Look Back on Happiness by Knut Hamsun

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"I don't know if he does anything special; he just studies. His father's
so rich, you know."

I recalled old Flaten's shop in Almes Street, a good, solid countryman's
shop; in the mornings the yard was always full of horses, while the owners
were busy making purchases in the shop.

"He's such a man of the world," she went on. "He simply throws money
about--banknotes. When he goes anywhere, the people all whisper, 'That's
Flaten!'"

"He dresses as though he were a baron," I said.

"Yes," she replied, rather offended. "Yes, he dresses well--always has."

"Is that the man you want?" I asked lightly.

She was silent a moment, and then said with a resolute nod:

"Yes."

"What--that dandy?"

"Why not? We're old friends, we've gone to school together, spent a lot of
time together. It's really based on a firm foundation. He's the only man
I've ever been in love with in all my life, and it's lasted many years.
Sometimes, I'll admit, I forget him, but the moment I see him again, I'm
as much in love as ever. I've told him so, and we both laugh about it, but
that doesn't change it. It's queer."

"Then I suppose he's too rich to marry her," I thought, and asked nothing
more.

When we parted, I said:

"Where does Carpenter Nikolai work?"

"I don't know," she replied. "Oh, yes, I do know. We're near there, and I
can show you if you like. What do you want to see him for?"

"Nothing. I just wondered if he's at a good place, with a competent
master."

* * * * *

Why did I, indeed, want to see Carpenter Nikolai, the artisan? Yet I have
visited him and made his acquaintance. He is a bull in stature, strong and
plain-featured, a man of few words. Last Saturday we saw the town
together; why, I don't know, but I suggested it myself.

I made friends with the carpenter for my own sake, because of my
loneliness. I no longer went to the benches by the shore, as the weather
was a little too cold, and Miss Torsen interested me very little now; she
had changed so much since returning to the town. She had become more the
ordinary type of girl, not in any one thing, but in general. She thought
of nothing but vanities and nonsense, and seemed quite to have forgotten
her last summer's wholesome, bitter view of life. Now she was back at
school again, in her leisure hours meeting the gentleman named Flaten, and
this occupied all of her time. Either she had no depths, or she had been
vitiated in the vital years of adolescence.

"What do you expect me to do?" she asked. "Of course I'm going to school
again; I've been going to school ever since I was a child. I'm no good at
anything else. I can only learn--that's what I'm used to. There isn't much
I can think or do on my own, and I don't enjoy it either. So what do you
expect?"

No, what could I expect?

Carpenter Nikolai went to the circus. He was not much surprised at
anything he saw there, or he pretended not to be. The acrobatics on
horseback--"Well, not bad, but after all--!" The tiger--"I thought tigers
were much bigger!" Besides, his big, heavy head seemed preoccupied with
other thoughts, and he paid little attention to the women riders who were
doing their tricks.

On the way home he said:

"I ought not to ask you, I expect, but would you go to the _Krone_
with me tomorrow evening?"

"The _Krone_--what's that?"

"It's a place where they dance."

"A dance hall, in other words. Where is it? Do you feel so much like
dancing?"

"No, not much."

"You want to see what goes on there?"

"Yes."

"All right, I'll go."

* * * * *

It was on a Sunday evening, the girls' and boys' own evening, that the
carpenter and I went to the dance.

He had decked himself out in a starched collar and a heavy watch chain.
But he was very young, and when you are young, you look well in anything.
He had such remarkable strength that it was never necessary for him to
give way; this had lent him assurance and authority. If you spoke to him,
he was slow to reply, and if you slapped him on the shoulder, he was slow
in turning round to see who had greeted him. He was a pleasant,
good-humored companion.

We went to the booking office; there was no one there, and the window was
closed. Moreover a notice on the wall announced that the hall was let to a
private club for the first two hours of the evening.

A few young people came along as we were standing there, read the notice,
and went away again. The carpenter was unwilling to go, looked round, and
went in through the gate as though looking for someone.

"We can't do anything about it," I called after him.

"No," he said. "But I wonder--?"

He crossed the yard and began to look up at all the windows.

A man came down the stairs.

"What is it?" he asked.

"My friend wanted to buy a ticket," I replied. The carpenter still showed
no inclination to return from the yard.

The man approached me, and proved to be the landlord. He explained, like
the notice, that a club had rented the hall for the first two hours.

"Come along, we can't get in!" I called to my companion.

