Голод
Part II
TothinkthatIcouldreallygoandforgetthebuttons.Itookthemoutofmypocket,andinspectedthemasIwalkedonagain.Myeyesgrewdazedwithjoy.Ididnotseethestreet;Isimplywenton.Didn’tIknowexactlythebigpawn-shop—myrefugeinthedarkevenings,withmyblood-suckingfriend?Onebyonemypossessionshadvanishedthere—mylittlethingsfromhome—mylastbook.Ilikedtogothereonauctiondays,tolookon,andrejoiceeachtimemybooksseemedlikelytofallintogoodhands.Magelsen,theactor,hadmywatch;Iwasalmostproudofthat.Adiary,inwhichIhadwrittenmyfirstsmallpoeticalattempt,hadbeenboughtbyanacquaintance,andmytopcoathadfoundahavenwithaphotographer,tobeusedinthestudio.Sotherewasnocausetogrumbleaboutanyofthem.Iheldmybuttonsreadyinmyhand;"Uncle"issittingathisdesk,writing."Iamnotinahurry,"Isay,afraidofdisturbinghim,andmakinghimimpatientatmyapplication.MyvoicesoundedsocuriouslyhollowIhardlyrecognizeditagain,andmyheartbeatlikeasledge-hammer.
Hecamesmilinglyovertome,aswashiswont,laidbothhishandsflatonthecounter,andlookedatmyfacewithoutsayinganything.Yes,IhadbroughtsomethingofwhichIwouldaskhimifhecouldmakeanyuse;somethingwhichisonlyinmywayathome,assureyouofit—arequiteanannoyance—somebuttons.Well,whatthen?whatwasthereaboutthebuttons?andhethrustshiseyesdownclosetomyhand.
