman a most polite good morningto the old, fat womanand set off at full tilt up the Palace Hill to the park.I found an empty benchand began to gnaw greedily at my provisions.It did me good;it had been a long timesince I had had such a hearty meal,and I gradually feltthat same sated calm inside methat one feels after a long cry.My courage rose sharply;it was no longer enough for meto write an articleon something as simple and straightforwardas the crimes of the future,which, besides, anyone could guess at,could read straight out of history;I felt myself capable of a greater effort,I was in the mood to overcome difficulties,and I decided on a treatisein three parts on philosophical cognition.Of course, I would have the opportunityto demolish pitifullysome of Kantâs sophismsâŠWhen I went to take out my writing thingsand begin my work,I discoveredthat I no longer had a pencil with me;I had left it behindin the pawnshop;my pencil was in my waistcoat pocket.
Good Lord, how everything seemed determinedto go wrong for me!I cursed a few times,rose from the bench,and paced back and forth along the paths.It was very quiet everywhere;far away,by the Queenâs summerhouse,a pair of nannies were wheelingtheir prams about;otherwise, there was not a soul to be seenanywhere.I was thoroughly embitteredand strode like a madman in front of my bench.How strangely perverse things wereon all sides!An article in three partswas to be wrecked by the simple factthat I did not have aten-Ăžre pencil in my pocket!What if I went back down to PilestrĂŠdetand got my pencil back?There would still be timeto get a good portion finished,before the strollers began to fill the park.So much also dependedon this treatiseon philosophical cognition;perhaps the happiness of several people,no one could know.I told myselfthat it might beof great help to many young people.On second thought, I would not assail Kant;I could avoid it,I needed only to make a quite imperceptible detourwhen I came to the question of time and space;but I would not answer for Renan,old Vicar RenanâŠIn any event, the point wasto produce an article of so and so many columns;the unpaid rent,the landladyâs long glances in the morningwhen I met her on the stairs,tormented me all dayand resurfaced even in my happy moments,when otherwise I had not a single dark thought.I had to put an end to this.I walked quickly out of the park,to fetch my pencil from the pawnbroker.
As I came down the Palace Hill,I overtook two ladies,whom I walked past.As I passed them,I brushed against the sleeve of one;I looked up,she had a full,slightly pale face.Suddenly she blushesand becomes wondrously beautiful,I do not know why;perhaps from a wordshe hears from a passer-by,perhaps merely from a quiet thoughtof her own.Or could it be becauseI touched her arm?Her high bosom heaves violently a few times,and she grips the handle of her parasol tightly.What had come over her?
I stopped and let her get ahead of me again;I could not, for the moment, walk on;the whole thing seemed so peculiar to me.I was in an irritable mood,annoyed with myselfover the incident with the penciland highly agitatedfrom all the foodI had consumed on an empty stomach.All at once, in a capricious whim,my thoughts take a strange turn;I feel myself seizedby a peculiar desire to frighten this lady,to follow herand vex her in some way.I catch up with her againand walk past her,then turn suddenlyand meet her face to face,to observe her.I stand and look her in the eyesand invent, on the spot, a nameI had never heard,a name with a fluid,nervous sound:Ylajali.When she was quite close to me,I draw myself upand say insistently:
âYou are losing your book,miss.â
I could hearmy own heart beating audiblyas I said it.
âMy book?âshe asks her companion.And she walks on.
My malevolence grew,and I followed the lady.I was, at that moment, fully awarethat I was committing a mad prank,without being able to do anything about it;my confused stateran away with meand gave me the most frantic impulses,which I obeyed in turn.It was no use,however much I told myselfthat I was behaving like an idiot;I made the stupidest facesbehind the ladyâs back,and I coughed furiously a few timesas I passed her.Thus, wandering very slowly forward,always a few paces ahead,I felt her eyes on my back,and I involuntarily ducked my head in shamefor having been a nuisance to her.Little by little, I had a strange sensationof being far away,in other places;I had a half-indistinct feeling thatit was not Iwho was walking there on the flagstones,ducking my head.
