Hunger by Knut Hamsun Page A

shoulder.
    â€œExcuse me, I’m a stranger here and know nothing about the sanitary conditions,” he said, giving me a frightened stare.
    Well, that altered the case, his being a stranger. . . . Could I do him some favor? Show him around? No? For it would be a pleasure to me, and it would cost him nothing. . . .
    But the man was dead set on getting rid of me and rapidly crossed the street to the other sidewalk.
    I went back to my bench again and sat down. I was very restless, and the big barrel organ that had begun to play a little further on made me even more so. A regular metallic music, a snatch of Weber to which a little girl sings a mournful ballad. The poignant flute-like sound of the organ ripples through my blood, my nerves begin to vibrate as though resonating with it, and a moment later I fall back upon the bench, murmuring and humming along with the music. What whims one’s feelings give rise to when one is starving! I feel caught up in these notes, dissolved into a tune—I float, and I perceive so clearly how I float, soaring high above the mountains, dancing through realms of light. . . .
    â€œA penny!” says the little organ-girl, holding out her tin plate, “just a penny!”
    â€œSure,” I answer automatically, jumping up and rummaging through my pockets. But the child thinks that I just want to make fun of her and goes away immediately, without a word. This mute resignation was too much for me, it would have suited me better if she had bawled me out. Overcome with pain, I called her back. “I don’t have a penny,” I said, “but I’ll remember you later, perhaps tomorrow. What’s your name?” That was a pretty name, I wouldn’t forget it. “Till tomorrow, then . . .”
    But I understood quite well that she didn’t believe me, although she never said a word, and I wept with despair that this little guttersnipe refused to believe me. I called her back once more, tore open my coat and wanted to give her my vest. “I’ll make it all up to you,” I said, “just wait a moment—”
    I didn’t have a vest.
    How could I even look for it! Weeks had gone by since it was in my possession. What was the matter with me anyhow? Flabbergasted, the girl didn’t wait any longer but beat a hasty retreat. And I had to let her go. People crowded together around me, laughing aloud. A police officer forces his way up to me and wants to know what’s up.
    â€œNothing,” I answer, “nothing at all. I just wanted to give my vest to that little girl over there . . . for her father. . . . It’s nothing to laugh at. I would simply go home and put on another one.”
    â€œNo ruckus in the street!” says the officer. “So, move along now!” And he nudges me on my way. “Are these your papers?” he shouts after me.
    â€œDammit, yes, my newspaper article, many important writings! How could I be so careless!”
    I grab my manuscript, make certain that it is in the proper order, and leave without staying another moment or taking a look around, up to the editor’s office. It was now four by the clock of Our Savior’s.
    The office is closed. I steal noiselessly down the stairs, scared as a thief, and stop in a daze outside the gate. What should I do now? I lean up against the wall, staring down at the stone pavement and pondering. A pin lies gleaming before my feet, and I bend down and pick it up. What if I removed my coat buttons, how much would I get for them? Maybe it wouldn’t do me any good, buttons were just buttons. But I went ahead and examined them from all sides and found them to be as good as new. So it was a happy thought all the same, I could cut them loose with my half-pocketknife and take them over to the Basement. The hope of being able to sell these five buttons revived me instantly, and I said, “It’s going to be all right, you’ll see!” My joy got