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Shallow Soil

by Knut Hamsun · English · Gutenberg #7537 · 424,171 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Shallow Soil

Author: Knut Hamsun

Translator: Carl Christian Hyllested


        
Release date: February 1, 2005 [eBook #7537]
                Most recently updated: December 30, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHALLOW SOIL ***




Produced by Eric Eldred, Robert Connal
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.




SHALLOW SOIL

BY

KNUT HAMSUN




AUTHORISED TRANSLATION FROM THE NORWEGIAN BY

CARL CHRISTIAN HYLLESTED




TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE


In the autumn of 1888 a Danish magazine published a few chapters of an
autobiographical novel which instantly created the greatest stir in
literary circles throughout Europe. At that time Ibsen, Björnson, Brandes,
Strindberg, and other Scandinavian writers were at the height of their
cosmopolitan fame, and it was only natural that the reading world should
keep in close touch with the literary production of the North. But even
the professional star-gazers, who maintained a vigilant watch on northern
skies, had never come across the name of Knut Hamsun. He was unknown;
whatever slight attention his earlier struggles for recognition may have
attracted was long ago forgotten. And now he blazed forth overnight, with
meteoric suddenness, with a strange, fantastic, intense brilliance which
could only emanate from a star of the first magnitude.

Sudden as was Hamsun's recognition, however, it has proved lasting. The
story of his rise from obscurity to fame is one of absorbing interest.
Behind that hour of triumph lay a long and bitter struggle, weary years of
striving, of constant and courageous battle with a destiny that strewed
his path with disappointments and defeats, overwhelming him with
adversities that would have swamped a genius of less energy and real
power.

Knut Hamsun began life in one of the deep Norwegian valleys familiar to
English readers through Björnson's earlier stories. He was born in August,
1860. When he was four years old his poverty-stricken parents sent him to
an uncle, a stern, unlovely man who made his home on one of the Lofoten
Islands--that "Drama in Granite" which Norway's rugged coast-line flings
far into the Arctic night. Here he grew up, a taciturn, peculiar lad,
inured to hardship and danger, in close communion with nature; dreaming
through the endless northern twilight, revelling through the brief intense
summer, surrounded by influences and by an atmosphere which later were to
give to his production its strange, mystical colouring, its
pendulum-swings from extreme to extreme.

At seventeen he was apprenticed to a cobbler, and while working at his
trade he wrote and, at the cost of no one knows what sacrifices, saved
enough money to have his first literary efforts printed and published.
They consisted of a long, fantastic poem and a novel, "Björger"--the
latter a grotesque conglomeration of intense self-analytical studies.
These attracted far less attention than they really deserved. However, the
cobbler's bench saw no more of Knut Hamsun.

During the next twelve years he led the life of a rover, but a rover with
a fixed purpose from which he never swerved. First he turned his face
toward Christiania, the capital and the intellectual centre of the
country; and in order to get there he worked at anything that offered
itself. He was a longshoreman on Bodö's docks, a road-labourer, a
lumberjack in the mountains; a private tutor and court messenger. Finally
he reached the metropolis and enrolled as a student at the university. But
the gaunt, raw-boned youth, unpractical and improvident, overbearing of
manner, passionately independent in thought and conduct, failed utterly in
his attempts to realise whatever ambitions he had cherished. So it was
hardly strange that this the first chapter of his Odyssey should end in
the steerage of an American-bound emigrant steamer.

In America, where he landed penniless, he turned his strong and capable
hands to whatever labour he could find. He had intended to become a
Unitarian minister. Instead of doing so he had to work as a farm-hand on
the prairie, street-car conductor in Chicago, dairyman in Dakota; and he
varied these pursuits by giving a series of lectures on French literature
in Minneapolis. By that time he probably imagined that he was equipped for
a more successful attack on the literary strongholds of his own country,
and returned to Christiania. Disappointments and privations followed more
bitter than any he had ever known. He starved and studied and dreamed;
vainly he made the most desperate attempts to gain recognition. In despair
he once more abandoned the battle-field and fled to America again, with
the avowed purpose of gaining a reputation on the lecture platform.

Once more he failed; his countrymen resident in the Northwest would have
none of him. Beaten back in every attempt, discouraged, perhaps feeling
the need of solitude and the opportunities for introspective thought which
he could not find in the larger cities, he exiled himself to that most
desolate of existences, a life on a Newfoundland fishing-smack. Three long
years he spent as one of a rude crew with whom he could have nothing in
common save the daily death-struggle with the elements. But these years
finished the preparatory stage of Hamsun's education. During the solitary
watches he matured as an artist and as a man. In his very first effort
upon his return to civilisation he proved that the days of aimless
fumblings were over: in "Hunger" he stands suddenly revealed as a master
of style and description, a bold and independent thinker, a penetrating,
keen psychologist, a realist of marked virility.

Since "Hunger" was written Hamsun has published over thirty large works--
novels, dramas, travel descriptions, essays, and poems. Every one of them
is of a high order. Each is unlike the rest; but through them all flash in
vivid gleams a dazzling witchery of style, a bewildering originality, a
passionate nature-worship, and an imagination which at times takes away
the breath.

"Shallow Soil," in some respects the most contained of Hamsun's works, is
perhaps best suited as a medium for his introduction to Anglo-Saxon
readers. In a very complete analysis of Hamsun's authorship the German
literary critic, Professor Carl Morburger, thus refers to "Shallow Soil":

"Not only is this book Knut Hamsun's most significant work, but it gives
the very best description available of life in Christiania toward the
close of the century. A book of exquisite lyric beauty, of masterly
psychology, and finished artistic form, it is so rich in idea and life
that one must refrain from touching on the contents in order to keep
within the narrow limits of this essay. A most superbly delicate
delineation of the feminine soul is here given in the drawing of Hanka and
Aagot; nowhere else is woman's love in its dawn and growth described with
such mastery, with a deftness and sureness of touch which reminds one of
the very greatest passages in that Danish classic, 'Niels Lyhne.'"

Hamsun is now in his fifty-fourth year. The expectations aroused by his
first book have been more than fulfilled; the star that was born overnight
still shines with undimmed brilliance--nay, with a purer, warmer, steadier
flame. The volcanic violence of earlier days has been mellowed and
subdued; the "red eruptions of flame-tongued, primeval power" have all but
ceased. In one of his latest works Hamsun himself notes this change in
saying: "When a wanderer reaches fifty years he plays with muted strings."
But with or without the sordine Hamsun's production is equally seductive,
equally entrancing and compelling. All over the continent of Europe he is
known and his writings treasured; in Russia his popularity exceeds that of
many of its own inimitable writers. It is to be expected that the
English-speaking world will accord him that appreciation which is the
natural tribute to genius, irrespective of language or clime.

CARL CHR. HYLLESTED.

NEW YORK, December, 1913.




CONTENTS


  PROLOGUE

  GERMINATION

  RIPENING

  SIXTYFOLD

  FINALE




PROLOGUE




I


A faint, golden, metallic rim appears in the east where the sun is rising.
The city is beginning to stir; already can be heard an occasional distant
rumble of trucks rolling into the streets from the country, large
farm-wagons heavily loaded with supplies for the markets--with hay and
meat and cordwood. And these wagons make more noise than usual because the
pavements are still brittle from nightly frosts. It is the latter part of
March.

Everything is quiet around the harbour. Here and there a sleepy sailor
tumbles out of a forecastle; smoke is curling from the galleys. A skipper
puts his head out of a companionway and sniffs toward the weather; the sea
stretches in undisturbed calm; all the winches are at rest.

The first wharf gate is thrown open. Through it one catches a glimpse of
sacks and cases piled high, of cans and barrels; men with ropes and
wheelbarrows are moving around, still half asleep, yawning openly with
angular, bearded jaws. And barges are warped in alongside the docks;
another army begins the hoisting and stowing of goods, the loading of
wagons, and the moving of freight.

In the streets one door after another is opened; blinds are raised,
office-boys are sweeping floors and dusting counters. In the H. Henriksen
office the son is sitting at a desk, all alone; he is sorting mail. A
young gentleman is strolling, tired and sleepy, toward the railway square;
he comes from a late party given in some comrade's den and is taking the
morning air. At Fire Headquarters he runs across an acquaintance who has
also been celebrating.

"Abroad so early, Ojen?" asks the first stroller.

"Yes--that is to say, I haven't been in bed yet!"

"Neither have I," laughs the first. "Good night!"

And he wanders on, smiling in amusement over that good night on a bright
and sunny morning. He is a young and promising man; his name had suddenly
become famous two years ago when he published a lyric drama. His name is
Irgens; everybody knows him. He wears patent-leather shoes and is
good-looking, with his curled moustache and his sleek, dark hair.

He drifts from one market square to another; it amuses him, sleepy as he
is, to watch the farmers who are invading the public squares with their
trucks. The spring sun has browned their faces; they wear heavy mufflers
around their necks, and their hands are sinewy and dirty. They are in such
a hurry to sell their wares that they even hail him, a youth of
twenty-four without a family, a lyric writer who is simply loitering at
random in order to divert himself.

The sun climbs higher. Now people begin to swarm in all directions; shrill
whistles are heard, now from the factories in the city suburbs, now from
the railway stations and docks; the traffic increases. Busy workers dart
hither and thither--some munching their breakfast from newspaper parcels.
A man pushes an enormous load of bundles on a push-cart, he is delivering
groceries; he strains like a horse and reads addresses from a note-book as
he hurries along. A child is distributing morning papers; she is a little
girl who has Saint Vitus's dance; she jerks her angular body in all
directions, twitches her shoulders, blinks, hustles from door to door,
climbs the stairs in the high-storied houses, presses bells, and hurries
on, leaving papers on every doorstep. A dog follows her and makes every
trip with her.

Traffic and noise increase and spread; beginning at the factories, the
wharves, the shipyards, and the sawmills, they mingle with wagon rumblings
and human voices; the air is rent by steam-whistles whose agonising wails
rise skyward, meeting and blending above the large squares in a booming
diapason, a deep-throated, throbbing roar that enwraps the entire city.
Telegraph messengers dart hither and yon, scattering orders and quotations
from distant markets. The powerful, vitalising chant of commerce booms
through the air; the wheat in India, the coffee in Java promise well; the
Spanish markets are crying for fish--enormous quantities of fish during
Lent.

It is eight o'clock; Irgens starts for home. He passes H. Henriksen's
establishment and decides to drop in a moment. The son of the house, a
young man in a business suit of cheviot, is still busy at his desk. His
eyes are large and blue, although his complexion is rather dark otherwise;
a stray wisp of hair sags untidily over his forehead. The tall, somewhat
gaunt and taciturn fellow looks about thirty years old. His comrades value
him highly because he helps them a good deal with money and articles of
commerce from the firm's cellars.

"Good morning!" calls Irgens.

The other looks up in surprise.

"What--you? Are you abroad so early?"

"Yes. That is to say, I haven't been to bed yet."

"Oh--that's different. I have been at my desk since five; I have cabled to
three countries already."

"Good Lord--you know I am not the least interested in your trading! There
is only one thing I want to discuss with you, Ole Henriksen; have you got
a drink of brandy?"

The two men leave the office and pass through the store down into the
cellar. Ole Henriksen pulls a cork hurriedly; his father is expected any
moment, and for this reason he is in haste. The father is old, but that is
no reason why he should be ignored.

Irgens drinks and says: "Can I take the bottle along?" And Ole Henriksen
nods.

On their way back through the store he pulls out a drawer from the
counter, and Irgens, who understands the hint, takes something from the
drawer which he puts in his mouth. It is coffee, roasted coffee; good for
the breath.




II


At two o'clock people swarm up and down the promenade. They chat and laugh
in all manner of voices, greet each other, smile, nod, turn around, shout.
Cigar smoke and ladies' veils flutter in the air; a kaleidoscopic
confusion of light gloves and handkerchiefs, of bobbing hats and swinging
canes, glides down the street along which carriages drive with ladies and
gentlemen in stylish attire.

Several young gentlemen have taken their accustomed stand at "The Corner."
They form a circle of acquaintances--a couple of artists, a couple of
authors, a business man, an undefinable--comrades all. They are dressed
variously: some have already dispensed with their overcoats, others wear
long ulsters with turned-up collars as in midwinter. Everybody knows "the
clique."

Some join it while others depart; there remain a young, corpulent artist
by the name of Milde, and an actor with a snub nose and a creamy voice;
also Irgens, and Attorney Grande of the prominent Grande family. The most
important, however, is Paulsberg, Lars Paulsberg, the author of half a
dozen novels and a scientific work on the Atonement. He is loudly referred
to as the Poet, even though both Irgens and Ojen are present.

The Actor buttons his ulster tightly and shivers.

"No--spring-time is a little too chilly to suit me," he says.

"The contrary here!" exclaims the Attorney. "I could shout all the time; I
am neighing inwardly; my blood sings a hunting chorus!" And the little
stooping youth straightens his shoulders and glances secretly at
Paulsberg.


"Listen to that!" says the Actor sarcastically. "A man is a man, as the
eunuch said."