A few minutes later,the lady has reached Paschaâs bookshop;I have already stopped at the first window,and as she walks past me,I step forward and repeat:
âYou are losing your book, miss.â
âNo, what book?âshe says in alarm.âCan you understandwhat bookhe is talking about?â
And she stops.I revel cruellyin her confusion;this bewilderment in her eyesdelights me.Her mind cannot graspmy little, desperate address;she has no book with her at all,not a single page of a book,and yet she searches her pockets,looks repeatedly at her hands,turns her head and scans the street behind her,straining her little, delicate brain to the utmostto figure outwhat bookI am talking about.Her face changes colour,now having one expression,now another,and she is breathing quite audibly;even the buttons on her dressseem to stare at melike a row of terrified eyes.
âPay him no mind,âsays her companion,pulling her by the arm.âHe is drunk;can you not seethe man is drunk!â
As alienas I was to myself at that moment,so completely a victim of strange,invisible influences,nothing happened around methat I did not notice.A large brown dogsprang across the street,towards the grove and down to the Tivoli;it had a very narrow collar of German silver.Higher up the street,a window on the second floor opened,and a girl leaned out of itwith rolled-up sleevesand began to polish the paneson the outside.Nothing escaped my attention;I was clear and present of mind,all things flowed in upon mewith a gleaming clarity,as if a bright light had suddenly been castaround me.The ladies before me both hada blue birdâs wing in their hatsand a Scottish silk ribbon around their necks.It occurred to methat they were sisters.
They turned off and stopped at Cislerâs music shopand spoke together;I stopped also.Then they both came back,went the same waythey had come,passed me again,turned the corner at Universitetsgadenand went straight up to St. Olavs Plads.I was on their heels the whole time,as close as I dared.They turned onceand sent me a half-frightened,half-curious glance,and I saw no indignation in their facesand no furrowed brows.This patience with my pesteringmade me very ashamed,and I cast my eyes down.I would no longer be a nuisance to them;I would, out of pure gratitude,follow them with my eyes,not lose sight of them,until they went inside somewhereand disappeared.
Outside Number 2,a large four-storey house,they turned once more,whereupon they went in.I leaned against a gas lamp by the fountainand listened for their steps on the stairs;they faded away on the second floor.I step out from behind the lampand look up at the house.Then something strange happens.The curtains move high up;a moment later a window is opened,a head appears,and two strangely seeing eyesrest upon me.Ylajali!I said half aloud,and I felt myself blush.Why did she not call for help?Why did she not knock overone of the flowerpotsand hit me in the head,or send someone downto chase me away?We stand and look into each otherâs eyeswithout moving;it lasts a minute;thoughts shoot between the window and the street,and not a word is said.She turns;a jolt goes through me,a fine shock through my mind;I see a shoulder turning,a back disappearing into the room.This slow departure from the window,the emphasis in this movement of her shoulderwas like a nod to me;my blood perceived this delicate greeting,and I felt, in that same instant,wonderfully happy.Then I turnedand went down the street.
I dared not look backand did not knowif she had returned to the window;as I pondered this question,I became more and more restless and nervous.Presumably, she was standing there at this very moment,closely following all my movements,and it was by no means endurableto know I was being so scrutinised from behind.I straightened up as best I couldand walked on;my legs began to twitch,my gait became unsteadybecause I was deliberatelytrying to make it elegant.To seem calm and indifferent,I swung my arms meaninglessly,spat in the street,and turned my nose up in the air;but nothing helped.I still felt the pursuing eyeson the back of my neck,and a chill ran through my body.Finally, I saved myself by turning into a side street,from which I took the road down to PilestrĂŠdetto get my pencil.
I had no trouble getting it back.The man brought me the waistcoat himselfand asked me to check all the pockets at once;I also found a couple of pawn tickets,which I pocketed,and thanked the kind manfor his helpfulness.He appealed to me more and more;it became, in that same instant, very important to meto give this mana good impression of myself.I took a step towards the doorand then returned to the counter,as if I had forgotten something;I felt I owed him an explanation,some information,and I began to humto get his attention.Then I took the pencil in my handand held it up.
It would not occur to me,I said,to go to great lengthsfor just any such pencil;but with this one it was a different matter,a special reason.As humble as it looked,this pencil stumphad simply made me whatI was in the world,had, so to speak, put me in my place in lifeâŠ
I said no more.The man came right up to the counter.
âIs that so?âhe said, looking at me curiously.
With that pencil,I continued coolly,I had written my treatiseon philosophical cognition in three volumes.Had he not heard it mentioned?
And the man seemed to thinkhe had heard the name,the title.
