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Hunger
It
was
during
the
time
I
wandered
about
and
starved
in
Christiania
:
Christiania
,
this
singular
city
,
from
which
no
man
departs
without
carrying
away
the
traces
of
his
sojourn
there
.
I
was
lying
awake
in
my
attic
and
I
heard
a
clock
below
strike
six
.
It
was
already
broad
daylight
,
and
people
had
begun
to
go
up
and
down
the
stairs
.
By
the
door
where
the
wall
of
the
room
was
papered
with
old
numbers
of
the
Morgenbladet
,
I
could
distinguish
clearly
a
notice
from
the
Director
of
Lighthouses
,
and
a
little
to
the
left
of
that
an
inflated
advertisement
of
Fabian
Olsens
'
new-baked
bread
.
The
instant
I
opened
my
eyes
I
began
,
from
sheer
force
of
habit
,
to
think
if
I
had
anything
to
rejoice
over
that
day
.
I
had
been
somewhat
hard-up
lately
,
and
one
after
the
other
of
my
belongings
had
been
taken
to
my
"
Uncle
.
"
I
had
grown
nervous
and
irritable
.
A
few
times
I
had
kept
my
bed
for
the
day
with
vertigo
.
Now
and
then
,
when
luck
had
favoured
me
,
I
had
managed
to
get
five
shillings
for
a
feuilleton
from
some
newspaper
or
other
.
It
grew
lighter
and
lighter
,
and
I
took
to
reading
the
advertisements
near
the
door
.
I
could
even
make
out
the
grinning
lean
letters
of
"
winding
-
sheets
to
be
had
at
Miss
Andersen
's
"
on
the
right
of
it
.
That
occupied
me
for
a
long
while
.
I
heard
the
clock
below
strike
eight
as
I
got
up
and
put
on
my
clothes
.
I
opened
the
window
and
looked
out
.
From
where
I
was
standing
I
had
a
view
of
a
clothes-line
and
an
open
field
.
Farther
away
lay
the
ruins
of
a
burnt-out
smithy
,
which
some
labourers
were
busy
clearing
away
.
I
leant
with
my
elbows
resting
on
the
window-frame
and
gazed
into
open
space
.
It
promised
to
be
a
clear
day
--
autumn
,
that
tender
,
cool
time
of
the
year
,
when
all
things
change
their
colour
,
and
die
,
had
come
to
us
.
The
ever-increasing
noise
in
the
streets
lured
me
out
.
The
bare
room
,
the
floor
of
which
rocked
up
and
down
with
every
step
I
took
across
it
,
seemed
like
a
gasping
,
sinister
coffin
.
There
was
no
proper
fastening
to
the
door
,
either
,
and
no
stove
.
I
used
to
lie
on
my
socks
at
night
to
dry
them
a
little
by
the
morning
.
The
only
thing
I
had
to
divert
myself
with
was
a
little
red
rocking-chair
,
in
which
I
used
to
sit
in
the
evenings
and
doze
and
muse
on
all
manner
of
things
.
When
it
blew
hard
,
and
the
door
below
stood
open
,
all
kinds
of
eerie
sounds
moaned
up
through
the
floor
and
from
out
the
walls
,
and
the
Morgenbladet
near
the
door
was
rent
in
strips
a
span
long
.
I
stood
up
and
searched
through
a
bundle
in
the
corner
by
the
bed
for
a
bite
for
breakfast
,
but
finding
nothing
,
went
back
to
the
window
.
God
knows
,
thought
I
,
if
looking
for
employment
will
ever
again
avail
me
aught
.
The
frequent
repulses
,
half-promises
,
and
curt
noes
,
the
cherished
,
deluded
hopes
,
and
fresh
endeavours
that
always
resulted
in
nothing
had
done
my
courage
to
death
.
As
a
last
resource
,
I
had
applied
for
a
place
as
debt
collector
,
but
I
was
too
late
,
and
,
besides
,
I
could
not
have
found
the
fifty
shillings
demanded
as
security
.
There
was
always
something
or
another
in
my
way
.
I
had
even
offered
to
enlist
in
the
Fire
Brigade
.
There
we
stood
and
waited
in
the
vestibule
,
some
half-hundred
men
,
thrusting
our
chests
out
to
give
an
idea
of
strength
and
bravery
,
whilst
an
inspector
walked
up
and
down
and
scanned
the
applicants
,
felt
their
arms
,
and
put
one
question
or
another
to
them
.
Me
,
he
passed
by
,
merely
shaking
his
head
,
saying
I
was
rejected
on
account
of
my
sight
.
I
applied
again
without
my
glasses
,
stood
there
with
knitted
brows
,
and
made
my
eyes
as
sharp
as
needles
,
but
the
man
passed
me
by
again
with
a
smile
;
he
had
recognized
me
.
And
,
worse
than
all
,
I
could
no
longer
apply
for
a
situation
in
the
garb
of
a
respectable
man
.
How
regularly
and
steadily
things
had
gone
downhill
with
me
for
a
long
time
,
till
,
in
the
end
,
I
was
so
curiously
bared
of
every
conceivable
thing
.
I
had
not
even
a
comb
left
,
not
even
a
book
to
read
,
when
things
grew
all
too
sad
with
me
.
All
through
the
summer
,
up
in
the
churchyards
or
parks
,
where
I
used
to
sit
and
write
my
articles
for
the
newspapers
,
I
had
thought
out
column
after
column
on
the
most
miscellaneous
subjects
.
Strange
ideas
,
quaint
fancies
,
conceits
of
my
restless
brain
;
in
despair
I
had
often
chosen
the
most
remote
themes
,
that
cost
me
long
hours
of
intense
effort
,
and
never
were
accepted
.
When
one
piece
was
finished
I
set
to
work
at
another
.
I
was
not
often
discouraged
by
the
editors
'
"
no
.