"What does that remark signify?"

"Nothing, God bless you! But you in your patent leathers and your silk hat
hunting wolves--the idea appealed to my sense of humour."

"Ha, ha! I note the fact that Norem has a sense of humour! Let us duly
appreciate it."

They spoke with practised ease about everything, had perfect control over
their words, made quick sallies, and were skilled in repartee.

A number of cadets were passing.

"Did you ever see anything as flabby as these military youths!" said
Irgens. "Look at them; they do not walk past like other mortals, they
_stalk_ past!"

Both Irgens and the Artist laughed at this, but the Attorney glanced
quickly at Paulsberg, whose face remained immovable. Paulsberg made a few
remarks about the Art Exhibition and was silent.

The conversation drifted to yesterday's performance in Tivoli, and from
there to political subjects. Of course, they could refuse to pass all
financial bills, but--And perhaps there was not even a sufficient
majority to defeat the government budget. It certainly looked dubious--
rotten--They cited quotations from leading parliamentarians, they proposed
to put the torch to the Castle and proclaim the republic without delay.
The Artist threatened a general revolt of the labouring classes. "Do you
know what the Speaker told me in confidence? That he never, _never_
would agree to a compromise--rather let the Union sink or swim! 'Sink or
swim,' these were his very words. And when one knows the Speaker--"

Still Paulsberg did not say anything, and as the comrades were eager to
hear his opinion, the Attorney finally ventured to address him:

"And you, Paulsberg, you don't say a word?"

Paulsberg very seldom spoke; he had kept to himself and to his studies and
his literary tasks, and lacked the verbal facility of his comrades. He
smiled good-naturedly and answered:

"'Let your communication be Yea, yea, and Nay, nay,' you know!" At this
they all laughed loudly. "But otherwise," he added, "apart from that I am
seriously considering going home to my wife."

And Paulsberg went. It was his wont to go when he said he would.

But after Paulsberg's departure it seemed as if they might as well all go;
there was no reason to remain now. The Actor saluted and disappeared; he
hurried off in order to catch up with Paulsberg. The Painter threw his
ulster around himself without buttoning it, drew up his shoulders, and
said:

"I feel rotten! If a fellow could only afford a little dinner!"

"You must try and strike a huckster," said Irgens. "I struck one for a
brandy this morning."

"I am wondering what Paulsberg really meant by that remark," said the
Attorney. "'Your communication shall be Yea, yea, and Nay, nay'; it is
evident it had a deeper meaning."

"Yes, very evident," said Milde. "Did you notice, he laughed when he said
it; something must have amused him."

Pause.

A crowd of promenaders were sauntering continually up and down the street,
back and forth, laughing and talking.

Milde continued:

"I have often wished that we had just one more head like Paulsberg's here
in Norway."

"And why, pray?" asked Irgens stiffly.

Milde stared at him, stared at the Attorney, and burst into a surprised
laugh.

"Listen to that, Grande! He asks why we need another head like Paulsberg's
in this country!"

"I do," said Irgens.

But Grande did not laugh either, and Milde was unable to understand why
his words failed to provoke mirth. He decided to pass it off; he began to
speak about other things.

"You said you struck a huckster for brandy; you have got brandy, then?"

"As for me, I place Paulsberg so high that I consider him _alone_
able to do what is needed," said Irgens with thinly veiled sarcasm.

This took Milde by surprise; he was not prepared to contradict Irgens; he
nodded and said:

"Certainly--exactly. I only thought it might accelerate matters to have a
little assistance, so to speak--a brother in arms. But of course I agree
with you."

Outside the Grand Hotel they were fortunate enough to run across Tidemand,
a huckster also, a wholesaler, a big business man, head of a large and
well-known business house.

"Have you dined?" called the Artist to him.

"Lots of times!" countered Tidemand.

"Now, no nonsense! Are you going to take me to dinner?"

"May I be permitted to shake hands first?"

It was finally arranged that they should take a run up to Irgens's rooms
to sample the brandy, after which they were to return to the Grand for
dinner. Tidemand and the Attorney walked ahead.

"It is a good thing that we have these peddlers to fall back on," said
Milde to Irgens. "They are useful after all."

Irgens replied with a shrug of the shoulders which might mean anything.

"And they never consider that they are being imposed upon," continued
Milde. "On the contrary, they think they are highly favoured; it flatters
them. Treat them familiarly, drink their health, that is sufficient. Ha,
ha, ha! Isn't it true?"

The Attorney had stopped; he was waiting.

"While we remember it, we have got to make definite arrangements about
that farewell celebration for Ojen," he said.

Of course, they had almost forgotten about that. Certainly, Ojen was going
away; something had to be done.

The situation was this: Ojen had written two novels which had been
translated into German; now his nerves were bothering him; he could not be
allowed to kill himself with work--something had to be done to procure him
a highly needed rest. He had applied for a government subsidy and had
every expectation of receiving it; Paulsberg himself had recommended him,
even if a little tepidly. The comrades had therefore united in an effort
to get him to Torahus, to a little mountain resort where the air was
splendid for neurasthenics. Ojen was to go in about a week; the money had
been raised; both Ole Henriksen and Tidemand had been exceedingly
generous. It now only remained to arrange a little celebration to speed
the parting comrade.

"But where shall we find a battle-ground?" asked Milde. "At your house,
Grande? You have plenty of room?"

Grande was not unwilling; it might be arranged; he would speak to his wife
about it. For Grande was married to Mrs. Liberia, and Mrs. Liberia simply
had to be consulted. It was agreed to invite Paulsberg and his wife; as
contributors Mr. and Mrs. Tidemand and Ole Henriksen were coming as a
matter of course. That was settled.

"Ask whom you like, but I refuse to open my doors to that fellow Norem,"
said the Attorney. "He always gets drunk and sentimental; he is an awful
bore. My wife wouldn't stand for him."

Then the affair could not be held at Grande's house. It would never do to
slight Norem. In the perplexity Milde offered his studio.

The friends considered. It was not a bad idea; a better place would be
hard to find. The studio was big and roomy as a barn, with two cosy
adjoining rooms. Milde's studio, then--settled.

The affair was coming off in a few days.

The four gentlemen stopped at Irgens's place, drank his brandy, and went
out again. The Attorney was going home; this decision about the studio did
not suit him; he felt slighted. He might decide to stay away altogether.
At any rate, he said good-bye now and went his own way.

"What about you, Irgens--I hope you will join us?"

Irgens did not say no; he did not at all refuse this invitation. To tell
the truth, he was not unduly eager to return to the Grand; this fat artist
vexed him considerably with his familiar manners. However, he might be
able to get away immediately after the dinner was over.

In this desire Tidemand himself unconsciously assisted him; he left as
soon as he had paid the check. He was going somewhere.




III


Tidemand made his way to H. Henriksen's large warehouse on the wharf where
he knew that Ole could be found at this time.

Tidemand had passed thirty and was already getting a little grey around
the temples. He, too, was dark of hair and beard, but his eyes were brown
and had a listless expression. When he was sitting still and silent,
blinking slowly, these heavy lids of his would rise and sink almost as if
they were exhausted by much watching. He was beginning to get a little bit
stout. He was considered an exceedingly able business man.

He was married and had two children; he had been married four years. His
marriage had begun auspiciously and was still in force, although people
were at a loss to understand how it could possibly last. Tidemand himself
did not conceal his astonishment over the fact that his wife had managed
to tolerate him so long. He had been a bachelor too long, had travelled
too much, lived too much in hotels; he admitted it himself. He liked to
ring whenever he wanted anything; he preferred his meals served at all
hours, whenever he took a notion, no matter if it happened to be meal-time
or not. And Tidemand went into details: he could not bear to have his wife
serve him his soup, for instance--was it possible for a woman, even with
the best intention in the world, to divine how much soup he might want?

And, on the other side, there was Mrs. Hanka, an artistic nature, two and
twenty, fond of life and audacious as a boy. Mrs. Hanka was greatly gifted
and warmly interested in many things; she was a welcome guest wherever the
youthful assembled, whether in homes or bachelor dens; nobody could resist
her. No, she did not greatly care for home life or house drudgery. She
could not help that; unfortunately she had not inherited these tastes. And
this unbearable blessing, of a child every year two years running, drove
her almost to distraction. Good Lord! she was only a child herself, full
of life and frivolity; her youth was ahead of her. But pursuant to the
arrangement the couple had made last year, Mrs. Hanka now found it
unnecessary to place any restraint upon herself....

Tidemand entered the warehouse. A cool and tart smell of tropical
products, of coffee and oils and wines, filled the atmosphere. Tall piles
of tea-boxes, bundles of cinnamon sewn in bast, fruits, rice, spices,
mountains of flour-sacks--everything had its designated place, from floor
to roof. In one of the corners a stairway led to the cellar, where
venerable hogsheads of wine with copper bands could be glimpsed in the
half-light and where enormous metal tanks rested in massive repose.

Tidemand nodded to the busy warehousemen, walked across the floor, and
peeped through the pane into the little office. Ole was there. He was
revising an account on a slate.

Ole put the slate down immediately and rose to meet his friend.

These two men had known each other since childhood, had gone through the
business college together, and shared with each other their happiest
moments. Even now, when they were competitors, they continued to visit
each other as often as their work would permit. They did not envy each
other; the business spirit had made them broad-minded and generous; they
toyed with ship-loads, dealt in large amounts, had daily before their eyes
enormous successes or imposing ruin.

Once Tidemand had expressed admiration for a little yacht which Ole
Henriksen owned. It was two years ago, when it was known that the Tidemand
firm had suffered heavy losses in a fish exportation. The yacht lay
anchored just outside the Henriksen warehouse and attracted much attention
because of its beautiful lines. The masthead was gilded.

Tidemand said:

"This is the most beautiful little dream I have ever seen, upon my word!"

Ole Henriksen answered modestly:

"I do not suppose I could get a thousand for her if I were to sell her."

"I'll give you a thousand," offered Tidemand.

Pause. Ole smiled.

"Cash?" he asked.

"Yes; I happen to have it with me."

And Tidemand took out his pocketbook and paid over the money.

This occurred in the warehouse. The clerks laughed, whispered, and
wondered.

A few days later Ole went over to Tidemand's office and said:

"I don't suppose you would take two thousand for the yacht?"

"Have you got the money with you?"

"Yes; it just happens that I have."

"All right," said Tidemand.

And the yacht was Ole's once more....

Tidemand had called on Ole now in order to pass away an hour or so. The
two friends were no longer children; they treated each other with the
greatest courtesy and were sincerely fond of each other.

Ole got hold of Tidemand's hat and cane, which he put away, at the same
time pointing his friend to a seat on the little sofa.

"What may I offer you?" he asked.

"Thanks--nothing," said Tidemand. "I have just had my dinner at the
Grand."

Ole placed the flat box with Havanas before him and asked again:

"A little glass? An 1812?"

"Well, thank you, yes. But never mind; it is too much trouble; you have to
go down-stairs for it."

"Nonsense; no trouble at all!"

Ole brought the bottle from the cellar; it was impossible to tell what it
was; the bottle appeared to be made of some coarse cloth, so deeply
covered with dust was it. The wine was chilled and sparkling, it beaded in
the glass, and Ole said:

"Here you are; drink hearty, Andreas!"

They drank. A pause ensued.

"I have really come to congratulate you," said Tidemand. "I have never yet
made a stroke like that last one of yours!"

It was true that Ole had turned a trick lately. But he insisted that there
really was nothing in it that entitled him to any credit; it was just a
bit of luck. And if there was any credit to bestow, then it belonged to
the firm, not to him. The operations in London had succeeded because of
the cleverness of his agent.

The affair was as follows:

An English freight-steamer, the _Concordia_, had left Rio with half a
cargo of coffee; she touched at Bathurst for a deck-load of hides, ran
into the December gales on the north coast of Normandy, and sprung a leak;
then she was towed into Plymouth. The cargo was water-soaked; half of it
was coffee.

This cargo of damaged coffee was washed out and brought to London; it was
put on the market, but could not be sold; the combination of sea-water and
hides had spoiled it. The owner tried all sorts of doctorings: he used
colouring matter--indigo, kurkuma, chrome, copper vitriol--he had it
rolled in hogsheads with leaden bullets. Nothing availed; he had to sell
it at auction. Henriksen's agent bid it in for a song.

Ole went to London; he made tests with this coffee, washed out the
colouring matter, flushed it thoroughly, and dried it again. Finally he
had the entire cargo roasted and packed in hermetically sealed zinc boxes.
These boxes were brought to Norway after a month of storing; they were
unloaded, taken to the warehouse, opened, and sold. The coffee was as good
as ever. The firm made a barrel of money out of this enterprise.

Tidemand said:

"I only learned the particulars a couple of days ago; I must confess that
I was proud of you!"

"My part of the business was simply the idea of roasting the coffee--
making it sweat out the damage, so to speak. But otherwise, really--"

"I suppose you were a little anxious until you knew the result?"

"Yes; I must admit I was a little anxious."

"But what did your father say?"