Yes, I said,it was by me, that one!So he must not be surprisedthat I wanted the little stump of a pencil back;it had far too great a value for me,it was almost like a little person to me.Besides, I was sincerely gratefulfor his kindness,and I would remember him for it âyes, yes,I would indeed remember him for it;a word was a word,that was the sort of man I was,and he deserved it.Farewell.
I went to the door with an air,as if I could place a manin a high post in the fire department.The decent pawnbrokerbowed to me twiceas I departed,and I turned once moreand said farewell.
On the stairs, I met a womancarrying a mattress ticking in her hand.She pressed herself anxiously to the sideto make room for me,and I instinctively reached into my pocketfor something to give her;when I found nothing,I felt embarrassed and passed her with my head bowed.A moment later, I heardthat she, too, was knocking at the pawnshop door;there was a wire screen on the door,and I immediately recognised the clinking soundof a personâs knuckles touching it.
The sun was in the south;it was about twelve oâclock.The city was beginning to get on its feet,it was approaching the time for strolling,and people, greeting and laughing,surged up and down Karl Johan street.I pressed my elbows to my sides,made myself small,and slipped unnoticed pastsome acquaintanceswho had taken over a corner by the University,to watch the passers-by.I wandered up the Palace Hill and fell into thought.
These people I met,how lightly and cheerfully they swayedtheir bright headsand swung through lifeas if through a ballroom!There was no sorrow in a single eyeI saw,no burden on any shoulder,perhaps not a clouded thought,not a little secret painin any of these happy minds.And I walked there, right besidethese people,young and newly sprung,and I had already forgottenwhat happiness looked like!I indulged myself with this thoughtand found that I had been done a terrible injustice.Why had the last few monthstreated me so strangely harshly?I did not recognise my own bright mind anymore,and I had the oddest tormentson all sides.I could not sit on a bench by myselfor set my foot anywherewithout being assaultedby small and insignificant coincidences,wretched triflesthat forced their way into my imaginationand scattered my powers to the four winds.A dog that brushed past me,a yellow rose in a gentlemanâs buttonhole,could set my thoughts vibratingand occupy me for a long time.What was wrong with me?Had the Lordâs finger pointed at me?But why precisely me?Why not just as wella man in South America,for that matter?As I considered the matter,it became more and more incomprehensible to methat I, of all people, should be chosenas a test subject for the caprice of Godâs grace.It was a rather peculiar procedureto skip over an entire worldto reach me;there were, after all, both the antiquarian bookseller Paschaand the steamship agent Hennechen.
I walked and debated this matterand could not be rid of it;I found the weightiest objectionsto this arbitrariness of the Lordin letting me suffer for everyoneâs sake.Even after I had found a benchand sat down,this question continued to occupy meand prevent me from thinking of other things.From that day in Maywhen my adversities began,I could clearly feela gradually increasing weakness;it was as if I had become too wearyto steer and guide myselfwherever I wished;a swarm of small pestshad invaded my beingand hollowed me out.What if God simply intendedto destroy me completely?I stood upand paced back and forth in front of the bench.
My entire being was, at that moment,in the highest degree of torment;I even had pains in my armsand could barely stand to carry themin the usual way.From my last heavy meal,I also felt a strong discomfort;I was overfull and agitatedand paced back and forth,without looking up;the peoplewho came and went around meglided past me like phantoms.Finally, my bench was takenby a pair of gentlemenwho lit their cigars and conversed loudly;I grew angry and wanted to speak to thembut turned and went all the way overto the other side of the park,where I found a new bench.I sat down.
The thought of God began to occupy me again.I thoughtit highly indefensible of Himto interfere every timeI sought a postand disrupt the whole thing,seeing as it was only food for the dayI asked for.I had noticed so clearlythat when I starved for a while at a time,it was as if my brain quietly trickledout of my headand left me empty.My head became light and absent,I no longer felt its weighton my shoulders,and I had a feelingthat my eyes stared far too wide-openwhen I looked at someone.
I sat there on the benchand thought about all thisand became more and more bitter towards Godfor His persistent torments.If He meant to draw me closer to Himand make me better by exhausting meand placing adversity upon adversity in my path,then He was somewhat mistaken,I could assure Him.And I looked up to the heavensalmost weeping with defianceand told Him this once and for allin my silent mind.