But he was in no hurry, so I chatted with the landlord while waiting for
him.

"Yes, it's rather an exclusive club. Only eight couples, but just the same
they've hired a full orchestra--rich people, you see."

They had refreshments and plenty of champagne, and then they danced as
though their lives depended on it. Why they did it? Oh, well, young
people, rich and fashionable, bored by Sunday evening at home; they wanted
to work off the week's idleness in two hours, so they danced. Not unusual,
really.

"And of course," said the landlord, "I earn more in those two hours than
in the whole of the evening otherwise. Liberal people--they don't count
the pennies. And yet there's no wear and tear, because of course people
like that don't dance on their heels."

The carpenter, who had come halfway back, stood listening to us.

"What sort of people are they, generally speaking?" I inquired.
"Businessmen, officers, or what?"

"Excuse me, but I can't tell you that," replied the landlord. "It's a
private party; that's all I can say. To-night, for instance, I don't even
know who they are. The money just came by special messenger."

"It's Flaten," said the carpenter.

"Flaten--is it?" said the landlord, as though he did not know it. "Mr.
Flaten has been here before; he's a fine gentleman, always in fashionable
company. So it's Mr. Flaten, is it? Well, excuse me, I must have another
look round the hall--"

The landlord left us.

But the carpenter followed him.

"Couldn't we look on?" he asked.

"What, at the dancing? Oh, no."

"In a corner somewhere?"

"No, I couldn't allow that. I don't even let my own wife and daughter in--
nobody, not a soul. They wouldn't like it."

"Are you coming or--?" I called, as though for the last time.

"Yes, I'm coming," said the carpenter, turning back.

"So you knew about this party?" I said.

"Yes," he replied. "She talked about it last Friday."

"Who talked about it? Miss Torsen?"

"Yes. She said I might sit in the gallery."

We walked on down the street, each busy with his own thoughts--or perhaps
with the same thought. I, at least, was furious.

"Really, my good Nikolai, I have no desire to buy
tickets in order to look at Mr. Flaten and his ladies!"

"No."

Curious idea of hers, inviting this man to watch her dance. It was
preposterous, but like her. Last summer, too--did she not like a third
party within hearing whenever she sailed close to the wind? A thought
struck me, and I asked the carpenter as calmly as I could:

"Did Miss Torsen want me to sit in the gallery, too--did she say anything
about that?"

"No," he replied.

"Didn't she say anything about me?"

"No."

"You're lying," I thought, "and I daresay she's told you to lie!" I was
highly incensed, but I could not squeeze the truth out of the carpenter.

Cars rolled up behind us and stopped at the _Krone_. Nikolai turned
and wanted to go back, but when he saw that I kept straight on, he
hesitated a moment and then followed me. I heard him once sighing heavily.

We strolled the streets for an hour, while I cooled off and made myself
agreeable to my companion again. We had a glass of beer together, then
went to a cinema, and afterward to a shooting gallery. Finally we went to
a skittle ground, where we stayed for some time. Nikolai was the first to
want to leave; he looked at his watch, and was suddenly in a tearing
hurry. He was hardly even willing to finish the game.

We had to pass the _Krone_ again. The cars had gone.

"Just as I thought," said the carpenter, looking very disappointed. I
believe he would have liked to be present when the party came out to enter
their cars. He looked up and down the empty street and repeated, "Just as
I thought!" He was suddenly anxious to go home.

"No, let's go inside," I said.

* * * * *

It was a big, handsome hall with a platform for the orchestra, and a
throng of people on the great floor. We sat in the gallery looking on.

There was a very mixed crowd: seamen, artisans, hotel staff, shop
assistants, casual workers; the ladies were apparently seamstresses,
servant girls, and shopgirls, with a sprinkling of light-footed damsels
who had no daytime occupation. The floor was crowded with dancers. In
addition to a constable whose duty it was to intervene if necessity arose,
the establishment had its own commissionaire, who walked about the hall
with a stick, keeping an eye on the assembled company. As soon as a dance
was finished, the gentlemen all crowded to the platform and paid ten
_oere_. If anyone seemed to be trying to cheat, the commissionaire
would tap him politely on the arm with his stick. Gentlemen who had to be
tapped many times were regarded as suspicious characters, and might, as a
last resource, even be expelled. Order was admirably maintained.

Waltz, mazurka, schottische, square dance, waltz. I soon noticed a man who
was dancing with great assiduity, never stopping once--tall, swarthy,
lively--a heartbreaker. The ladies clustered round him.