"Oh, he did not know anything until it was all over. I was afraid to tell
him; he might have disinherited me, cast me off, you know. Ha, ha!"

Tidemand looked at him.

"Hm. This is all very well, Ole. But if you want to give your father, the
firm, half the credit, then you should not at the same time tell me that
your father knew nothing until it was all over. I have you there!"

A clerk entered with another account on a slate; he bowed, placed the
slate on the desk, and retired. The telephone rang.

"One moment, Andreas; it is probably only an order. Hello!"

Ole took down the order, rang for a clerk, and gave it to him..

"I am detaining you," said Tidemand. "Let me take one of the slates; there
is one for each now!"

"Not much!" said Ole; "do you think I will let you work when you come to
see me?"

But Tidemand was already busy. He was thoroughly familiar with these
strange marks and figures in the many columns, and made out the account on
a sheet of paper. They stood at the desk opposite each other and worked,
with an occasional bantering remark.

"Don't let us forget the glasses altogether!"

"No; you are right!"

"This is the most enjoyable day I have had in a long time," said Ole.

"Do you think so? I was just going to say the same. I have just left the
Grand--By the way, I have an invitation for you; we are both going to the
farewell celebration for Ojen--quite a number will be there."

"Is that so? Where is it going to be?"

"In Milde's studio. You are going, I hope?"

"Yes; I will be there."

They went back to their accounts.

"Lord! do you remember the old times when we sat on the school bench
together?" said Tidemand. "None of us sported a beard then. It seems as if
it were only a couple of months ago, I remember it so distinctly."

Ole put down his pen. The accounts were finished.

"I should like to speak to you about something--you mustn't be offended,
Andreas--No; take another glass, old fellow, do! I'll get another bottle;
this wine is really not fit for company."

And he hurried out; he looked quite confused.

"What is the matter with him?" thought Tidemand.

Ole returned with another bottle, downy as velvet, with trailing cobwebs;
he pulled the cork.

"I don't know how you'll like this," he said, and sniffed the glass. "Try
it, anyhow; it is really--I am sure you'll like it; I have forgotten the
vintage, but it is ancient."

Tidemand sniffed, sipped, put down his glass, and looked at Ole.

"It isn't half bad, is it?"

"No," said Tidemand, "it is not. You should not have done this, Ole."

"Ho! don't be silly--a bottle of wine!"

Pause.

"I thought you wanted to speak to me about something," asked Tidemand.

"Yes, well--I don't know that I do, exactly." Ole went over and locked the
door. "I thought that, as you cannot possibly know anything about it, I
had perhaps better tell you that people are talking about you,
calumniating you, blackening your reputation, so to speak. And you hear
nothing, of course."

"Are they blackening me? What are they saying?"

"Oh, you can feel above anything they say. Never mind what they say. The
gossip is that you neglect your wife; that you frequent restaurants
although you have a home of your own; that you leave her to herself while
you enjoy life single-handed. You are above such insinuations, of course.
But, anyway, why do you eat away from home and live so much in
restaurants? Not that I have any business to--Say, this wine is not half
bad, believe me! Take another glass; do me the favour--"

Tidemand's eyes had suddenly become clear and sharp. He got up, made a few
turns across the floor, and went back to the sofa.

"I am not at all surprised that people are talking," he said. "I myself
have done what I could to start the gossip; I know that only too well. But
I have ceased to care about anything any more." Tidemand shrugged his
shoulders and got up again. Drifting back and forth across the floor,
staring fixedly straight ahead, he murmured again that he had ceased to
care about anything.

"But listen, old friend, I told you you need not pay the slightest
attention to such contemptible gossip," objected Ole.

"It is not true that I neglect Hanka, as people think," said Tidemand;
"the fact is that I don't want to bother her. You understand, she must be
allowed to do as she pleases; it is an agreement, otherwise she will leave
me." During the following sentences Tidemand got up and sat down again; he
was in a state of deep emotion. "I want to tell you this, Ole; it is the
first time I have ever mentioned it to anybody, and no one will ever hear
me repeat it. But I want you to know that I do not go to restaurants
because I like to. Where else can I go? Hanka is never at home; there is
no dinner, not a soul in the whole house. We have had a friendly
understanding; we have ceased to keep house. Do you understand now why I
am often seen in restaurants? I am not wanted; I keep to my office and go
to the Grand, I meet friends of whom she is one, we sit at a table and
have a good time. What should I do at home? Hanka is more likely to be at
the Grand; we sit at the same table, perhaps opposite each other; we hand
each other a glass, a carafe. 'Andreas,' she says, 'please order a glass
for Milde, too.' And, of course, I order a glass for Milde. I like to do
it; don't believe anything else! 'I have hardly seen you to-day,' she
sometimes says; 'you left very early this morning. Oh, he is a fine
husband!' she tells the others and laughs. I am delighted that she is in
good spirits; I help her along and say: 'Who in the world could wait until
you have finished your toilet; I have business to attend to!' But the
truth is that perhaps I haven't seen her for a couple of days. Do you
understand why I go to restaurants? I go in order to meet her after not
having seen her for a couple of days; I go to spend a few moments with her
and with my friends, who all are exceedingly nice to me. But, of course,
everything has been arranged in the friendliest manner possible; don't
think otherwise. I am sure it is all for the best; I think the arrangement
excellent. It is all a matter of habit."

Ole Henriksen sat with open mouth. He said in surprise:

"Is that how matters stand? I had no idea it was that way with you two--
that it was that bad."

"Why not? Do you find it strange that she prefers the clique? All of them
are famous men, artists and poets, people who count for something. When
you come to look at it they are not like you and me, Ole; we like to be
with them ourselves. Bad, you say? No, understand me rightly, it is not at
all bad. It is a good arrangement. I couldn't always get home on time from
the office, and so I went to a restaurant, naturally. Hanka could not make
herself ridiculous and preside at table in solitary state, and so she went
to a restaurant. We do not go to the same place always; sometimes we miss
each other. But that is all right."

There was a pause. Tidemand leaned his head in his hands. Ole asked:

"But who started this? Who proposed it?"

"Ha, do you think for a moment it was I? Would I be likely to say to my
wife: 'You will have to go to a restaurant, Hanka, so I can find the house
empty when I get home to dinner!' Hardly. But all the same, things are not
so bad as you might think--What would you say if I were to tell you
that she does not even regard herself as being married? Of course, you
cannot realise that. I reasoned with her, said this and that, a married
woman, house and home, and she answered: 'Married, did you say? That is
rather an exaggeration, don't you think?' How does _that_ strike you?
For this reason I am careful not to say anything to her; she isn't
married; that is her affair. She lives occasionally where I live, we visit
the children, go in and out, and part again. It is all right as long as
she is satisfied."

"But this is ridiculous!" exclaimed Ole suddenly. "I can't imagine--Does
she think you are an old glove she can throw away when she is through with
it? Why haven't you put your foot down?"

"Of course, I have said something like that. Then she wanted a divorce.
Twice. What could I do then? I am not made so that I can tear everything
up all at once; I need a little time; it will come later. She is right
about the divorce; it is I who am against it; she is justified in blaming
me for that. Why haven't I played the part of a man, showed her her place,
made her behave? But, my dear man, she would have left me! She said so
plainly; there was no misunderstanding possible; it has happened twice.
What could I do?"

The two men sat awhile in silence. Ole asked quietly:

"But has your wife, then--I mean, do you think she is in love with
somebody else?"

"Of course," answered Tidemand. "Such things are bound to happen; not
intentionally, of course, but--"

"And you do not know who it is?"

"Don't you think I know? That is, I don't know really; how could I know
for sure? I am almost certain she is not really in love with anybody; it
is hard to say. Do you think that I am jealous, perhaps? Don't for a
moment imagine anything, Ole; I am glad to say that I have a little sense
left; not much, perhaps, but a little. In short, she is not in love with
anybody else, as people suspect; it is simply a whim, a fancy. In a little
while she will probably come and propose that we shall begin housekeeping
again and live together; it is not at all impossible, I tell you, for I
know her thoroughly. She is, at any rate, very fond of the children; I
have never seen anybody so fond of children as she has been lately. You
ought to come and see us some time--Do you remember when we were married?"

"I certainly do."

"She was a somewhat passable bride, what? Not at all one to be ashamed of,
don't you think? Ha, ha, ha, not at all, Ole! But you ought to see her
now, I mean at home, now that she is so very fond of the children again. I
cannot describe her. She wears a black velvet gown--Be sure and come over
some time. Sometimes she is in red, a dark red velvet--This reminds me--
perhaps she is at home now; I am going to drop in; I might be able to do
something for her."

The two friends emptied their glasses and stood facing each other.

"I hope everything will come out all right," said Ole.

"Oh, yes, it will," said Tidemand. "I am grateful to you, Ole; you have
been a good friend to me. I haven't had such a pleasant hour as long as I
can remember."

"Listen!" Tidemand turned in the doorway and said: "What we have discussed
here remains between us, eh? Not a hint on Thursday; everything is as it
should be as far as we are concerned, what? We are no mopes, I hope!"

And Tidemand departed.




IV


Evening falls over the town. Business rests, stores are closed, and lights
are lowered. But old, grey-haired business men shut themselves in their
offices, light their lamps, take out papers, open heavy ledgers, note some
figures, a sum, and think. They hear the noise from the docks where
steamers load and unload all night long.

It gets to be ten, eleven; the cafés are crowded and the traffic is great.
All sorts of people roam the streets in their best attire; they follow
each other, whistle after girls, and dart in and out from gateways and
basement stairs. Cabbies stand at attention on the squares, on the lookout
for the least sign from the passers-by; they gossip between themselves
about their horses and smoke idly their vile pipes.

A woman hurries past--a child of night whom everybody knows; after her a
sailor and a gentleman in silk hat, both eagerly stepping out to reach her
first. Then two youths with cigars at an impertinent angle, hands in
pockets, speaking loudly. Behind them another woman; finally, a couple of
men hurrying to catch up with her.

But now one tower-clock after another booms forth the twelve solemn
strokes all over the city; the cafés empty themselves, and from the
music-halls crowds of people swarm into the streets. The winches are still
groaning along the docks; cabs roll through the streets. But inside the
hidden offices one old business chief after another has finished his
accounts and his planning; the grey-headed gentlemen close their ledgers,
take their hats from the rack, put out the lights, and go home.

And the last guests depart from the Grand, a crowd that has stuck to the
end, young fellows, joyful souls. They saunter down the street with coats
wide open, canes held jauntily under the arms, and hats slightly askew.
They talk loudly, hum the latest popular air, call jestingly to a lonely,
forgotten girl in a boa and white veil.

The company wanders toward the university. The conversation is about
literature and politics, and, although nobody contradicts them, they are
loud and eager: Was Norway a sovereign state or not? Was Norway perhaps
not entitled to the rights and privileges of a sovereign state? Just wait
a moment, the Speaker had promised to attend to things; besides, there
were the elections.... All were agreed, the elections would decide.

Three of the gentlemen part from the group when the university is reached;
the remaining two take another turn down the street, stop outside the
Grand, and exchange opinions. It is Milde and Ojen. Milde is highly
indignant.

"I repeat: If Parliament yields this time, it is me for Australia. In that
case it will be unbearable here."

Ojen is young and nervous; his little, round, girlish face is pale and
void of expression; he squints as if he were near-sighted, although his
eyes are good, and his voice is soft and babyish.

"I am unable to understand that all this can interest you so greatly. It
is all one to me." And Ojen shrugs his shoulders; he is tired of politics.
His shoulders slope effeminately.

"Oh well, I won't detain you," says Milde. "By the way, have you written
anything lately?"

"A couple of prose poems," replies Ojen, brightening at once. "I am
waiting to get off to Torahus so I can start in in earnest. You are right
--this town is unbearable!"

"Well--I had the whole country in mind, though--Say, don't forget next
Thursday evening in my studio. By the way, old fellow, have you got a
crown or so you could spare?"

Ojen unbuttons his coat and finds the crown.

"Thanks, old man. Thursday evening, then. Come early so that you can help
me a little with the arrangements--Good Lord, silk lining! And I who asked
you for a miserable crown! I hope I did not offend you."

Ojen smiles and pooh-poohs the joke.

"As if one sees anything nowadays but silk-lined clothes!"

"By Jove! What do they soak you for a coat like that?" And Milde feels the
goods appraisingly.

"Oh, I don't remember; I never can remember figures; that is out of my
line. I put all my tailor bills away; I come across them whenever I move."

"Ha, ha, ha! that is certainly a rational system, most practical. For I do
not suppose you ever pay them!"

"In God's own time, as the Bible says--Of course, if I ever get rich,
then--But I want you to go now. I must be alone."

"All right, good night. But listen, seriously speaking: if you have
another crown to spare--"

And once more Ojen unbuttons his coat.

"A thousand thanks! Oh, you poets, you poets! Where, for instance, may you
be going now?"

"I think I'll walk here awhile, and look at houses. I can't sleep, so I
count the windows; it is not such a bad occupation at times. I take an
exquisite pleasure in satiating my vision with squares and rectangles,
with pure lines. Of course, you cannot understand such things."