Scraps of my childhood learning came to mind,the quiet tone of the Bible sang in my ears,and I spoke quite softly to myselfand tilting my head mockingly to one side.Why was I anxious aboutwhat I should eat,what I should drink,and what I should clothethis wretched maggot-sack called my earthly body?Had not my heavenly Father provided for me,as for the sparrows under heaven,and shown me the graceof pointing to His humble servant?God had stuck His finger down into my web of nervesand gently,quite loosely,brought a little disorder to the threads.And God had withdrawn His finger,and there were filaments and fine root-threadson His finger from the threads of my nerves.And there was an open hole after His finger,which was Godâs finger,and a wound in my brain from the paths of His finger.But where God had touched me with the finger of His hand,He left me beand touched me no moreand let no evil befall me.But He let me go in peace,and He let me go with the open hole.And no evil befalls me from God,who is the Lord for all eternityâŠ
Bursts of music were carried up to me on the windfrom the Studentâs Grove;it was thus past two oâclock.I took out my papersto try to write something;at the same moment, my barberâs book fell out of my pocket.I opened it and counted the tickets;there were six left.Thank God!I said involuntarily;I could still be shaved for a few weeksand look somewhat presentable!And I was immediately in a better frame of mindbecause of this small possessionI still had left;I carefully smoothed out the ticketsand stored the book in my pocket.
But I could not write.After a couple of lines,nothing would come to mind;my thoughts were elsewhere,and I could not steel myselffor any particular effort.Everything influenced meand distracted me;everything I sawgave me new impressions.Flies and small gnatssettled on the paperand disturbed me;I puffed at themto get them away,blew harder and harder,but to no avail.The little beasts lean back,make themselves heavy, and brace themselves,so that their thin legs bow.They are not to be moved from the spot.They find something to cling to,brace their heels against a commaor an unevenness in the paper,and stand immovably still untilthey themselves see fitto go on their way.
For a time, these small creaturescontinued to occupy me,and I crossed my legsand took my timeobserving them.All at once, one or two high clarinet notes quiveredup to me from the groveand gave my thoughts a new jolt.Despondent at not being able to finishmy article,I put the papers back in my pocketand leaned back on the bench.In this moment, my head is so clearthat I can think the finest thoughtswithout tiring.As I lie in this positionand let my eyes run down my chestand my legs,I notice the twitching movementmy foot makeseach time my pulse beats.I sit up halfwayand look down at my feet,and I experience, in this moment,a fantastic and strange mood,that I had never felt before;a fine,wonderful jolt went through my nerves,as if flashes of cold light were passingthrough them.Upon casting my eyes on my shoes,it was as if I had meta good acquaintanceor recovered a detached partof myself;a feeling of recognition trembles through my senses,tears come to my eyes,and I perceive my shoesas a soft, whispering tone towards me.Weakness!I said harshly to myself,and I clenched my fists and said, Weakness.I made a fool of myselffor these ridiculous feelings,mocked myself with full consciousness;I spoke very sternly and sensibly,and I squeezed my eyes shut tightlyto get rid of the tears.As if I had never seen my shoes before,I begin to study their appearance,their expressionswhen I moved my foot,their shape and their worn uppers,and I discoverthat their creases and white seamsgive them expression,lend them a physiognomy.Something of my own beinghad passed into these shoes;they affected me like a breath against my Self,a breathing part of myselfâŠ
I sat and musedon these sensations for a long time,perhaps a whole hour.A small, old man came and took upthe other end of my bench;as he sat down,he breathed out heavily after his walk and said:
âYes,yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, so it is!â
As soon as I heard his voice,it was as if a wind swept through my head;I left the shoes to be shoes,and it already seemed to methat the confused state of mindI had just experienceddated from a long-vanished time,perhaps a year or two back,and was slowly beginningto be erased from my memory.I set about watching the old man.
What was he to me,this little man?Nothing,not the slightest!Only that he held a newspaper in his hand,an old issue,with the advertisement page facing out,in which something seemedto be wrapped.I became curiousand could not take my eyes offthat newspaper;I got the mad ideathat it might be a quite remarkable newspaper,unique in its kind;my curiosity grew,and I began to shiftback and forth on the bench.It could be documents,dangerous papers,stolen from an archive.And something abouta secret treaty,a conspiracy, floated before my mind.
