10, in the attic." Was I going out there? Well,
would I perhaps be kind enough to take out a couple of letters that had
come for him?
I trudge up town again, along the same road, pass by the joiners--who are
sitting with their cans between their knees, eating their good warm dinner
from the Dampkoekken--pass the bakers, where the loaf is still in its
place, and at length reach Bernt Akers Street, half dead with fatigue. The
door is open, and I mount all the weary stairs to the attic. I take the
letters out of my pocket in order to put Hans Pauli into a good humour on
the moment of my entrance.
He would be certain not to refuse to give me a helping hand when I
explained how things were with me; no, certainly not; Hans Pauli had such
a big heart--I had always said that of him.... I discovered his card
fastened to the door--"H. P. Pettersen, Theological Student, 'gone home.'"
I sat down without more ado--sat down on the bare floor, dulled with
fatigue, fairly beaten with exhaustion. I mechanically mutter, a couple of
times, "Gone home--gone home!" then I keep perfectly quiet. There was not
a tear in my eyes; I had not a thought, not a feeling of any kind. I sat
and stared, with wide-open eyes, at the letters, without coming to any
conclusion. Ten minutes went over--perhaps twenty or more. I sat stolidly
on the one spot, and did not move a finger. This numb feeling of
drowsiness was almost like a brief slumber.
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