"I should say I did understand--no one better! But I prefer human beings.
Don't you at times--flesh and blood, humans, eh--they have their
attraction, don't you think?"

"I am ashamed to say it, but people weary me. No; take for instance the
sweep of a solitary, deserted street--have you never noticed the charm of
such a view?"

"Haven't I? I am not blind, not entirely. A desolate street, of course,
has its own beauty, its own charm, in its kind the highest charm
imaginable. But everything in its place--Well, I must not detain you!
_Au revoir_--Thursday!"

Milde saluted with his cane, turned, and strolled up the street. Ojen
continued alone. He proved a few moments afterward that he had not lost
all his interest in human beings; he had calumniated himself. To the very
first hussy who hailed him he gave, absent-mindedly, every penny he had
left, and continued his way in silence. He had not spoken a word; his
slender, nervous figure disappeared in the darkness before the girl could
even manage to thank him--

And at last everything is still; the winches fall to rest along the
wharves; the town has turned in. From afar, nobody knows from where, comes
the sound of a single footfall; the gas flames flicker in the street
lamps; two policemen talk to each other, occasionally stamping their feet
to keep warm.

Thus the night passes. Human footsteps here and there; now and then a
policeman who stamps his feet to keep warm.




V


A barnlike room with blue walls and sliding windows, a sort of drying-loft
with a stove in the middle, and with stovepipes hanging in wires along the
ceiling. The walls are decorated with a number of sketches, painted fans,
and palettes; several framed pictures lean against the wainscoting. Smell
of paints and tobacco smoke; brushes, tubes, overcoats which the guests
had thrown aside; an old rubber shoe filled with nails and junk; on the
easel in the corner a large, half-finished portrait of Paulsberg.

This was Milde's studio.

When Ole Henriksen entered about nine o'clock all the guests were
assembled, also Tidemand and his wife. There were altogether ten or twelve
people. The three lamps were covered with opaque shades, and the heavy
tobacco smoke did not make the room any lighter. This obscurity was
evidently Mrs. Hanka's idea. A couple of very young gentlemen, beardless
students with bachelor degrees, were of the party; they were poets who had
put aside their studies last year. Their heads were so closely cropped as
to be almost entirely naked. One of them carried a small compass on his
watch-chain. They were Ojen's comrades, his admirers and pupils; both
wrote verses.

Besides these, one noticed a man from the _Gazette_, Journalist
Gregersen, the literary member of the staff. He was a man who did his
friends many a favour and published in his paper many an item concerning
them. Paulsberg showed him the greatest deference, and conversed with him
about his series, "New Literature," which he found admirable; and the
Journalist was happy and proud because of this approbation. He had a
peculiar habit of twisting words so that they sounded odd and absurd, and
nobody could turn this trick as smartly as he.

"It is rather difficult to write such a series within reasonable limits,"
he says. "There are so many authors that have to be included--a veritable
choas!"

He makes Paulsberg smile over this "choas," and they talk on in the best
of harmony.

Attorney Grande and his wife were absent.

"So the Attorney is not coming," says Mrs. Hanka Tidemand, without
referring to his wife. Mrs. Liberia never came, anyway.

"He sulks," said Milde, and drank with Norem, the Actor. "He did not want
to come because Norem was invited."

Nobody felt the least constraint; they chatted about everything, drank,
and made plenty of noise. It was a splendid place, Milde's studio; as soon
as one got inside the door one felt free to do or say anything one's
inclination prompted.

Mrs. Hanka is seated on the sofa; Ojen sits beside her. On the other side
of the table sits Irgens; the light falls across his narrow chest. Mrs.
Hanka hardly glances at him.

She is in her red velvet gown; her eyes have a greenish sheen. Her upper
lip is slightly raised. One glimpses her teeth and marvels at their
whiteness. The face is fresh and the complexion clear. Her beautiful
forehead is not hidden beneath her hair; she carries it sweetly and
candidly, like a nun. A couple of rings flash on her fingers. She breathes
deeply and says to Irgens, across the table:

"How hot it is here, Irgens!"

Irgens gets up and goes over to open a window, but a voice is raised in
protest; it is Mrs. Paulsberg's. "For Heaven's sake, no open windows. Come
away from the sofa; it is cooler further back!"

And Mrs. Hanka gets up. Her movements are undulating. When she stands up
she is like a young girl, with bold shoulders. She does not glance into
the large, cracked mirror as she passes; she exhales no odours of
perfumes; she takes, accidentally, her husband's arm and walks up and down
with him while the conversation and the refreshments keep the other guests
at the table.

Tidemand is talking, with somewhat forced liveliness, about a cargo of
grain, a certain Fürst in Riga, a raise in customs duties somewhere.
Suddenly he says, bending toward her:

"Yes; I am very happy to-day. But, pardon me, you are hardly interested in
these things--Did you see Ida before you left? Wasn't she sweet in her
white dress? We'll get her a carriage when spring comes!"

"Yes; in the country! I am beginning to long for it already!" Mrs. Hanka
herself is animated. "You must get the garden and the grove fixed up. It
will be fine."

And Tidemand, who already has arranged to have the country-house put in
order, although it is not April yet, is delighted because of his wife's
sudden interest. His sombre eyes brighten and he presses her arm.

"I want you to know, Hanka, I am very happy to-day," he exclaims.
"Everything will be all right soon, I am sure."

"Are you--What will be all right, by the way?"

"Oh, nothing," he says quickly. He turns the subject, looks down, and
continues: "Business is booming; I have given Fürst orders to buy!"

Fool that he was! There he had once more made a mistake and bothered his
wife with his shop talk. But Mrs. Hanka was good enough to overlook it;
nobody could have answered more patiently and sweetly than did she:

"I am very glad to hear it!"

These gentle words embolden him; he is grateful and wants to show it as
best he can; he smiles with dewy eyes and says in a low voice:

"I should like to give you a little present if you care--a sort of
souvenir of this occasion. If there is anything you would like--"

Mrs. Hanka glances at him.

"No, my dear. What are you thinking of? Though, perhaps--you might let me
have a couple of hundred crowns. Thanks, very much!" Suddenly she spies
the old rubber shoe with nails and junk, and she cries, full of curiosity:
"Whatever is this?" She lets go her husband's arm and brings the rubber
over to the table. "Whatever have you got here, Milde?" She rummages in
the rubbish with her white fingers, calls Irgens over, finds one strange
thing after another, and asks questions concerning them. "Will somebody
please tell me what this is good for?"

She has fished out an umbrella-handle which she throws aside at once; then
a lock of hair enclosed in paper. "Look--a lock of somebody's hair! Come
and see!"

Milde joined her.

"Leave that alone!" he said and took his cigar out of his mouth. "However
did that get in there? Did you ever--hair from my last love, so to speak!"

This was sufficient to make everybody laugh. The Journalist shouted:

"But have you seen Milde's collection of corsets? Out with the corsets,
Milde!"

And Milde did not refuse; he went into one of the side rooms and brought
forth his package. There were both white and brown ones; the white ones
were a little grey, and Mrs. Paulsberg asked in surprise:

"But--have they been used?"

"Of course; why do you think Milde collects them? Where would be their
sentimental value otherwise?" And the Journalist laughed heartily, happy
to be able to twist even this word around.

But the corpulent Milde wrapped his corsets together and said:

"This is a little specialty of mine, a talent--But what the dickens are
you all gaping at? It is my own corsets; I have used them myself--don't
you understand? I used them when I began to grow stout; I laced and
thought it would help. But it helped like fun!"

Paulsberg shook his head and said to Norem:

"Your health, Norem! What nonsense is this I hear, that Grande objects to
your company?"

"God only knows," says Norem, already half drunk. "Can you imagine why? I
have never offended him in my life!"

"No; he is beginning to get a little chesty lately."

Norem shouted happily:

"You hear that? Paulsberg himself says that Grande is getting chesty
lately."

They all agreed. Paulsberg very seldom said that much; usually he sat,
distant and unfathomable, and listened without speaking; he was respected
by all. Only Irgens thought he could defy him; he was always ready with
his objections.

"I cannot see that this is something Paulsberg can decide," he said.

They looked at him in surprise. Was that so? So Paulsberg could not decide
that? He! he! so that was beyond him? But who, then, could decide it?

"Irgens," answered Paulsberg caustically.

Irgens looked at him; they gazed fixedly at each other. Mrs. Hanka stepped
between them, sat down on a chair, and began to speak to Ojen.

"Listen a moment!" she called after a while. "Ojen wants to read his
latest--a prose poem."

And they settled down to listen.

Ojen brought forth his prose poem from an inside pocket; his hands
trembled.

"I must ask your indulgence," said he.

But at this the two young students, the close-cropped poets, laughed
loudly, and the one with the compass in his fob said admiringly:

"And _you_ ask for _our_ indulgence? What about us, then?"

"Quiet!"

"The title of this is 'Sentenced to Death,'" said Ojen, and began:

    For a long time I have wondered: What if my secret guilt were
    known?...

    Sh....

    Yes, sh....

    For then I should be sentenced to death.

    And I would sit in my prison and know that I should be calm and
    indifferent when the supreme moment should arrive.

    I would ascend the steps of the scaffold, I would smile and humbly beg
    permission to say a word.

    And then I would speak. I would implore everybody to learn something
    good from my death. A speech from my inmost heart, and my last
    farewell should be like a breath of flame....

    Now my secret guilt is known.

    Yes!

    And I am sentenced to death. And I have languished in prison so long
    that my spirit is broken.

    I ascend the steps to the scaffold; but to-day the sun is shining and
    my eyes fill with tears.

    For I have languished so long in prison that I am weak. And then the
    sun is shining so--I haven't seen it for nine months, and I haven't
    heard the birds sing for nine months--until to-day.

    I smile in order to hide my tears and I ask humbly if my guards will
    permit me to speak a word.

    But they will not permit me.

    Still I want to speak--not to show my courage, but really I want to
    say a few words from my heart so as not to die mutely--innocent words
    that will harm nobody, a couple of hurried sentences before they clap
    their hands across my lips: Friends, see how God's sun is shining....

    And I open my lips, but I cannot speak.

    Am I afraid? Does my courage fail? Alas, no, I am not afraid. But I am
    weak, that I am, and I cannot speak because I look upon God's sun and
    the trees for the last time....

    What now? A horseman with a white flag?

    Peace, my heart, do not tremble so!

    No, it is a woman with a white veil, a handsome woman of my own age.
    Her neck is bare like my own.

    And I do not understand it, but I weep because of this white veil,
    too, because I am weak and the white veil flutters beautifully against
    the green background of the forest. But in a little while I shall see
    it no more....

    Perhaps, though, after my head has fallen I may still be able to see
    the blessed sky for a few moments with my eyes. It is not impossible,
    if I only open my eyes widely when the axe falls. Then the sky will be
    the last I see.

    But don't they tie a bandage across my eyes? Or won't they blindfold
    me because I am so weak and tearful? But then everything will be dark,
    and I shall lie blindly, unable even to count the threads in the cloth
    before my eyes.

    How stupidly mistaken I was when I hoped to be able to turn my eyes
    upward and behold the blessed vault of heaven. They will turn me over,
    on my stomach, with my neck in a clamp. And I shall be able to see
    nothing because of my bandaged eyes.

    Probably there will be a small box suspended below me; and I cannot
    even see the little box which I know will catch my severed head.

    Only night--a seething darkness around me. I blink my eyes and believe
    myself still alive--I have life in my fingers, even--I cling
    stubbornly to life. If they would only take off the bandage so I could
    see something--I might enjoy looking at the dust grains in the bottom
    of the box and see how tiny they were....

    Silence and Darkness. Mute exhalations from the crowds....

    Merciful God! Grant me one supplication--take off the bandage!
    Merciful God! I am _Thy_ creature--take off the bandage!

Everybody was silent when he was through. Ojen drank; Milde was busy with
a spot on his vest, and did not understand a word of what he had heard; he
lifted his glass to the Journalist and whispered:

"Your health!"

Mrs. Hanka spoke first; she smiled to Ojen and said, out of the goodness
of her heart:

"Oh, you Ojen, you Ojen! How everything you write seems evanescent,
ethereal! 'Mute exhalations from the crowds'--I can hear it; I can feel
it! It is thrilling!"

Everybody thought so, too, and Ojen was happy. Happiness was very becoming
to his girlish face.

"Oh, it is only a little thing, a mood," he said. He would have liked to
hear Paulsberg's opinion, but Paulsberg remained sphinxlike and silent.

"How _do_ you think of such things? These prose poems are really
exquisite!"

"It is my temperament, I suppose. I have no taste for fiction. In me
everything turns to poetry, with or without rhymes; but verses always. I
have entirely ceased to use rhymes lately."

"But tell me--in what manner does your nervousness really affect you?"
asked Mrs. Hanka in her gentle voice. "It is so very sad; you must really
try to get well again."