"Can that be Solem down there dominating the crowd?" I thought.

"Wouldn't you like to dance?" I asked Carpenter Nikolai.

"Oh, no," he replied with a smile.

"Then we can leave any time you like."

"All right," he said and remained seated.

"Your thoughts seem to be far away."

A long pause.

"I was thinking that I haven't a horse on my farm. I have to carry all the
manure and the wood myself."

"So that's why you're so strong."

"I'll have to go home in a few days and chop wood for the winter."

"Yes, of course you will."

"I was going to say--," he persisted, and then fell silent.

"Yes?"

"No, it's no use suggesting it. I'd have liked you to come with me this
winter, though--I've got a small spare room."

"Why should I go there?" Still--it wasn't a bad idea.

"It would be nice if you could," said the carpenter.

Just then I heard the name of Solem mentioned in the hall. Yes, there he
was, swaggering as usual, the self-same Solem from Tore Peak. He was
standing alone, in high spirits, announcing that he was Solem--"Solem, my
lad." He appeared not to be in the company of any one lady, for I saw him
choosing partners indiscriminately. Then he chose the wrong lady, and her
partner shook his head and said no. Solem remembered that. He allowed the
couple to dance the next dance, and when it was finished, approached again
and bowed to the lady. Once more he was refused.

The lady's appearance was striking--sophisticated or innocent, who could
tell? Ash-blonde, tall, Grecian, in a black frock without trimming. How
quiet and retiring she was! Of course she was a tart, but what a gentle
one--a nun of vice, with a face as pure as that of a repentant sinner.
Peerless!

This was a woman for Solem.

It was after he had received his second "No" from the gentleman that he
began to talk, to tell everyone that he was "Solem, my lad." But his
boasts were dull: Something was going to happen; he would show them an
image of sin! There was no sting in it; just old, familiar rubbish these
people had heard before. The commissionaire crossed over to him and asked
him to be quiet, pointing at the same time to the constable by the door.
This pouring of oil on the waters was successful, for Solem himself said:
"Hush, we mustn't make trouble." But he did not lose sight of the Grecian
and her partner.

He allowed a few dances to pass again, himself engaging other partners to
dance with. There was now a huge crowd, all the late-comers having by this
time arrived. Many were crowded off the floor and had to wait, rushing to
get first place in the next dance instead.

Then something happened.

A couple slipped and fell. It was Solem and his partner. As he was getting
up again, he tripped up another couple--the Grecian and her partner, both
of whom fell down. And Solem was so strangely clumsy as he rose that his
long arms and legs brought down a third couple. In a few minutes there was
a squirming heap on the floor; screams and oaths were heard, people grew
angry and kicked one another, while Solem skillfully directed the disaster
with sincere and wholehearted malevolence. Couple after couple met their
Waterloo over those already fallen. The commissionaire poked them with his
stick, exhorting them to get up; the constable himself assisted him, and
the music stopped. In the meantime, Solem, acting with the better part of
valor, slipped out of the room and did not return.

Gradually the fallen couples got to their feet again, rubbing their shins,
dusting off their clothes, some laughing, others swearing. The Grecian
lady's partner had a bleeding wound on his temple, and put his hands to
his head in a daze. Questions were being asked about that--what was his
name?--that tall fellow who had started all the trouble. "Solem," said
some of the ladies. Threats were uttered against Solem: he was the one.
"Go and find him, somebody--we'll show him!"--"Why, he couldn't help it,"
said the ladies.

Ah, Solem, Solem--how the ladies loved him!

But the Grecian rose from the dust as from a bath. The sand from the floor
clung to her black dress, making it look as though spangled with stardust.
Submissively she accepted the lot of lying under all the others, entwined
in their legs, and smiled when someone pointed out to her that the comb in
her Grecian knot was crushed.

XXXIII

Today, the first of October forty years ago, we drove the snowplow at
home. Yes, I regret to say that I remember forty years ago.

Nothing escapes my attention yet, but everything moves past me. I sit in
the gallery looking on. If Nikolai the carpenter had been observant, he
would have seen my fingers closing and opening again, my absurdity
augmented by affectation and grimacing. Fortunately he was a child. In the
end I left it all behind me, and took my proper seat. My address is the
chimney corner.

