“No disturbance in the street,” says the constable; “so, march,” and he gives me a shove on.
“Is them your papers?” he calls after me.
“Yes, by Jove! my newspaper leader; many important papers? How ever could I be so careless?” I snatch up my manuscript, convince myself that it is lying in order, and go, without stopping a second or looking about me, towards the editor’s office.
It was now four by the clock of Our Saviour’s Church. The office is shut. I steal noiselessly down the stairs, frightened as a thief, and stand irresolutely outside the door. What should I do now? I lean up against the wall, stare down at the stones, and consider. A pin is lying glistening at my feet; I stoop and pick it up. Supposing I were to cut the buttons off my coat, how much could I get for them? Perhaps it would be no use, though buttons are buttons; but yet, I look and examine them, and find them as good as new—that was a lucky idea all the same; I could cut them off with my penknife and take them to the pawn-office. The hope of being able to sell these five buttons cheered me immediately, and I cried, “See, see; it will all come right!” My delight got the upper hand of me, and I at once set to to cut off the buttons one by one. Whilst thus occupied, I held the following hushed soliloquy:—
Yes, you see one has become a little impoverished; a momentary embarrassment … worn out, do you say? You must not make slips when you speak. I would like to see the person who wears out less buttons than I do, I can tell you? I always go with my coat open; it is a habit of mine, an idiosyncrasy. … No, no; of course, if you won’t, well! But I must have a penny for them, at the least. … No indeed! who said you were obliged to do it? You can hold your tongue, and leave me in peace. … Yes, well, you can fetch a policeman, can’t you? I’ll wait here whilst you are out looking for him, and I won’t steal anything from you. Well, good day! Good day! My name, by the way, is Tangen; have been out a little late. …
Someone comes up the stairs. I am recalled at once to reality. I recognise “Scissors,” and put the buttons carefully into my pocket. He attempts to pass; doesn’t even acknowledge my nod; is suddenly intently busied with his nails. I stop him, and inquire for the editor.
“Not in, do you hear.”
“You lie,” I said, and, with a cheek that fairly amazed myself, I continued, “I must have a word with him; it is a necessary errand—communications from the Stiftsgaarden5
“Well, can’t you tell me what it is, then?”
“Tell you?” and I looked “Scissors” up and down. This had the desired effect. He accompanied me at once, and opened the door. My heart was in my mouth now; I set my teeth, to try and revive my courage, knocked, and entered the editor’s private office.
“Good day! Is it you?” he asked, kindly; “sit down.”
If he had shown me the door it would have been almost as acceptable. I felt as if I were on the point of crying, and said:
“I beg you will excuse …”
“Pray, sit down,” he repeated. And I sat down, and explained that I again had an article which I was extremely anxious to get into his paper. I had taken such pains with it; it had cost me much effort.
“I will read it,” said he, and he took it. “Everything you write is certain to cost you effort, but you are far too impetuous; if you could only be a little more sober. There’s too much fever. In the meantime, I will read it,” and he turned to the table again.
There I sat. Dared I ask for a shilling? explain to him why there was always fever? He would be sure to aid me; it was not the first time.
I stood up. Hum! But the last time I was with him he had complained about money, and had sent a messenger out to scrape some together for me. Maybe it might be the same case now. No; it should not occur! Could I not see then that he was sitting at work?
Was there otherwise anything? he inquired.
“No,” I answered, and I compelled my voice to sound steady. “About how soon shall I call in again?”
“Oh, any time you are passing—in a couple of days or so.”
I could not get my request over my lips. This man’s friendliness seemed to me beyond bounds, and I ought to know how to appreciate it. Rather die of hunger! I went. Not even when I was outside the door, and felt once more the pangs of hunger, did I repent having left the office without having asked for that shilling. I took the other shaving out of my pocket and stuck it into my mouth. It helped. Why hadn’t I done so before? “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I said aloud. “Could it really have entered your head to ask the man for a shilling and put him to inconvenience again?” and I got downright angry with myself for the effrontery of which I had almost been guilty. “That is, by God! the shabbiest thing I ever heard,” said I, “to rush at a man and nearly tear the eyes out of his head just because you happen to need a shilling, you miserable dog! So‑o, march! quicker! quicker! you big thumping lout; I’ll teach you.” I commenced to run to punish myself, left one street after the other behind me at a bound, goaded myself on with suppressed cries, and shrieked dumbly and furiously at myself whenever I was about to halt. Thus I arrived a long way up Pyle Street, when at last I stood still, almost ready to cry with vexation