"Yes, I'll try. It is hard to explain; at times I will suddenly become
excited without the slightest reason. I shudder; I simply tear myself to
pieces. Then I cannot bear to walk on carpets; if I should lose anything I
should never find it again. I should not hear it drop, and consequently I
should never think of looking for it. Can you imagine anything more
distracting than to have something you have lost lying there without your
knowing it? It tortures me, therefore, to walk on carpets; I am in
constant fear and I keep my hands over my pockets; I look at my vest
buttons to be sure of them. I turn around again and again to make sure
that I haven't by chance lost something or other--And there are other
annoyances: I have the strangest ideas, the most peculiar hallucinations.
I place a glass on the very edge of the table and imagine I have made a
bet with some one--a bet involving enormous amounts. Then I blow on the
glass; if it falls I lose--lose an amount large enough to ruin me for
life; if it remains I have won and can build myself a castle on the
Mediterranean. It is the same whenever I go up a strange stairway: should
there be sixteen steps I win, but if there are eighteen I lose. Into this,
though, there enter other intricate possibilities: Suppose there should be
twenty steps, have I lost or won? I do not yield; I insist on my rights in
the matter; I go to law and lose my case--Well, you mustn't laugh; it is
really annoying. Of course these are only minor matters. I can give other
examples: Let somebody sit in a room next to yours and sing a single verse
of a certain song, sing it endlessly, without ceasing, sing it through and
begin again; tell me--would this not drive you crazy? Where I live there
is such a person, a tailor; he sits and sings and sews, and his singing is
unceasing. You cannot stand it; you get up in a fury and go out. Then you
run into another torture. You meet a man, an acquaintance, with whom you
enter into a conversation. But during this conversation you suddenly
happen to think of something pleasant, something good that is in store for
you, perhaps--something you wish to return to later and thoroughly enjoy.
But while you stand there talking you forget that pleasant thought, forget
it cleanly and cannot recall it at any cost! Then comes the pain, the
suffering; you are racked on the wheel because you have lost this
exquisite, secret enjoyment to which you could have treated yourself at no
cost or trouble."

"It _must_ be strange! But you are going to the country, to the pine
woods now; you will get well again," says Mrs. Hanka, and feels like a
mother.

Milde chimes in:

"Of course you will. And think of us when you are in your kingdom."

Ole Henriksen had remained quietly in his chair; he said little and smoked
his cigar. He knew Torahus; he gave Ojen a hint about visiting the house
of the county judge, which was a mile away. He had only to row across a
lake; pine woods all around--the house looked like a little white marble
palace in the green surroundings.

"How do you know all this?" asked Irgens, quite surprised to hear Ole
speak.

"I went through there on a walking trip," answered Ole, embarrassed. "We
were a couple of boys from the college. We stopped at the house and had a
glass of milk."

"Your health, Mr. College Man!" called the Journalist sarcastically.

"Be sure and row over," said Ole. "County Judge Lynum's family is
charming. There is even a young girl in the house if you care to fall in
love," he added smilingly.

"He, he! No; whatever else one can accuse Ojen of, the ladies he leaves
severely alone!" said Norem, good-natured and tipsy.

"Your health, Mr. College Man!" shouted Gregersen again.

Ole Henriksen looked at him.

"Do you mean me?" he asked.

"Of course, I mean you, certainly I do! Haven't you attended college?
Well, aren't you a college man, then?"

The Journalist, too, was a little tipsy.

"It was only a business college," said Ole quietly.

"Of course, you are a peddler, yes. But there is no reason why you should
be ashamed of that. Is there, Tidemand? I say there is no reason whatever!
Does anybody feel called upon to object?"

Tidemand did not answer. The Journalist kept obstinately to the question;
he frowned and thought of nothing else, afraid to forget what he had asked
about. He began to lose his temper; he demanded a reply in a loud voice.

Mrs. Hanka said suddenly:

"Silence, now. Ojen is going to read another poem."

Both Paulsberg and Irgens made secretly a wry face, but they said nothing;
on the contrary, Paulsberg nodded encouragingly. When the noise had
subsided a little Ojen got up, stepped back, and said:

"I know this by heart. It is called 'The Power of Love.'"

    We rode in a railway carriage through a strange landscape--strange to
    me, strange to her. We were also strangers to each other; we had never
    met before. Why is she sitting so quietly? I wondered. And I bent
    toward her and said, while my heart hammered:

    "Are you grieving for somebody, madam? Have you left a friend where
    you come from--a very dear friend?"

    "Yes," she answered, "a very dear friend."

    "And now you sit here unable to forget this friend?" I asked.

    And she answered and shook her head sadly:

    "No, no--I can never forget him."

    She was silent. She had not looked at me while she spoke.

    "May I lift your braid?" I asked her. "What a lovely braid--how very
    beautiful it is!"

    "My friend has kissed it," she said, and pushed back my hand.

    "Forgive me," I said then, and my heart pounded more and more. "May I
    not look at your ring--it shines so golden and is also so very
    beautiful. I should like to look at it and admire it for your sake."

    But to this she also said no and added:

    "My friend has given it to me."

    Then she moved still further away from me.

    "Please forgive me," I said....

    Time passes, the train rolls on, the journey is so long, so long and
    wearisome, there is nothing we can do except listen to the rumbling of
    the wheels. An engine flares past, it sounds like iron striking iron,
    and I start, but she does not; she is probably entirely absorbed in
    thoughts about her friend. And the train rolls on.

    Then, for the first time, she glances at me, and her eyes are
    strangely blue.

    "It grows darker?" she says.

    "We are approaching a tunnel," I answer.

    And we rode through the tunnel.

    Some time passes. She glances at me, a trifle impatiently, and says:

    "It seems to me it grows dark again?"

    "We are drawing near the second tunnel, there are three altogether," I
    answer. "Here is a map--do you want to see?"

    "It frightens me," she says and moves closer to me. I say nothing. She
    asks me smilingly:

    "Did you say three tunnels? Is there one more besides this one?"

    "Yes--one more."

    We enter the tunnel; I feel that she is very close to me, her hand
    touches mine. Then it grows light again and we are once more in the
    open.

    We ride for a quarter of an hour. She is now so close to me that I
    feel the warmth from her.

    "You are welcome to lift my braid if you wish to," she says, "and if
    you care to look at my ring--why, here it is!"

    I held her braid and did not take her ring because her friend had
    given it to her. She smiled and did not offer it to me again.

    "Your eyes are so bright, and how white your teeth!" she said and grew
    confused. "I am afraid of that last tunnel--please hold my hand when
    we get to it. No--don't hold my hand; I didn't mean that, I was
    jesting; but talk to me."

    I promised to do what she asked me to.

    A few moments later she laughed and said:

    "I was not afraid of the other tunnels; only this one frightens me."

    She glanced at my face to see how I might answer, and I said:

    "This is the longest, too; it is exceedingly long."

    Her confusion was now at its highest.

    "But we are not near any tunnel," she cried. "You are deceiving me;
    there is no tunnel!"

    "Yes, there is, the last one--look!"

    And I pointed to my map. But she would see nothing and listen to
    nothing.

    "No, no,--there is no tunnel, I tell you there is none! But speak to
    me if there be one!" she added.

    She leaned back against the cushions, and smiled through half-closed
    lids.

    The engine whistled; I looked out; we were approaching the black
    opening. I remembered that I had promised to speak to her; I bent
    towards her, and in the darkness I felt her arms around my neck.

    "Speak to me, please do! I am so frightened!" she whispered with
    beating heart. "Why don't you speak to me?"

    I felt plainly how her heart was beating, and I placed my lips close
    to her ears and whispered:

    "But now you are forgetting your friend!"

    She heard me, she trembled and let me go quickly; she pushed me away
    with both hands, and threw herself down in the seat. I sat there
    alone. I heard her sobs through the darkness.

"This was The Power of Love," Ojen said.

Everybody listened attentively; Milde sat with open mouth.

"Well--what more?" he asked, evidently thinking there must be a climax yet
to come. "Is that all? But Heaven preserve us, man, what is it all about?
No; the so-called poetry you young writers are dishing out nowadays--I
call it arrant rot!"

They all laughed loudly. The effect was spoiled; the poet with the compass
in his fob arose, pointed straight at Milde, and said furiously:

"This gentleman evidently lacks all understanding of modern poetry."

"Modern poetry! This sniffing at the moon and the sun, these filigree
phrases and unintelligible fancies--There must, at least, be a point, a
climax, to everything!"

Ojen was pale and furious.

"You have then not the slightest understanding of my new intentions," said
the poor fellow, trembling with excitement. "But, then, you are a brute,
Milde; one could not expect intelligent appreciation from you."

Only now did the fat painter realise how much he had offended; he had
hardly expected this when he spoke.

"A brute?" he answered good-naturedly. "It seems we are beginning to
express ourselves very plainly. I did not mean to insult you, anyway.
Don't you think I enjoyed the poem? I did, I tell you; enjoyed it
immensely. I only thought it a little disembodied, so to speak, somewhat
ethereal. Understand me correctly: it is very beautiful, exceedingly
artistic, one of the best things you have produced yet. Can't you take a
joke any more?"

But it was of no avail that Milde tried to smooth things over; the
seriousness of the moment had gone, they laughed and shouted more than
ever, and cut loose in earnest. Norem opened one of the windows and sang
to the street below.

To mend matters a little and make Ojen feel better, Mrs. Hanka placed her
hand on his shoulder and promised to come and see him off when he started
on his trip. Not she alone--they would all come. When was he going?

She turned to Ole Henriksen: "You'll come, won't you, and see Ojen off
when he goes?"

Ole Henriksen then gave an unexpected reply which surprised even Mrs.
Hanka: He would not only go with Ojen to the station, he would go with him
all the way to Torahus. Yes, he had suddenly made up his mind, he would
make this little trip; he had, in fact, a sort of reason for going--And
he was so much in earnest that he buttonholed Ojen at once and arranged
the day for the departure.

The Journalist drank with Mrs. Paulsberg, who held her glass in a peculiar
masculine fashion. They moved over to the sofa on account of the draught,
and told each other amusing anecdotes. Mrs. Paulsberg knew a story
concerning Grande and one of Pastor B.'s daughters. She had reached the
climax when she paused.

"Well--go on!" the Journalist exclaimed eagerly.

"Wait a moment!" answered Mrs. Paulsberg smilingly, "you must at least
give me time to blush a little!"

And she recounted merrily the climax.

Norem had retired to a corner and was fast asleep.

"Does anybody know the time?" asked Mrs. Paulsberg.

"Don't ask me," said Gregersen, and fumbled at his vest pocket. "It is
many a day since I carried a watch!"

It turned out that it was one o'clock.

About half-past one Mrs. Hanka and Irgens had disappeared. Irgens had
asked Milde for roasted coffee, and since then had not been seen. Nobody
seemed to think it strange that the two had sneaked away, and no questions
were asked; Tidemand was talking to Ole Henriksen about his trip to
Torahus.

"But have you time to run off like this?" he asked.

"I'll take time," answered Ole. "By the way, I want to tell you something
by and by."

Around Paulsberg's table the political situation was being discussed.
Milde once more threatened to banish himself to Australia. But, thank
Heaven, it now looked as if Parliament would do something before it was
dissolved, would refuse to yield.

"It is a matter of indifference to me what it does," said Gregersen of the
_Gazette_. "As things have been going, Norway has assumed the
character of a beaten country. We are decidedly poverty-stricken, in every
respect; we lack power, both in politics and in our civic life. How sad to
contemplate the general decline! What miserable remnants are left of the
intellectual life that once flamed up so brightly, that called loudly to
Heaven in the seventies! The aged go the way of the flesh; who is there to
take their places? I am sick of this decadence; I cannot thrive in low
intellectual altitudes!"

Everybody looked at the Journalist; what was the matter with the
ever-merry chap? He was not so very drunk now; he spoke passably clearly,
and did not twist any words. What did he mean? But when the witty dog
reached the declaration that he could only thrive in a high spiritual
altitude, then the guests broke into peals of merriment and understood
that it was a capital hoax. The merry blade--hadn't he almost fooled them
all! "Poor remnants of the intellectual life of the seventies!" Didn't we
have Paulsberg and Irgens, and Ojen and Milde, and the two close-cropped
poets, and an entire army of first-class, sprouting talents besides!

The Journalist himself laughed and wiped his forehead and laughed again.
It was generally believed that this fellow was possessed of a literary
talent which had not entirely stagnated in his newspaper. A book might be
expected from him some day, a remarkable work.

Paulsberg forced a smile. In reality he was offended because nobody had
alluded to his novels or to his work on the Atonement during the entire
evening. When therefore the Journalist asked him his opinion concerning
the intellectual life of the nation, his reply was brief:

"It seems to me I have had occasion to express an opinion somewhere in my
works."

Of course, of course; when they came to think of it they certainly
remembered it. It was true; a speech somewhere or other. Mrs. Paulsberg
quoted from book and page.

But Paulsberg made up his mind to leave now.

"I'll come and sit for you to-morrow," he said to Milde, with a glance at
the easel. He got up, emptied his glass, and found his overcoat. His wife
pressed everybody's hand vigorously. They met Mrs. Hanka and Irgens in the
door.