Now it is winter again, with snow over the north, and Anglo-Saxon claptrap
in the town. This is my desolate period; my wheels stop, my hair stops
growing, my nails stop growing, everything stops growing but the days of
my life. And it is well that my days increase--from now on it is well.

Not much happens during the winter. Well, of course, Nikolai has got an
overcoat for the first time in his life. He didn't really need it, he
says, but he bought it because of the advertisement; and it was dear,
twenty _kroner_, but he got it for eighteen! I am sure Nikolai is
much happier about his overcoat than Flaten is about his.

But let me not forget Flaten, for something has happened to him. His
friends have given him a farewell party and drunk him out of bachelordom,
for he is going to marry. It is Miss Torsen who told me this; I met her by
accident again under her own lamppost, and she told me then.

"And you're not wearing mourning?" I said.

"Oh, no," she said, smiling. "No, it's something I've known a long time.
Besides, perhaps I'm not very faithful; I don't know."

"I think you've hit the truth there."

She looked startled.

"What do you mean?"

"I think you've changed very much since last summer. You were straight and
competent then, you saw clearly, you knew what you wanted. What's happened
to your tinge of bitterness? Or have you no longer reason to be bitter?"

This was all too gravely spoken, but I was like a father and meant well.

She began to walk on, her head bent in thought. Then she said something
very sensible:

"Last summer I had just lost my livelihood. I'm telling you things exactly
as they were. I lost my post, which was a very serious matter. This made
me reflect for a time; that's true. But then--I don't know--I'm quite
adult, but not adult enough. I have two sisters who are really steady;
they're married and quite settled, though they're younger than I. I don't
know what's wrong with me."

"Would you like to go to a concert with me?" I asked.

"Now? No, thank you, I'm not dressed for it."

A pause.

"But it's kind of you to ask me!" she said with sudden pleasure. "It might
have been very nice, but--well, you must let me tell you about the dinner
party, the banquet; what a lot of pranks they thought of!"

She was right about that; these jolly young people had played a great many
pranks, some of them childish and stupid, others not too bad. First they
had drunk wine of the vintage of 1812. No, first of all, Flaten was sent
an invitation, of course, and it consisted of a painting, a very
emancipated painting in a frame, the only written words being the date and
the place, and the legend: _Ballads, Bachiads, Offenbachiads,
Bacchanales_. Then there were speeches for him who was about to leave
them, and generally speaking a most deafening shouting over the
wineglasses. And there was music, with someone of the company playing all
the time.

But as the evening wore on, this sort of thing was not enough, and girls
with their faces masked were brought in to dance. As there had been a
great deal of champagne, however, this part of the program tended to
deteriorate into something different, and the girls had to be sent away.
Then the gentlemen went down to the hotel lobby and stood at the door
watching for "opportunities."

There--a young woman approached carrying a baby and a bundle of clothes.
Great, wet flakes of snow were drifting down, and she bent forward over
the child to shelter it as she walked.

"Whoa!" said the gentleman and caught hold of her. "Is that your child!"

"Yes, he's mine."

"What, a boy?"

"Yes."

They talked more with her; she was thin and young, evidently a servant
girl. They also looked at the child, and Helgesen and Lind, who were both
short-sighted, polished their glasses and inspected it carefully.

"Are you going off to drown the child?" somebody says.

"No," says the girl in confusion.

That was a nasty question, all the others agreed, and the first one
admitted it. He went off to fetch his raincoat, and hung it over the
girl's shoulders. Then he tickled the child under the chin and made it
smile--a marvel of a child, human bones and rags and dirt all in one
little bundle.

"Poor bastard," he said. "Born of a maiden!"

"That's better!" the others remarked. "Now let's do something," they said.
"Where do you live?" to the girl.

"I've lived at such and such places," she replied.
"_Have_ lived; very well, this is what we'll do," one of them said,
taking out his pocketbook. The others followed suit, and a great deal of
money was pushed into the girl's hand.

"Wait a minute--wait--I haven't given her enough; I asked her such a nasty
question," said the first of them.

"Neither have I," said another, "because we all thought the same thing,
but now we're going to settle some money on this son of a maiden!"

A collection was taken up, with Helgesen as the cashier. Then Bengt hailed
a cab, invited the girl to enter, and got in after her.

"Go ahead--I want to go to Langes Street!" he called to the driver.

Bengt was taking the child home to his mother, the others said. The group
were rather silent after this.

"Your eyes are so ridiculously wet, Bolt; are you crying about the money?"

