Голод
Part II
"WasIgoingoutthere?Well,wouldIperhapsbekindenoughtotakeoutacoupleoflettersthathadcomeforhim?
Itrudgeuptownagain,alongthesameroad,passbythejoiners—whoaresittingwiththeircansbetweentheirknees,eatingtheirgoodwarmdinnerfromtheDampkökken—passthebakers,wheretheloafisstillinitsplace,andatlengthreachBerntAkersStreet,halfdeadwithfatigue.Thedoorisopen,andImountallthewearystairstotheattic.ItakethelettersoutofmypocketinordertoputHansPauliintoagoodhumouronthemomentofmyentrance.
HewouldbecertainnottorefusetogivemeahelpinghandwhenIexplainedhowthingswerewithme;no,certainlynot;HansPaulihadsuchabigheart—Ihadalwayssaidthatofhim....Idiscoveredhiscardfastenedtothedoor—"H.P.Pettersen,TheologicalStudent,’gonehome.’"
Isatdownwithoutmoreado—satdownonthebarefloor,dulledwithfatigue,fairlybeatenwithexhaustion.Imechanicallymutter,acoupleoftimes,"Gonehome—gonehome!"thenIkeepperfectlyquiet.Therewasnotatearinmyeyes;Ihadnotathought,notafeelingofanykind.Isatandstared,withwide-openeyes,attheletters,withoutcomingtoanyconclusion.Tenminuteswentover—perhapstwentyormore.Isatstolidlyontheonespot,anddidnotmoveafinger.Thisnumbfeelingofdrowsinesswasalmostlikeabriefslumber.Ihearsomeonecomeupthestairs.
"ItwasStudentPettersen,I...