From now on the merriment knew no bounds; they drank like sponges; even
the two young poets kept up as well as they could, and talked with
bloodshot eyes about Baudelaire. Milde demanded to know why Irgens had
asked him for coffee. Why did he need coffee? He hoped he had not been
making preparations to kiss Mrs. Hanka? Damn him, he would hate to trust
him.... Tidemand hears this and he laughs with the others, louder than the
others, and he says: "You are right, he is not to be trusted, the sly
dog!" Tidemand was sober as always.

They did not restrain themselves; the conversation was free and they swore
liberally. When all was said and done, it was prudery that was Norway's
curse and Norway's bane; people preferred to let their young girls go to
the dogs in ignorance rather than enlighten them while there was time.
Prudery was the nourishing vice of the moment. So help me, there ought to
be public men appointed for the sole purpose of shouting obscenity on the
streets just to make young girls acquainted with certain things while
there was still time. What, do you object, Tidemand?

No, Tidemand did not object, and Ole Henriksen did not object. The idea
was original, to say the least. Ha, ha!

Milde got Tidemand over in a corner.

"It is like this," he said, "I wonder if you have got a couple of crowns?"

Yes; Tidemand was not entirely stripped. How much? A ten-spot?

"Thanks, old man, I'll give it back to you shortly," said Milde in all
seriousness. "Very soon, now. You are a brick! It is not more than a
couple of days since I said that you hucksters were great fellows. That is
exactly what I said. Here is my hand!"

Mrs. Hanka got up at last; she wanted to leave. It was beginning to grow
light outside.

Her husband kept close by her.

"Yes, Hanka, that is right--let us be going," he said. He was on the point
of offering her his arm.

"Thank you, my friend, but I have an escort," she said with an indifferent
glance.

It took him a moment to recover himself.

"Oh, I see," he said with a forced smile. "It is all right; I only
thought--"

He walked over to the window and remained standing there.

Mrs. Hanka said good night to everybody. When she came to Irgens she
whispered eagerly, breathlessly: "To-morrow, then, at three." She kept
Ojen's hand in hers and asked him when he was going. Had he remembered to
make reservations at Torahus? No; she might have known it; these poets
were always forgetting the most essential. He would have to telegraph at
once. Good-bye! And get well soon.... She was maternal to the last.

The Journalist accompanied her.




VI


"You said there was something you wanted to tell me," said Tidemand.

"Yes; so there is--You were surprised that I wanted to go along to
Torahus. Of course, I said that I had business there. That is not so; I
just said that. I know nobody there except Lynums; that is all there is to
it. I did really visit their house once. You never heard anything so
ridiculous; we came there, two thirsty tourists, and they gave us milk;
since then I have met the family when they came to town last fall and this
winter. It is quite a family--seven altogether, including the tutor. The
oldest daughter's name is Aagot. I'll tell you more about them later.
Aagot was eighteen the 7th of December; ha, ha! she is in her nineteenth
year; I happen to remember that she told me. In short, we are not exactly
engaged; I don't mean to say that; we have only written to each other once
in a while. But there is no telling what may happen--What do you say to
that?"

Tidemand was more than surprised; he stopped.

"But I had not the slightest idea; you haven't said a word to me about
it!"

"No; I was hardly in a position to say anything yet. There is nothing
definite; she is very young, you know. Suppose she had changed her mind?
She may tell me she has other intentions when I get there. In that case
nothing can be said against her; the execution will take place without
witnesses; her reputation will have suffered nothing--I want you to see
her, Andreas; I have a picture of her. I won't say that she gave it to me;
I almost took it forcibly; but--"

They stopped a moment and looked at the photograph.

"Charming!" said Tidemand.

"Isn't she? I am glad you think so. I am sure you will like her."

They walked on.

"I want to congratulate you!" said Tidemand and stopped again.

"Thanks!" Ole added a moment afterward: "Yes, I thank you. I may as well
tell you that it _is_ really decided, practically, that is. I am
going up to bring her to town with me."

They had almost reached the Railway Square when Tidemand suddenly stared
straight ahead and whispered:

"But isn't that my wife there ahead of us?"

"Yes; so it is," whispered Ole. "I have noticed this lady ahead of us a
long while; it is only now I see who it is."

Mrs. Hanka walked home alone; the Journalist had not accompanied her at
all.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Tidemand involuntarily. "She told me she had an
escort, and now she goes home all alone. Isn't she a darling? She is going
straight home. But tell me--why did she say she had an escort?"

"Oh, you mustn't take such things too literally," answered Ole. "She
probably did not want anybody to go with her, neither you nor I nor
anybody else. Couldn't she feel that way inclined, perhaps? Young ladies
have their moods, just like you or me."

"Of course, that is perfectly true." Tidemand accepted this explanation.
He was happy because his wife was alone and was making straight for home.
He said, nervously glad: "Do you know, to judge by a few words I had with
her this evening it seems as if things were coming around more and more.
She even asked about the business, about the Russian customs duty; honest,
she wanted to know everything about Fürst. You should have seen how
delighted she was because business is looking up again. We spoke about our
summer vacation, our country house. Yes, it is getting a little better
every day."

"There you are--didn't I tell you? It certainly would be a pity
otherwise."

Pause.

"There is something I am at a loss to explain, though," continued
Tidemand, worried again. "Here lately she has been talking about what a
woman like herself should do with her life. She must have a career,
something to do and accomplish. I must confess it astonished me a little,
a woman with two children and a large household--She has also begun to use
her former name again, Hanka Lange Tidemand, just as if her name still
were Lange."

Mrs. Hanka had stopped outside her own entrance; she was evidently waiting
for her husband. She called to him jestingly that he had better hurry--she
was almost freezing to death. And she lifted her finger banteringly and
asked:

"What plots and conspiracies are you two wholesalers now hatching? Where
is the price of wheat now, and what are you going to put it up to? God
have mercy on you on the day of judgment!"

Tidemand answered in kind: What in the world had she done with the
Journalist? So she had not wanted company, not even her own husband's; she
had been in a sentimental mood? But how could she be so cruel as to let
this poor fellow Gregersen ramble home all alone, drunk as he was? It was
simply heartless--

       *       *       *       *       *

In about a week Ole Henriksen had returned from Torahus. Ojen had
remained, but Ole had brought back a young lady, his fiancée, Aagot Lynum.
With them had come a third person, a somewhat peculiar fellow.




GERMINATION




I


Ole returned from Torahus the 5th of April. He introduced his fiancée at
once to the clique, presented her to his friends, and spent all day in her
company. He had not as yet introduced her to Irgens and Attorney Grande
because he had failed to run across them.

She was young and fair, with high bosom and a straight carriage. Her blond
hair and her frequent laughter gave an impression of extreme youthfulness.
She had a dimple in her left cheek and none in her right, and this
solitary dimple made her peculiar, characteristic. Wasn't it strange to
have one side of the face different from the other? She was of average
height.

She had been so carried away with everything she had seen in the city that
she wandered around in a state of joyful excitement all day. The clique
had capitulated to her charm and shown her much amiability; Mrs. Hanka had
simply embraced her and kissed her the moment she saw her.

She followed Ole around in the establishment, peeped into all the
wonderful drawers and boxes in the store, tasted old, strong wines in the
cellars, and opened in fun the heavy ledgers in the office. But she was
especially fond of the warehouse, the little stall of an office down there
that was filled with tart and peculiar odours from all kinds of tropical
products. From the window she could see the docks, the harbour, the tugs
that brought cargoes in and out and puffed stertorously, shaking the very
air with their efforts. Just outside floated the little yacht with the
golden masthead; it was hers; it had been conveyed to her and belonged to
her legally. Ole had even been in _Veritas_ [Footnote: The Maritime
Insurance and Registry Office in Christiania.] and had its name changed to
_Aagot_. She had all the documents.

And slate after slate is brought into the office; the accounts grow a
little every day, they fill many columns, swell into larger and larger
amounts; the spring season has commenced, the active period just before
summer; all the pulses of trade the world over leap and quiver with
passionate energy.

While Ole counts and makes notes, Aagot busies herself with something or
other on the other side of the desk. She was often unable to understand
how Ole managed to keep all these accounts straight without getting the
amounts mixed; she had tried it herself, but in vain. The only thing she
can be trusted with is the entering of endless orders in the books, and
this she does carefully and conscientiously.

Ole looks at her and says suddenly:

"Lord, what tiny hands you have, Aagot! He, he! they are next to nothing.
I can't understand how you can get along with them."

That is enough. Aagot throws down her pen and runs over to him. And they
are happy and silly until the next slate arrives.

"Little Mistress!" he says smilingly, and looks down into her eyes,
"Little Mistress!"

Time passes. At last the work is done, the accounts finished, and Ole
says, while he slams the ledger shut:

"Well, I have got to go and send some wires. Are you coming along?"

"Yes, dear, if you'll let me!" she answers. And she trips along, greatly
pleased.

On the way Ole remembers that he has not as yet presented his sweetheart
to Irgens. "You ought to meet this fellow Irgens," he says; "he is a great
man, one of the deep talents; everybody says so." Suppose they went as far
as the Grand; he might be there.

They entered the Grand, passed by the tables where people sat drinking
and smoking, and found Irgens far back in the room. Milde and Norem were
with him.

"So here you are!" called Ole.

Irgens gave him his left hand and did not get up. He glanced through
half-closed lids at Aagot.

"This, Aagot, is the poet Irgens." Ole presented him, somewhat proud of
his intimate acquaintance with the great man. "My fiancée, Miss Lynum."

Irgens got up and bowed deeply. Once more he looked at Aagot, looked
persistently, even, and she looked back at him; she was evidently
surprised to find the poet different from what she had thought. It was
over two years since she had read his book, the lyric drama which had
brought him so much fame. She had thought the master to be an elderly man.

"May I congratulate?" said Irgens finally, and gave Ole his hand.

They all sat down; each got a seidel and began a conversation. The spirits
around the little table rose; even Irgens grew communicative and joined
in. He addressed Aagot across the table, asked if she had been in the city
before, in the theatre, in Tivoli, read this book or that, visited the
Exhibition of paintings? "But, Miss Lynum, you must really see the
Exhibition! I should be delighted to show it to you if you cannot find a
better guide--" They conversed for about ten minutes across the table, and
Aagot replied rapidly to every question, sometimes laughing, now and then
forgetting herself and asking questions with her head tilted sideways; her
eyes were wide open and sparkling; she was not the least bit embarrassed.

Ole called the waiter. He had to leave; he was going to the telegraph
office. Aagot, too, got up.

"But there is no reason why you should go, Miss Lynum," said Milde. "You
can come back for Miss Lynum when you have telegraphed, Ole."

"Yes, I am going," said Aagot.

"But if you want to stay I'll call for you in a few moments," said Ole and
took his hat.

She looked at him and answered almost in a whisper:

"Won't you let me come with you?"

"Certainly, if you want to."

Ole paid his check.

"Say," said Milde, "be good enough to settle this check, too. None of us
is very flush to-day." And he smiled and glanced at Aagot.

Ole settled, said good-bye, and walked out with Aagot on his arm.

The three gentlemen looked after her.

"The devil!" murmured Irgens in sincere admiration. "Did you notice her."

"Did we! How the dickens did that groceryman get hold of such a beauty?"

Milde agreed with the Actor; it was simply incomprehensible. What in the
world could she be thinking of!

"Don't talk so loud; they have stopped over by the entrance," said Irgens.

They had run across the Attorney. The same introduction followed; a little
talk could not be avoided. They did not remove their hats and gloves and
were ready to go at a moment's notice. At last they left.

That very moment a man got up from one of the farthest tables and
approached the entrance.... He was a man in the forties, with greyish
beard and dark eyes; his clothes were a little shabby; he was partly bald.

He walked straight over to the Attorney, bowed, and said:

"Do you mind if I sit down here? I noticed that Mr. Henriksen spoke to
you; you must know him, then. As for me, I am acquainted with Miss Lynum,
who was introduced to you. I am the tutor in her home; my name is
Coldevin."

Something about the stranger appealed to the little Attorney's curiosity;
he made room for him at once and even offered him a cigar. The waiter
brought his glass over.

"I visit the city only very seldom," said Coldevin. "I live in the
country. During the last ten years I have hardly been anywhere with the
exception of a trip to Copenhagen during the Exhibition. So I run around
all day and look things over. There are many changes; the city grows
bigger and bigger."

"It is a pleasure to walk around down by the docks and watch the traffic."

His voice was well modulated; he spoke simply and quietly, although his
eyes at times glowed with a smouldering fire.

The Attorney listened and answered cordially. Yes, one had to admit that
the city was making progress; an electric car line was being built;
several more streets were going to be asphalted; the last census showed an
enormous increase.... Wasn't it strange to live in the country always? No?
But in the winter--in the darkness and the snow?