"What about you?" Bolt replied. "You're as sentimental as an old woman!"

They grew cheerful again, and there were further "opportunities." A
peasant came down the street with a cow he was taking to the butcher's.

"What will you charge for letting our guest of honor ride your cow?" young
Rolandsen asked him. The peasant smiled and shook his head. So they bought
the cow from him, paying cash for it. "Wait a minute," they said to the
peasant. Then they put a label on the cow, addressed to a lady they knew.

"Take it to this address," they said to the peasant.

By the time they had finished with this, Bengt had returned.

"Where have _you_ been?" they asked in surprise.

"The old lady said yes," was all he replied.

"Hurrah!" they all shouted. "Let's drink to the baby! Here, let's go to
the bar. Did she really say yes? Hurrah for the old lady, too! What are we
standing here for? Let's walk into the bar!"

_"Walk!"_ someone mocks. "No, indeed, we'll drive-waiter, cars!"

The waiter rushed inside to telephone. It took some time, as it was
getting late, but the gentlemen waited. It was already closing time and
people were streaming out of the bar. At length the cars arrived, ten of
them, one for each man. The gentlemen entered them.

"Where to?" asked the drivers.

"Next door," they said.

So the cars drove up to the next door of the same house, that being the
bar, and there the gentlemen gravely got out and paid the drivers.

The bar was closed.

"Shall we break in?" they said.

"Of course," they said.

So they all ran against the door together, till it said _ump!_ and
flew open. The night watchman rushed at them, shouting, and they caught
hold of him, slapped him on the back, and embraced him. Then they went
behind the counter and got out bottles for him and for themselves,
drinking and shouting hurrah for the baby, for Bengt's mother, for the
baby's mother, for the night watchman, for love and for life. When they
had done, they put some banknotes over the night watchman's mouth and tied
a handkerchief over them. Then they went back to the dining room.

The supper was served. Flaten's plate was a red silk bedroom slipper lined
with glass. They ate and drank and rollicked as long as they had the
strength; the hours passed, and dawn approached. Then Flaten began to
distribute souvenirs among them. One got his watch, another his pocketbook
(which was empty), a third his tie pin. After this he went on to his
shoes, giving one to each of two friends, his trousers to another, and his
shirt to still another, till at length he sat there in the nude. Next they
collected quilts from the hotel bedrooms to wrap him up in--red silk
eiderdown quilts. Flaten fell asleep and the other nine watched over him.
He slept for an hour; it was morning then, and they woke him up. He
started up from the quilts, found he was naked, and sent home for some
more clothes. And then the party began all over again....

Later we were discussing Miss Torsen's story; she had forgotten one or two
details which she filled in afterwards.

"Anyhow, it was lucky for the girl with the baby," she said.

"And for the baby itself," I said.

"Yes. But what an idea! Poor old lady, to be told such a tale!"

"Some day perhaps you'll change your mind about that."

"You think so? But it would have been nicer still if I'd got the money
they settled on the child."

"You'll change your mind about that, too."

"Shall I? Why? When?"

"When you yourself have a baby that smiles at you."

"Ugh, how can you say such things!"

She must have misunderstood my meaning, for she was childishly offended.
To restore her to good humor I asked at random:

"What sort of food did you get at the party?"

"Don't know," she replied.

"Don't you know?"

"Good lord, no--I wasn't there," she returned in the greatest amazement.

"Well, no, of course not, I only thought--"

"Oh, so that's it. That's what you thought!" she said, still more
offended. And she clasped her hands as she had done in the summer, and
tore them apart again.

"Really and truly, I do assure you--look here, honestly--I only thought
you were taking a culinary interest. After all, you do learn cooking and
such in the daytime."

"Oh, so you just make conversation with me; you adapt your speech to suit
my narrow outlook!"

A pause.

"Anyhow, perhaps you're right up to a point; I might have asked about the
food, only I forgot."

She seemed very irritable that evening. Would it interest her to talk
about Flaten? A little apprehensively, I ventured:

"But you haven't told me whom Flaten is going to marry."

"She's not pretty at all," she replied suddenly. "What do you want to know
for? You don't know her."

"I suppose Flaten will be entering his father's firm now?" I persisted.

"Oh, damn Flaten! You seem to care about him a lot more than I do! Flaten,
Flaten, Flaten--how should I know if he's going to enter his father's
firm!"

"I only thought once he's married--"

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