The man sat still and thought.Why did he not carry his newspaper,as any other person carried a newspaper,with the title out?What sort of subterfuge was this?He did not look as if he would let goof his package,not for anything in the world;perhaps he did not even dareentrust it to his own pocket.I could have swornthere was something fishy about that package.
I looked out into the air.The very impossibilityof penetratingthis mysterious affairmade me distraught with curiosity.I searched my pocketsfor something to give the manin order to start a conversation with him,and I got hold of my barberâs bookbut put it away again.Suddenly, I resolvedto be extremely bold;I patted my empty breast pocketand said:
âMay I offer you a cigarette?â
Thank you, the man did not smoke;he had had to stopto save his eyes;he was almost blind.Thank you so much, all the same!
Was it long since his eyes had been damaged?So perhaps he could not read either?Not even newspapers?
Not even newspapers,unfortunately!
The man looked at me.His sick eyes each had a film over themthat gave them a glassy appearance;his gaze was whiteand made a repulsive impression.
âYou are a stranger here?âhe said.
Yes. âCould he not even read the titleof the newspaperhe held in his hand?
Hardly. âBesides, he had heard at oncethat I was a stranger;there was something in my tone of voicethat told him so.It took so little;he heard so well;at night, when everyone was asleep,he could hear the people in the next room breathingâŠWhat were you saying,where do you live?
A lie stood fully formed in my head.I lied involuntarily,without intention and without ulterior motive;I answered:
âAt St. Olavs Plads, Number 2.â
Really?The man knew every cobblestone on St. Olavs Plads.There was a fountain,some gas lamps,a few trees,he remembered it allâŠWhat number do you live at?
I wanted to put an end to itand stood up,driven to the extremeby my fixed idea about the newspaper.The secret had to be revealed,whatever the cost.
âIf you cannot read that newspaper,whyâŠâ
âAt Number 2,I think you said?âthe man continued,unheeding of my agitation.âI once kneweveryone in Number 2.What is your landlordâs name?â
I hastily found a nameto be rid of him,made up this name in the momentand flung it outto stop my tormentor.
âHappolati,âI said.
âHappolati, yes,âthe man nodded,and he did not miss a syllableof this difficult name.
I looked at him in amazement;he sat very seriouslyand had a thoughtful expression.No sooner had I utteredthis stupid namethat had occurred to methan the man seemed at ease with itand appeared to have heard it before.Meanwhile, he set his package downon the bench,and I felt all my curiositytremble through my nerves.I noticedthat there were a couple of grease spots on the newspaper.
âIs he not a sailor,your landlord?âasked the man,and there was no traceof suppressed irony in his voice.âI seem to rememberhe was a sailor?â
âA sailor?Forgive me,it must be his brother you know;this is J. A. Happolati,the agent.â
I thoughtthis would finish him;but the man willingly went along with everything;if I had come up with a namelike Barabbas Rosenknopsen,it would not have aroused his suspicion.
âHe is said to be a fine man,I have heard.âhe said,feeling his way forward.
âOh, a cunning man,âI answered,âa shrewd man of business,agent for everything,lingonberries to China,feathers and down from Russia,hides,wood pulp,writing inkâŠâ
âHe-he,well, Iâll be damned!âinterrupted the old man, highly animated.
This was beginning to get interesting.The situation ran away with me,and one lie after anotherarose in my head.I sat down again,forgot the newspaper,the strange documents,became eager and interrupted the other man.The little dwarfâs credulitymade me reckless;I would lie to him unscrupulously,bowl him over magnificentlyand reduce him to silence out of sheer astonishment.
Had he heard of the electric hymnal,that Happolati had invented?
What,the elecâ
With electric letters,that could shine in the dark!An absolutely magnificent enterprise,millions of kroner in motion,foundries and printing presses at work,scores of salaried mechanics employed,I had heard it said seven hundred men.
âWell, isnât that just what I say!âsaid the man quietly.He said no more;he believed every wordI told him,and yet did not fall into a stupor.This disappointed me a little;I had expected to see him bewilderedby my inventions.
I invented a couple more desperate lies,pushed my luck,hinted that Happolati had been a ministerfor nine years in Persia.You have no idea, perhaps,what it means to be a minister in Persia?I asked.It was more than being a king here,or about the same as a Sultan,if he knew what that was.But Happolati had managed it alland never been at a loss.And I told him about Ylajali,his daughter,a fairy, a princess,who had three hundred slave girlsand lay on a bed of yellow roses;she was the most beautiful creatureI had ever seen;may God punish me, I had never experiencedsuch a sight in my life!