No; it was glorious! Dazzling snow everywhere; silent, wild woods,
ptarmigan, hares, and foxes. White, glittering white snow! But summer, of
course, was more beautiful. It would be high summer when he returned; his
intention was to stay a couple of months, perhaps even longer. That ought
to suffice to see and hear most of what went on. What was happening,
anyway? What was the situation?

"Well," answered the Attorney, "the situation is serious. But we place our
faith in Parliament. Several of the leaders have given their ultimatum; if
all signs do not fail, they surely will make short shrift this time."

"Yes, if the signs do not fail--"

"You appear to have your doubts?" asked the Attorney smilingly.

"No; only there seems to be too much confidence placed in the leaders and
in their promises. I come from the country; we have our suspicions; it is
hard to get rid of them. The leaders might fail us now as heretofore.
Indeed, they might."

Coldevin drank from his glass.

"I cannot say that I remember their failing us heretofore," said the
Attorney. "Do you refer to any particular occasion when the leaders have
betrayed us?"

"Well, yes. Promises have been broken, promises have been interpreted,
promises have been openly and dispassionately denied. We should not forget
these things. One should not rely too much on the leaders; the country's
youth should be our hope. No; a leader is apt to prove a broken reed. It
is an old law that whenever a leader reaches a certain age he pauses--yes,
he even turns right about face and pushes the other way. Then it is up to
the young to march on, to drive him ahead or trample him down."

The door opened and Lars Paulsberg entered. He nodded to the Attorney, who
returned his greeting. The Attorney pointed to a chair at his table, but
Paulsberg shook his head and said:

"No, I am looking for Milde. He has not done a stroke on my picture
to-day."

"Milde is over in the corner," said the Attorney. And he turned to
Coldevin and whispered: "This is one of the most prominent of our young
men--their leader, so to speak, Lars Paulsberg. Do you know him? If only
the rest were like him."

Yes, Coldevin knew his name. So this was Paulsberg? He could plainly see
that he was an important personality; people craned their necks, looked
after him and whispered. Yes, indeed, we had quite a number of writers, it
could not be denied--"There came to Torahus, for instance, one of them
before I left; his name was Stefan Ojen. I have read two of his books. He
was nervous, he told me; he spoke a good deal about a new school, a new
intention within the realm of literature. His clothes were silk lined, but
he did not put himself forward much. Of course, people were curious and
wanted to see him, but he appeared very modest. I met him one evening; his
entire shirt-front was covered with writing, with verses--long and short
lines, a poem in prose. He said that he had waked up in the morning and
found himself in the throes of an inspiration, and, as he had no paper
handy, he simply wrote on his shirt-front. He asked us not to mind it; he
had two more shirts with him, but as they were unlaundered he had to use
that one for his verses. He read something for us, things full of
sentiment. He gave us the impression that he was very clever."

The Attorney did not know if this were irony or not, for Coldevin smiled
one of his rare smiles. But he was probably serious.

"Yes, Ojen is one of our most significant ones," he said. "He is beginning
to create a school in Germany. There can be no doubt that his poetry is
unique."

"Exactly. I, too, got that impression. A little childish, perhaps; a
little immature, but--He, he! as we were sitting there that evening he
suddenly exclaimed: 'Do you know, gentlemen, why I use a capital R in
God?' 'A capital R in God!' we wondered and looked at each other blankly;
no; we did not know why. But Ojen burst into a peal of laughter and left--
It was a good joke; it wasn't at all bad, he, he!"

And Coldevin smiled.

The Attorney laughed with him. "Oh, that fellow Ojen could surprise you
with far better inventions; that was nothing for him. But his writing was
euphonious, his diction pure--Do you know Irgens?"

Yes, Coldevin knew his name. He hadn't written very much?

"He does not write for the masses, no," answered the Attorney. "He writes
for the chosen few. But his friends know that he has many beautiful things
unpublished. Good God, what a master! It is impossible to place one's
finger on a single thing he has done and say that it is below par. He is
sitting in the corner now. Do you wish to meet him? I can arrange it for
you. I know him well; no preliminaries are necessary."

But Coldevin asked to be excused. Some other time; then he could meet
Paulsberg and the others also--"So that is Paulsberg!" he repeated. "One
could tell it when he passed by; people were whispering about him. Nobody
whispered when Ole Henriksen passed by. By the way, I suppose Mr.
Henriksen is going to get married now?"

"I suppose so--Tell me--is it at all interesting to be a tutor? Isn't it
a somewhat tedious occupation at times?"

"Oh, no," answered Coldevin smilingly. "Of course, it depends a good deal
on both parents and children. It is all right if one happens to get among
good people. It is, of course, only a poor and modest situation, but--I
would not change even if I could."

"Are you a college man?"

"Theology, yes. Unfortunately, a rather antiquated student now." And
Coldevin smiled once more.

They continued the conversation for some time, told a couple of anecdotes
about a university professor, and drifted back to the situation. Finally
they discussed the grain prices. It looked bad; there was some talk of
crop failures in Russia.

Coldevin was absolutely normal in his talk; he evidently was well informed
and spoke quietly and thoughtfully. When he got up to leave he asked
casually:

"By the way, do you happen to know where Mr. Henriksen went?"

"To the telegraph office. He told me he had some wires to send."

"Thank you. I trust you will pardon me for descending upon you so
informally. It is kind of you to allow me to make your acquaintance."

"If you are going to stay awhile I trust we shall meet again," said the
Attorney amiably. Coldevin took his leave.

He walked straight to the telegraph office. He remained outside awhile;
then he ascended the stairs and peeped through the glass doors. Then he
turned, went back to the street, and made for the harbour. He sauntered
back and forth outside the Henriksen warehouse and glanced furtively
toward the little office window. He did not take his eyes from the window
for a long time. One would have thought he was anxious to find Ole
Henriksen but did not know whether he was in the warehouse or not.




II


Irgens was sitting in his room, Thranes Road, No. 5. He was in fine
spirits. The elegant man whom nobody suspected of doing anything sat there
in all secret and corrected proofs and slaved like a farmer. Who would
have believed it? He was the one in the clique who talked least about his
work; nobody could understand how he managed to live. It was more than two
years since his drama had been published, and he had apparently not done a
stroke of work since. Of course, he might be working quietly, but nobody
knew anything about it, nothing definitely. He owed a lot of money.

Irgens had locked his door so as not to be disturbed; he was very
secretive. When he had finished his proof-reading he got up and looked out
of the window. The weather was bright and sunny, a glorious day. He was
going to take Miss Lynum to the Art Exhibition at three. He looked forward
to this pleasure; it was really enjoyable to listen to this
unsophisticated girl's chatter. She had burst upon him like a revelation;
she reminded him of the first bird notes in spring.

There was a knock at the door. His first thought was to throw the proofs
beneath the table-cloth, but he refrained. He opened. He knew this knock;
it was Mrs. Hanka's finger which knocked twice so resolutely. She entered,
closed the door, and glided over to him. She smiled, bent toward him, and
looked into his eyes.

"It isn't me at all!" she said, and laughed quietly. "I want you to know
that!" She could not hide her embarrassment entirely and flushed deeply.

She wore a grey woollen gown, and looked very young with her low lace
collar and her bare neck.

He said:

"So it isn't you? Well, it doesn't matter who you are--you are equally
lovely! And what glorious weather you are bringing!"

They sat down. He placed before her the proof-sheet, and she clapped her
hands and cried: "Didn't I tell you? I knew it! No; but you are
wonderful!" And she did not get tired of marvelling at him--that he was
that far already! Oh, but wouldn't it come like a thunderclap; not a soul
suspected anything! They all went around thinking that he did not work any
more. Oh, Heavens! but nobody in the wide world was half as happy as she.
She smuggled an envelope with something in it under the proof-sheet and
pulled him away from the table. She talked all the time.

They sat down on the sofa. Her happiness, her violent joy, communicated
itself to him, carried him away, and made him tender with gratitude. How
she loved him, how she sacrificed herself for him and did for him what she
could! He embraced her passionately, kissed her time and again, and held
her close to his breast.

"I am so happy," she whispered. "I knew something was going to make me
glad; as I walked upstairs it seemed as if I were going into an embrace!
Dearest boy, no--the door--!"

The sun rose higher, the thrushes twittered passionately outside. The
first bird notes of spring, he thought again, how unsophisticated these
little creatures were in their chatter!

"How bright it is here!" she said; "it is much brighter here than
elsewhere."

"Do you think so?" he answered smilingly. He walked over to the window and
began to pluck from his clothes the fine, grey woolly fuzz her dress had
left there. She sat still on the sofa, her eyes on the floor, blushing,
arranging her hair a little. A ring flashed on each of her hands.

He could not remain there at the window so indifferently. She was
beginning to notice it; she looked up; and besides, she was remarkably
beautiful as she sat there fixing her hair. He stepped over to her and
kissed her as warmly as he could.

"Don't kiss me, darling," she said; "be careful! Look here--it is the
spring air."

She showed him a little red spot on her under lip. He asked her if it
hurt, and she answered that it was not that, but she was afraid he might
catch it from her. Suddenly she asked:

"Listen, can you come to Tivoli to-night? There is an operatic
performance. Couldn't we meet there? Otherwise I'll die of loneliness."

He remembered that he was going to the Art Exhibition. What might happen
afterward was hard to tell; he had better not promise anything. No, he
said, he was afraid it would be impossible; he had made certain
arrangements with Ole Henriksen.

"Oh, please--do come! I would be so proud and grateful!"

"But why in the world do you want to go to Tivoli?"

"But there is opera to-night!"

"Well, what of it? That means nothing to me. Well, if you like--"

"No, not if I like," she said sadly. "You seem so indifferent, Irgens!
Yes, I admit I should like to go to the opera, but--Where are you going
this evening? I am just like a compass-needle now: I oscillate, I may even
swing all the way round, but I hark constantly back to one point--I point
continually in one direction. It is you I am thinking of always."

Her little bewildered heart trembled. He looked at her. He knew it only
too well--there was nothing he could reproach her with; she had been more
than good to him. However, all he could promise was that he would come if
at all possible.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Hanka had left. Irgens was ready to go out; he put his proof-sheets
in his pocket and took his hat. Had he forgotten anything? He had the
proofs; that was the most important thing at present--the beginning of a
book which was to startle the community with the suddenness of an
explosion. He was going to see if his quiet industry would be denied
appreciation. He, too, was going to send in an application for the
government subsidy; he would delay until the very last day in order to
avoid having his name paraded in the daily press alongside all those
nonentities who already were licking their chops in anticipation of this
modest emolument. His application should be brief and to the point,
without recommendations, simply accompanied by his book. He would tell
nobody, not even Mrs. Hanka. They should not be able to say that he had
moved heaven and earth in order to secure this well-earned encouragement.
But he was curious to see if they would ignore him. He knew all his fellow
applicants, from Milde to Ojen; he did not fear any of them. He would have
preferred to stand back and yield his right to this charity, but he could
not afford it; he was obliged to accept it.

He brushed his clothes carefully all the way down the street; a little of
the grey wool still clung to him--what a provoking dress! He dropped into
a printing-office with his proofs. The foreman called his attention to a
letter, an envelope with something enclosed, which he found between the
sheets. Irgens turned in the door. A letter? Oh, yes; he had forgotten it.
He knew this envelope and he opened it at once. When he had seen what was
in it he lifted his brows, greatly pleased. The envelope he put in his
pocket without further ado.

Ole and Aagot were in the warehouse. She was sewing on some red plush
cushions for the cabin of the _Aagot_--doll cushions, one would
almost think, they were so small. Irgens put his cheek to one of them,
closed his eyes, and said, "Good night, good night."

"So you are going to the Art Exhibition!" said Ole smilingly. "Aagot has
hardly spoken about anything else all day."

"Couldn't you come, too?" she asked.

But Ole had no time; just now he was very busy. "Be off--don't disturb me
any more; out with you! Have a good time!"

It was the promenade-hour. Irgens proposed that they take the way through
the park; they could then hear a little music at the same time. Did she
like music?

Aagot was in a dark suit and wore a cape with red silk lining. The
snug-fitting garment clung to her body without a wrinkle; around her neck
she simply wore a bit of lace. The cape fluttered at times with scarlet
silken flashes. She was sorry to say that she was not very musical. She
liked to hear music, of course, but she lacked a thorough understanding of
it.

"Exactly like myself," answered Irgens. "That is funny; are you like that,
too? To tell the truth, I understand music unpardonably poorly, but I show
up in the park every day; it would never do to stay away." Much depended
upon that; if one did not show oneself and keep abreast of the procession,
one would soon be lost, submerged, forgotten.

"Can one be forgotten so easily?" she asked. "But that does not apply to
you, surely."

"Oh, yes, to me as well as to the rest," he replied. "Why shouldn't I be
forgotten?"

She answered quite simply:

"I thought you were too well known."

"Known? Oh, as to that, Lord help us! I may not be so entirely unknown, of
course, but--You must not think it is an easy matter to keep one's head
above water here; one friend is envious, another hateful and malicious, a
third simply despicable. No; as far as _that_ is concerned--"

"It seems to me, however, that you are known, and well known, too," she
said. "We cannot walk two steps that somebody isn't whispering about you;
I have noticed it all along." She stopped.

