ampkoekken--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. I hear some
one come up the stairs.

"It was Student Pettersen, I ... I have two letters for him."

"He has gone home," replies the woman; "but he will return after the
holidays. I could take the letters if you like!"

"Yes, thanks! that was all right," said I. "He could get them then when
he came back; they might contain matters of importance. Good-morning."

When I got outside, I came to a standstill and said loudly in the open
street, as I clenched my hands: "I will tell you one thing, my good
Lord God, you are a bungler!" and I nod furiously, with set teeth, up
to the clouds; "I will be hanged if you are not a bungler."

Then I took a few strides, and stopped again. Suddenly, changing my
attitude, I fold my hands, hold my head to one side, and ask, with an
unctuous, sanctimonious tone of voice: "Hast thou appealed also to him,
my child?" It did not sound right!

With a large H, I say, with an H as big as a cathedral! once again,
"Hast thou invoked Him, my child?" and I incline my head, and I make my
voice whine, and answer, No!

That didn't sound right either.

You can't play the hypocrite, you idiot! Yes, you should say, I have
invoked God my Father! and you must set your words to the most piteous
tune you have ever heard in your life. So--o! Once again! Come, that
was better! But yo