âSo,she was that beautiful?âuttered the old man with an absent expressionand looking down at the ground.
Beautiful?She was lovely,she was sinfully sweet!Eyes like raw silk,arms of amber!Just a single glance from herwas as seductive as a kiss,and when she called my name,her voice shot through melike a jet of winestraight into my soulâs phosphorus.Why should she not be that lovely?Did he take her for a messenger girlor for someone in the fire brigade?She was simply a glory of heaven,I should tell him,a fairytale.
âYes, yes!âsaid the man, a little taken aback.
His calm bored me;I had become agitatedby my own voiceand was speaking in full earnest.The stolen archive papers,the treaty with some foreign power,were no longer in my thoughts;the small, flat packagelay there on the bench between us,and I no longer hadthe slightest desire to examine itand seewhat it contained.I was completely absorbedin my own stories;strange visions drifted before my eyes,the blood rushed to my head,and I lied at the top of my voice.
At this moment, the man seemed to want to leave.He made a move to get upand asked,so as not to break off too abruptly:
âHe must have vast properties,this Happolati?â
How dared this blind,repulsive old man trifle with the foreign nameI had invented,as if it were a common namefound on every grocerâs sign in the city?He never stumbled on a letterand did not forget a syllable;this name had fixed itself in his brainand taken root in that very instant.I grew annoyed;an inner bitternessbegan to rise in meagainst this man,whom nothing could disconcertand nothing make suspicious.
âI know nothing about that,âI answered curtly;âI know absolutely nothing about that.Let me tell you, by the way,once and for all,that his name is Johan Arendt Happolati,to judge by his own initials.â
âJohan Arendt Happolati,âthe man repeated, a little surprisedat my vehemence.Then he fell silent.
âYou should have seen his wife,âI said furiously;âa fatter personâŠYes, perhaps you donât thinkshe was very fat?â
Yes, it seemed to him he could not deny it;he could not deny it;such a man might well havea rather fat wife.
The old man answered meekly and quietlyto each of my outburstsand searched for words,as if he were afraid of transgressingand making me angry.
âHell and damnation,man, do you think,that I am sitting herelying my head off to you?âI shouted, beside myself.âDo you perhaps not even believethere is a manby the name of Happolati?I have never seen such defianceand malice in an old man!What the devil is the matter with you?Have you perhaps even thought to yourselfthat I was an extremely poor man,sitting here in my best finery,without a case full of cigarettes in my pocket?Such treatmentas yoursI am not accustomed to,I can tell you,and God strike me dead if I will tolerate it,from you or anyone else,so you know!â
The man had risen to his feet.With a gaping mouth,he stood muteand listened to my outburstuntil it was over,then he quickly snatched his package from the benchand left,almost running along the pathwith little old-man steps.
I sat there and watched his back,as it receded farther and fartherand seemed to stoop more and more.I do not knowwhere I got the impression,but it seemed to methat I had never seen a more dishonest,more depraved back than this one,and I did not regrethaving scolded the man,before he left meâŠ
The day was beginning to wane.The sun was sinking,a light wind began to rustle in the trees around me,and the nannies,who sat in clustersby the balancing beam,were preparing to wheel their prams home.I was calm and at ease.The agitationI had just been insubsided little by little;I slumped,grew limp, and began to feel sleepy;the large amount of breadI had eatenwas no longer a particular nuisance to me either.In the best of moods,I leaned back on the bench,closed my eyes,and grew more and more drowsy;I dozed and was just about to fallinto a deep sleep,when a park keeper laid his handon my shoulder and said:
âYou mustnât sit here sleeping.â
âNo,âI said and rose at once.And in a flash,my sorrowful situation stood before my eyes again,as vivid as life.I had to do something,think of something!Seeking a post had been of no use to me;the referencesI carried abouthad become a little oldand were from people too unknownto have much effect;besides, the constant rejectionsover the summerhad made me somewhat disheartened.Wellâin any case,my rent was overdue,and I had to find a way to pay it.The rest would have to wait for now.
