Hunger by Knut Hamsun Page B

out of control and I began at once to remove the buttons, one after another. While doing so, I carried on the following silent chat with myself:
    Well, you see, one has become rather poor—a momentary difficulty. . . . Worn-out, you say? Mind your tongue, please! I would like to see the person who wears out less buttons than I do. Let me tell you, I always go with my coat open; it has come to be a habit with me, an idiosyncrasy. . . . Oh well, if you don’t want to. But I won’t take less than ten øre for them, at a minimum. . . . No, good Lord, who ever said that you have to do it? You can just shut up and let me be. . . . Okay, go right ahead and call the police then. I’ll wait here while you go get the officer. And I won’t steal anything from you. . . . Well, goodbye, goodbye! My name incidentally is Tangen, I’ve been out a bit late. . . .
    Then someone is on the stairs. I am instantly called back to reality, recognize Scissors and hastily slip the buttons into my pocket. He wants to get by, doesn’t even answer my greeting, is suddenly very busy inspecting his fingernails. I stop him and ask about the editor.
    â€œHe’s not in.”
    â€œYou’re lying!” I said. And with a nerve which made me wonder at myself, I continued, “I must talk to him, it’s urgent. I have something to report from the Prime Minister’s.”
    â€œWhy can’t you tell it to me?”
    â€œTo you?” I said, giving Scissors the once-over.
    It helped. He came straight back upstairs with me and opened the door. My heart was in my mouth. I clenched my teeth hard to bolster my courage, knocked and stepped into the editor’s private office.
    â€œOh, hello! It’s you?” he said cordially. “Sit down.”
    If he had shown me the door on the spot, it would have been more welcome. I was ready to cry and said, “I beg your pardon—”
    â€œSit down,” he repeated.
    So I sat down and explained that I had another article it was important for me to get into his paper. I had taken such pains with it, it had cost me much effort.
    â€œI’ll read it,” he said, taking it. “Everything you write probably costs you some effort; but you are much too high-strung. If you could just be a little more level-headed! There’s always too much fever. However, I’ll read it.” And he turned back to his desk again.
    There I sat. Did I dare ask him for a krone? Explain to him why there was always so much fever? Then he would be sure to help me; it wasn’t the first time.
    I got up. Hmm! But the last time I saw him he had complained about money, had even sent the bill collector out to scrape together some for me. Maybe it would be the same thing now. No, it mustn’t happen. Couldn’t I see that he was working?
    â€œIs there anything else?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I said, making my voice firm. “When may I drop in again?”
    â€œOh, any time you pass by,” he answered. “In a couple of days or so.”
    I couldn’t make my request pass my lips. This man’s friendliness seemed to be boundless, and I would know how to appreciate it. Sooner starve to death. And I left.
    Not even when I stood outside and could again feel the onslaught of hunger did I regret having left the office without asking for that krone. I took the other wood shaving out of my pocket and put it in my mouth. Again it helped. Why hadn’t I done so before? “You should be ashamed of yourself!” I said aloud. “Could you really dream of asking this man for a krone and once again cause him embarrassment?” And I gave myself a proper tongue-lashing for this piece of impudence I had dreamed up. “By God, that’s the meanest thing I’ve ever heard!” I said—“rushing at a man and nearly scratching his eyes out just because you need a krone, miserable dog that you are! So, move on! Faster! Faster,