The sun gleamed in through the window, and I could hear the horses below chewing oats. I sat and mumbled over my chip gaily, glad at heart as a child.
I kept all the time feeling for my manuscript. It wasn’t really in my thoughts, but instinct told me it was there—’twas in my blood to remember it, and I took it out.
It had got wet, and I spread it out in the sun to dry; then I took to wandering up and down the room. How depressing everything looked! Small scraps of tin shavings were trodden into the floor; there was not a chair to sit upon, not even a nail in the bare walls. Everything had been brought to my “Uncle’s,” and consumed. A few sheets of paper lying on the table, covered with thick dust, were my sole possession; the old green blanket on the bed was lent to me by Hans Pauli some months ago. … Hans Pauli! I snap my fingers. Hans Pauli Pettersen shall help me! He would certainly be very angry that I had not appealed to him at once. I put on my hat in haste, gather up the manuscript, thrust it into my pocket, and hurry downstairs.
“Listen, Jens Olaj!” I called into the stable, “I am nearly certain I can help you in the afternoon.”
Arrived at the Town Hall I saw that it was past eleven, and I determined on going to the editor at once. I stopped outside the office door to see if my sheets were paged rightly, smoothed them carefully out, put them back in my pocket, and knocked. My heart beat audibly as I entered.
“Scissors” is there as usual. I inquire timorously for the editor. No answer. The man sits and probes for minor items of news amongst the provincial papers.
I repeat my question, and advance a little farther.
“The editor has not come yet!” said “Scissors” at length, without looking up.
How soon would he come?
“Couldn’t say—couldn’t say at all!”
How long would the office be open?
To this I received no answer, so I was forced to leave. “Scissors” had not once looked up at me during all this scene; he had heard my voice, and recognised me by it. You are in such bad odour here, thought I, that he doesn’t even take the trouble to answer you. I wonder if that is an order of the editor’s. I had, ’tis true enough, right from the day my celebrated story was accepted for ten shillings, overwhelmed him with work, rushed to his door nearly every day with unsuitable things that he was obliged to peruse only to return them to me. Perhaps he wished to put an end to this—take stringent measures. … I took the road to Homandsbyen.
Hans Pauli Pettersen was a peasant-farmer’s son, a student, living in the attic of a five-storeyed house; therefore, Hans Pauli Pettersen was a poor man. But if he had a shilling he wouldn’t stint it. I would get it just as sure as if I already held it in my hand. And I rejoiced the whole time, as I went, over the shilling, and felt confident I would get it.
When I got to the street door it was closed and I had to ring.
“I want to see Student Pettersen,” I said, and was about to step inside. “I know his room.”
“Student Pettersen,” repeats the girl. “Was it he who had the attic?” He had moved.
Well, she didn’t know the address; but he had asked his letters to be sent to Hermansen in Tolbodgaden, and she mentioned the number.
I go, full of trust and hope, all the way to Tolbodgaden to ask Hans Pauli’s address; being my last chance, I must turn it to account. On the way I came to a newly-built house, where a couple of joiners stood planing outside. I picked up a few satiny shavings from the heap, stuck one in my mouth, and the other in my pocket for by-and-by, and continued my journey.
I groaned with hunger. I had seen a marvellously large penny loaf at a baker’s—the largest I could possibly get for the price.
“I come to find out Student Pettersen’s address!”
“Bernt Akers Street, No. 10, in the attic.” Was I going out there? Well, would I perhaps be kind enough to take out a couple of letters that had come for him?
I trudge up town again, along the same road, pass by the joiners—who are sitting with their cans between their knees, eating their good warm dinner from the Dampkøkken—pass the bakers, where the loaf is still in its place, and at length reach Bernt Akers Street, half dead with fatigue. The door is open, and I mount all the weary stairs to the attic. I take the letters out of my pocket in order to put Hans Pauli into a good humour on the moment of my entrance.
He would be certain not to refuse to give me a helping hand when I explained how things were with me; no, certainly not; Hans Pauli had such a big heart I had always said that of him. … I discovered his card fastened to the door—“H. P. Pettersen, Theological Student, ‘gone home.’ ”
I sat down without more ado—sat down on the bare floor, dulled with fatigue, fairly beaten with exhaustion. I mechanically mutter, a couple of times, “Gone home—gone home!” then I keep perfectly quiet. There was not a tear in my eyes; I had not a thought, not a feeling of any kind. I sat and stared, with wide-open eyes, at the letters, without coming to any conclusion. Ten minutes went over—perhaps twenty or more. I sat stolidly on the one spot, and did not move a finger. This numb feeling of drowsiness was almost like a brief slumber. I hear someone come up the stairs.
“It was Student Pettersen, I … I have two letters for him.”
“He has gone home,” replies the woman; “but he will return after the holidays.