Quite involuntarily,I again had pencil and paper in my hands,and I sat and mechanically wrotethe year 1848 in all the corners.If only a single, rushing thoughtwould seize me powerfullyand put the words in my mouth!It had happened before,it really had,that such moments had come over me,when I could write a long piecewithout effortand have it turn out wonderfully well.
I sit there on the benchand write 1848 dozens of times,write this number criss-crossin all possible fashions,and wait fora usable idea to occur to me.A swarm of loose thoughtsflutters about in my head;the mood of the waning daymakes me despondent and sentimental.Autumn has comeand has already begun to lull everything to sleep;flies and small creatureshave received the first blow;up in the treesand down on the ground,the sound of striving life is heard,rustling, whispering restlessly,working not to perish.All the downtrodden existences of the crawling worldstir one last time,stick their yellow heads up from the moss,lift their legs,feel their way forward with long filaments,and then suddenly collapse,topple over, and turn their bellies to the sky.Every plant has acquired its special character,a fine, exhaled breathof the first cold;the blades of grass stand pale against the sun,and the fallen leaves rustle across the groundwith a sound like wandering silkworms.It is the time of autumn,in the midst of the carnival of decay;the roses have developed an inflammation in their blush,a hectic, wonderful glowover the blood-red colour.
I felt myself like a creature on the verge of ruin,seized by destructionin the midst of this whole world on the brink of slumber.I stood up,possessed by strange terrors,and took some violent steps along the path.No! I cried,clenching both my fists,this must come to an end!And I sat down again,took the pencil in hand once more,and resolved to get serious about an article.It was absolutely no use to give inwhen one was faced with an unpaid rent billright under oneâs nose.
Slowly,very slowly, my thoughts beganto gather.I paid attention and wrote softlyand deliberately a couple of pagesas an introduction to something;it could be the beginning of anything,a travelogue,a political article,as I myself saw fit.It was a quite excellent beginningto a variety of things.
Then I began to search for a specific questionI could address,a man,a thing to throw myself into,and I could find nothing.During this fruitless effort,disorder began to creep backinto my thoughts;I feltmy brain literally misfire,my head emptied, emptied,and finally it was left, lightand without content,upon my shoulders.I perceived this staring emptinessin my head with my entire body;I felt myself hollowed outfrom top to bottom.
âLord,my God and Father!âI cried in pain,and I repeated this crymany times in a row,without saying more.
The wind rustled in the leaves;a storm was brewing.I sat for another whileand stared, lost, at my papers,then folded themand slowly put them in my pocket.It grew cool,and I no longer had a waistcoat;I buttoned my coat all the way up to my neckand put my hands in my pockets.Then I got up and left.
If only I had succeeded this time,this one time!Twice my landlady had asked mewith her eyes for the payment,and I had had to duck my headand sneak past herwith an embarrassed greeting.I could not do it again;the next time I met those eyes,I would give noticeand explain myself honestly;it could not, after all, go on like thisin the long run.
When I reached the exit of the park,I saw again the old dwarfwhom I, in my rage, had put to flight.The mysterious newspaper package lay openbeside him on the bench,full of food of various sorts,which he sat and bit into.For a moment, I wanted to go over to himand apologise,ask forgiveness for my behaviour,but his food repelled me;the old fingers,which looked like ten wrinkled claws,clutched the greasy sandwiches repulsively.I felt nauseous and walked past himwithout speaking to him.He did not recognise me;his eyes stared at me, dry as horn,and his face did not betray a single expression.
And I continued on my way.
As was my habit, I stoppedat every displayed newspaperI passed,to study the advertisementsfor vacant positions,and I was fortunate enough to find oneI could take on:A merchant on GrĂžnlandsleretwas looking for a man for a couple of hours of bookkeepingeach evening;salary by agreement.I noted down the manâs addressand silently prayed to Godfor this post;I would ask for less than anyone elsefor the work,fifty Ăžre was plenty,or perhaps forty Ăžre;it could be whatever it would be.
When I got home,there was a note on my tablefrom my landlady,in which she asked meto pay my rent in advanceor move outas soon as I could.I should not take it amiss;it was only a necessary request.Yours friendly, Mrs Gundersen.
I wrote an applicationto Merchant Christie, GrĂžnlandsleret Number 31,put it in an envelope,and dropped it in the postboxon the corner.Then I went up to my room againand sat down to think in the rocking chair,while the darkness grew thicker and thicker.It was beginning to be difficultto keep my head up now.
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