I began to wander about amongst the people in the market place, kept from choice near the woman who had potted plants for sale. The heavy crimson roses—the leaves of which glowed blood-like and moist in the damp morning—made me envious, and tempted me sinfully to snatch one, and I inquired the price of them merely as an excuse to approach as near to them as possible.
If I had any money over I would buy one, no matter how things went; indeed, I might well save a little now and then out of my way of living to balance things again.
It was ten o’clock, and I went up to the newspaper office. “Scissors” is running through a lot of old papers. The editor has not come yet. On being asked my business, I deliver my weighty manuscript, lead him to suppose that it is something of more than uncommon importance, and impress upon his memory gravely that he is to give it into the editor’s own hands as soon as he arrives.
I would myself call later on in the day for an answer.
“All right,” replied “Scissors,” and busied himself again with his papers.
It seemed to me that he treated the matter somewhat too coolly; but I said nothing, only nodded rather carelessly to him, and left.
I had now time on hand! If it would only clear up! It was perfectly wretched weather, without either wind or freshness. Ladies carried their umbrellas, to be on the safe side, and the woollen caps of the men looked limp and depressing.
I took another turn across the market and looked at the vegetables and roses. I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn round—“Missy” bids me good morning! “Good morning!” I say in return, a little questioningly. I never cared particularly for “Missy.”
He looks inquisitively at the large bran-new parcel under my arm, and asks:
“What have you got there?”
“Oh, I have been down to Semb and got some cloth for a suit,” I reply, in a careless tone. “I didn’t think I could rub on any longer; there’s such a thing as treating oneself too shabbily.”
He looks at me with an amazed start.
“By the way, how are you getting on?” he asks it slowly.
“Oh, beyond all expectation!”
“Then you have got something to do now?”
“Something to do?” I answer and seem surprised. “Rather! Why, I am bookkeeper at Christensen’s—a wholesale house.”
“Oh, indeed!” he remarks and draws back a little.
“Well, God knows I am the first to be pleased at your success. If only you don’t let people beg the money from you that you earn. Good day!”
A second after he wheels round and comes back and, pointing with his cane to my parcel, says:
“I would recommend my tailor to you for the suit of clothes. You won’t find a better tailor than Isaksen—just say I sent you, that’s all!”
This was really rather more than I could swallow. What did he want to poke his nose in my affairs for? Was it any concern of his which tailor I employed? The sight of this empty-headed dandified “masher” embittered me, and I reminded him rather brutally of ten shillings he had borrowed from me. But before he could reply I regretted that I had asked for it. I got ashamed and avoided meeting his eyes, and, as a lady came by just then, I stepped hastily aside to let her pass, and seized the opportunity to proceed on my way.
What should I do with myself whilst I waited? I could not visit a café with empty pockets, and I knew of no acquaintance that I could call on at this time of day. I wended my way instinctively up town, killed a good deal of time between the marketplace and Graendsen, read the Aftenpost, which was newly pasted up on the board outside the office, took a turn down Karl Johann, wheeled round and went straight on to Our Saviour’s Cemetery, where I found a quiet seat on the slope near the Mortuary Chapel.
I sat there in complete quietness, dozed in the damp air, mused, half-slept and shivered.
And time passed. Now, was it certain that the story really was a little masterpiece of inspired art? God knows if it might not have its faults here and there. All things well weighed, it was not certain that it would be accepted; no, simply not even accepted. It was perhaps mediocre enough in its way, perhaps downright worthless. What security had I that it was not already at this moment lying in the waste-paper basket? … My confidence was shaken. I sprang up and stormed out of the graveyard.
Down in Akersgaden I peeped into a shop window, and saw that it was only a little past noon. There was no use in looking up the editor before four. The fate of my story filled me with gloomy forebodings; the more I thought about it the more absurd it seemed to me that I could have written anything useable with such suddenness, half-asleep, with my brain full of fever and dreams. Of course I had deceived myself and been happy all through the long morning for nothing! … Of course! … I rushed with hurried strides up Ullavoldsveien, past St. Han’s Hill, until I came to the open fields; on through the narrow quaint lanes in Sagene, past waste plots and small tilled fields, and found myself at last on a country road, the end of which I could not see.
Here I halted and decided to turn.
I was warm from the walk, and returned slowly and very downcast. I met two hay-carts. The drivers were lying flat upon the top of their loads, and sang. Both were bareheaded, and both had round, carefree faces. I passed them and thought to myself that they were sure to accost me, sure to fling some taunt or other at me, play me some trick; and as I got near enough, one of them called
