Free Hunger by Knut Hamsun

way down to the harbor and over to a bench on Jærnbane Pier, where I sat down.
    At that moment not a single sad thought entered my mind; I forgot my privation and felt soothed by the sight of the harbor, which lay there lovely and peaceful in the semi-darkness. By force of habit I wanted to give myself the treat of skimming through the piece I had just written, which seemed to my aching brain the best thing I had ever done. I pulled the manuscript out of my pocket, held it up close in order to see, and browsed through one page after another. In the end I got tired and put the papers back in my pocket. Everything was still; the sea stretched away like blue mother-of-pearl, and small birds flew silently by from one place to another. A policeman is patrolling his beat some distance off, otherwise there is not a soul to be seen and the entire harbor is quiet.
    I count my money again: a half-pocketknife, a bunch of keys, but not a penny. Suddenly I dip into my pocket and pull out my papers once more. It was a mechanical action, an unconscious twitch of the nerves. I picked a white, blank page and—God only knows where I got the idea from—made a cornet, closed it carefully to make it look full and threw it along the pavement, far out. It was carried yet a bit farther by the wind, then lay still.
    By this time hunger had begun to attack me. I sat eyeing this white cornet, which looked as though swollen with shiny silver coins, and worked myself up to believing that it really did contain something. I kept cajoling myself, aloud, into guessing the amount—if I guessed correctly it was mine! I imagined the nice little ten-øre coins at the bottom and the fat, milled krone pieces on top—a whole cornet chock-full of money! My eyes popping, I sat there staring at it, bracing myself to go and steal it.
    Then I hear the officer cough. What put it into my head to do exactly the same? I get up from the bench and cough, repeating the cough three times to catch his ear. How he would pounce on that cornet when he came! I sat there rejoicing over this trick, rubbing my hands with delight and rapping out grand curses at random. Wouldn’t he end up laughing on the wrong side of his mouth though, the dog! Wouldn’t he just sink into the bottomless pit and fry in hell for this dirty trick! I was drunk with starvation, my hunger had made me intoxicated.
    A few minutes later the policeman comes along, rapping his iron heels on the paving stones and peering on all sides. He takes his time, having the whole night before him; he doesn’t see the cornet, not until he’s quite close to it. Then he stops and gazes at it. It looks so white and precious lying there, perhaps a tidy little sum, eh? A tidy little sum of silver coins? . . . He picks it up. Hmm! It’s light, very light. Maybe an expensive plume, hat trim. . . . He opens it carefully with his big hands and peeps inside. I laughed, laughed and slapped my knees, laughed like a madman. And not a sound emerged from my throat; my laughter was feverish and silent, with the intensity of tears. . . .
    Then there is again the clitterclatter on the cobblestones, and the officer takes a turn along the pier. I sat there with tears in my eyes, gasping for breath, quite beside myself with feverish merriment. I began to talk aloud, told myself the story of the cornet, aped the poor policeman’s movements, peeped into the hollow of my hand and repeated over and over to myself: He coughed when he threw it away! He coughed when he threw it away! I added new words, with titillating supplements, changed the whole sentence and made it more pointed: He coughed once—huh-huh!
    I spent myself in variations on these words, and it got to be late evening before my merriment ceased. Then a drowsy calm came over me, a pleasant fatigue which I did nothing to resist. The darkness had become thicker now, and a light breeze ruffled the mother-of-pearl of the sea. The ships whose