"No, it is unbearable; I just heard another remark! Rather let us go up to
the Exhibition at once!"

He laughed heartily, greatly flattered. How charming she was in her naive
and unspoiled way! He said: Never mind; keep on! Pay no attention
whatever. One got used to this whispering; if it amused people, what of
it? He himself never noticed it any more; honestly, it did not affect him
in the least. Besides, he wanted to let her know that to-day _he_ was
not the only subject of conversation--what about her? She could believe
him or not; she was being thoroughly discussed. One could not come to a
city like this one and look as she did without attracting attention; she
could be very sure of that.

It was not his intention to flatter her; he was sincere in what he said.
Still she did not seem to believe him.

They walked toward the park, where the band thundered Cherubini's
"Overture to the Water-Carrier" across the place.

"It seems to me this is an altogether unnecessary noise," he said
smilingly.

She laughed; she laughed often and heartily over his remarks. This
laughter from her fresh lips, the dimple in her left cheek, her many cute
and childlike ways, drove his spirits still higher; even her nose, which
was somewhat irregular in profile and a little too large, made him almost
feel as if he were in love. Greek or Roman noses were not always the most
beautiful--not at all; it depended on the rest of the face. There was no
such a thing as an authorised standard for noses.

He chatted about one thing after another and made time fly; he proved
himself the poet who could interest those he addressed himself to, the
highly cultured man, the genius of scintillating words. Aagot listened
attentively; he tried to amuse her and came back to the subject of music
again, to operatic music, which he simply abominated. He had, for
instance, never been to the opera that he didn't happen to get a seat
right behind a lady with a sharply bulging corset line, and he was
condemned to stare at this ghastly back during three, four long
intermissions. Then there was the performance itself, the brass
instruments close to the ear, and then the singers who tried with all
their might to drown their blatant blare in a roar of noise. At first one
would appear who made strange contortions and meanwhile produced song;
then another would stalk forth who did not want to take a back seat
either, and who likewise did his utmost; then a third, a fourth, men and
women, long processions, an army; and all sang their questions and sang
their answers and beat their arms in the air and rolled their eyes,
exercising their vocal chords without a moment's pause. Wasn't it true?
They wept to music, sobbed to music, gritted teeth, sneezed, and fainted
to music, and the conductor urged them on frantically with an ivory
hammer-handle. She might laugh, but it was just that way. Then all of a
sudden the conductor appears to become terror-stricken because of that
infernal noise he has inspired; he swings his hammer-handle as a sign that
there must be a change. Now the chorus starts in. This is not so bad; the
chorus can pass muster; at least, it does not use such heartrending
gestures. But in the midst of the singing another person strides forth,
and he spoils the whole thing again; ah! it is the Prince; he has a solo--
and when a prince has a solo of course everybody else has to keep still.
But imagine this more or less corpulent masculine person standing there,
bellowing, with legs wide apart! One gets furious; one experiences a
well-nigh irrepressible desire to yell to this fellow to get out, to stop
spoiling the evening for those who wanted to hear some music--hear the
chorus sing!

Irgens was not displeased with himself--he attained his object. Aagot
laughed incessantly and was hugely amused. How he did make things
interesting and give life and colour to the most commonplace!

They finally got to the Exhibition, looked at what there was to see, and
talked about the pictures as they went along. Aagot's questions were fully
answered; Irgens knew everything and even told her anecdotes about the
exhibiting painters. Here, too, they met curious people, who put their
heads together and looked after them when they passed; but Irgens hardly
glanced to the left or right; he seemed entirely indifferent to the
attention accorded him. He only bowed a couple of times.

When, after an hour or so, they started to leave, they did not notice in
an obscure corner a greyish-bearded, somewhat bald person, nor did they
perceive two fathomless, burning eyes that followed them as they departed.

On the street Irgens said:

"I wonder--You are not going home at once, I hope?"

"Yes," she said, "I am going right back."

He asked her several times to stay a little longer, but Aagot thanked him
and said that she wanted to get home. There was nothing to be done; she
could not be persuaded, and he had to let her have her way. But they could
make up for it some other time? There were both museums and galleries she
ought to see; he would gladly act as her guide. She smiled and thanked
him.

"I am admiring your walk," he said. "It is the most perfect walk I have
ever seen."

She flushed and looked at him quickly.

"You cannot mean that," she said. "I who have lived in the backwoods all
my life."

"Well, you may believe me or not, just as you please--You are altogether
unusual, Miss Lynum, gloriously uncommon; in vain I seek words that would
describe you. Do you know what you remind me of? I have carried this
impression around all day. You remind me of the first bird note, the
earliest warm spring tones--you know what I mean--that surge through the
heart when the snow is gone and the sun and the birds of passage are here!
But that isn't all about you. God help me, I cannot find the words I want,
poet though I am supposed to be!"

"But I have never heard anything like it!" she cried, and laughed
vivaciously. "I am supposed to be like all that? I should like to be, that
much is certain. If only it were true!"

"You have come in here from the blue mountains; you are full of smiles,"
he said. "For this reason the description should call to mind the wild
things--should have a flavour of venison, so to speak. I am not sure,
though."

They were at the warehouse. They stopped and shook hands.

"I am ever so much obliged," she said. "Aren't you coming up? Ole must be
in the office now."

"No, thanks--But listen, Miss Lynum, I would like to come soon and drag
you with me to some museum; may I?"

"Yes," she answered hesitatingly. "That is very kind of you. I'll see--But
I thank you for your company to-day."

She went in.




III


Irgens walked up the street. Where should he go now? He might go to
Tivoli; there was plenty of time; in fact, it was much too early; he would
have to kill an hour or so first. He felt in his pocket for the envelope;
he had money; he might as well go to the Grand.

As he entered the door he was hailed by Journalist Gregersen, the literary
member of the _Gazette_ staff. Irgens did not like this fellow; he
did not care to cultivate his friendship in order to get an item published
in the paper now and then. Paulsberg had now two days running had a
paragraph concerning his excursion to Honefos: the first day about his
going, the second about his return; Gregersen had in his usual
accommodating manner concocted two very excellent little items about this
excursion. That such a man could descend to such coarse work! It was said
that the fellow was capable of greater things; he would surely blossom
forth some day; all right, time enough then. Irgens did not care for him
very much nowadays.

Unwillingly, he walked over to the Journalist's table. Milde was there,
also the Attorney and Coldevin, the grey tutor from the country. They were
waiting for Paulsberg. They had been discussing the situation again; it
commenced to look a little dubious now when several of the leading
parliamentarians had shown symptoms of vacillation. "Just as I have told
you," said Milde, "it is beginning to be unbearable here!"

Mrs. Grande was not present. Mrs. Liberia stayed at home.

The Journalist reported that the talk about crop failures in Russia
evidently had something in it. It could not be concealed much longer in
spite of the fact that the correspondent of the London _Times_ had
been sharply contradicted by the Russian press.

"I had a letter from Ojen," said Milde. "It looks as if he were coming
back soon; he does not appear to enjoy himself out in the woods."

All these matters did not interest Irgens in the least. He made up his
mind to get away as soon as he could. Coldevin said nothing, but glanced
from one to another with his sombre eyes. When he had been presented to
Irgens he had murmured a few words, sat down again and remained silent.
Irgens looked at him languidly and was silent too. When he had finished
his seidel he got up to go.

"Are you leaving us so soon?"

"Yes; I have got to go home and dress. I am going to Tivoli. See you
later."

Irgens left.

"There you see the famous Irgens," said the Attorney to Coldevin.

"Yes, indeed," answered Coldevin with a smile. "I see so much greatness
here that I am getting altogether bewildered. I saw the Art Exhibition
to-day--It seems to me that our poets are beginning to pay considerable
attention to their personal appearance; I have seen a couple of them; they
are so groomed and patent-leathered--one can hardly say they come
thundering along with foam-flecked bridles."

"Why should they? The fashions have changed, you know."

"I suppose so."

Coldevin was again silent.

"The fire-and-sword period has passed by, my good man," said the
Journalist patronisingly, yawning across the table. "What the devil can be
keeping Paulsberg?"

When Paulsberg at last showed up they made room for him with alacrity; the
Journalist sat close by him and wanted to hear his opinion concerning the
situation. What did these events portend--what could be done now?

Paulsberg, reserved and taciturn as always, gave a half reply, a
fragmentary opinion: What could be done? Oh, one had to try to live even
if a couple of parliamentarians were to fail the cause. All the same, he
was going to publish an article soon; it would be worth while observing
what effect that would have. He was going to give it to the traitors good
and proper.

Goodness! Was he going to publish an article? That certainly would put
matters right. "Not too gentle, now, Paulsberg; don't show them any
consideration."

"I imagine Paulsberg knows exactly how gentle he is going to be," said
Milde reprovingly. "You can safely leave that to him."

"Of course," answered the Journalist, "that goes without saying. I had no
idea of offering any suggestions."

He was a little offended, but Paulsberg smoothed matters over by saying:

"I thank you for the two notices, Gregersen. It is fortunate for us that
you keep an eye on us; otherwise people would entirely forget that we
writers existed."

The Attorney ordered another round.

"I am waiting for my wife," said Paulsberg.

"She stopped in to borrow a hundred from Ole Henriksen. I see there is
talk about famine in Russia--Well, I can't say that I have starved as
yet."

Milde turned to Coldevin and remarked pompously:

"That is something it wouldn't hurt you to know out in the country: so
shabbily does Norway treat her great men!"

Coldevin glanced from one to another.

"Indeed," he said, "it is sad." A moment later he added: "Well, one cannot
say things are much better out in the country. The struggle to live is
bitter there, too."

"But, so help me, there is a difference between poets and peasants, I
should think!"

"In the country people adjust themselves to the law that the weak must
perish," said Coldevin quietly. "For instance, people who cannot support a
wife do not marry. If they do, and if they later on have to rely on others
to discharge their obligations, then they are disgraced, branded with
shame."

Everybody looked at the bald fellow; even Paulsberg snatched his glasses
that were hanging on a cord across his breast, looked at him a moment, and
asked in a stage whisper:

"What in the world--what kind of a phenomenon is that?"

This happy word made the friends smile; Paulsberg was asking what kind of
a phenomenon this was, a phenomenon--he, he! It was not often Paulsberg
said that much. Coldevin looked unconcerned; he did not smile. A pause
ensued.

Paulsberg looked out of the window, shivered a little, and murmured:

"Drat it, I cannot get anything accomplished these days; this eternal
sunshine has played me the scurvy trick of paralysing my imagination. I am
in the middle of a descriptive passage about a rainy season, a raw and
chilly milieu, and I cannot get anywhere with it." He mumbled maledictions
about the weather.

The Attorney was incautious enough to remark:

"Why don't you write about the sunshine, then?"

It was not many days since Paulsberg himself, in Milde's studio, had
bluntly expressed an opinion to the effect that Attorney Grande had showed
symptoms of a certain arrogance lately. He was right, the Attorney was
becoming a little impertinent; it might be well to put him in his place
once and for all.

"You talk according to your lights!" said the Journalist oracularly.

This reproach was received in silence; but shortly afterward Grande got up
and buttoned his coat.

"I don't suppose any of you are going my way?" he asked in order not to
show any ill feeling. And as nobody answered he paid his check, said
goodbye and left.

More drinks were ordered. Mrs. Paulsberg arrived in the company of Ole and
his fiancée. Coldevin moved as far back as he could until he found himself
almost at another table.

"We had to accompany Mrs. Paulsberg," said Ole good-naturedly; "we
couldn't let her go alone." And he slapped Paulsberg on the shoulder.

Miss Aagot had let a joyous exclamation escape her and had walked straight
over to Coldevin, to whom she gave her hand. But what in the world had
become of him? Hadn't she kept a continuous lookout for him on the streets
and asked Ole about him every day? She was at a loss to understand why she
saw him so rarely. She had had another letter from home, and everybody
sent him their kindest regards. Why did he keep so entirely to himself?

Coldevin stuttered many brief replies: there was no end of things to see
and do, exhibitions and museums, Tivoli and Parliament; there were
newspapers to read, lectures to attend; he also had to look up a few old
friends. Furthermore, it was best not to disturb a newly engaged couple
too much.

Coldevin smiled archly; his lips trembled a little and he spoke with bowed
head.

Ole came over, overwhelmed him with the same reproaches, and received the
same excuses. Coldevin was going to call on them to-morrow, though, they
could rely on it; he had made up his mind before he met them. Provided he
would not disturb them, of course.

Disturb? He? What was he thinking of?

Beer was served and everybody talked. Mrs. Paulsberg crossed her legs and
gripped the glass in her masculine fashion. The Journalist monopolised her
immediately. Ole continued his conversation with Coldevin.

"I hope you are enjoying yourself here? Interesting people, these! There
is Lars Paulsberg; have you met him?"

"Yes, I have met him. He is the third one of our authors I have met. No
doubt it is my fault; but, to tell the truth, none of them have made an
overwhelming impression on me."

"No? That is because you do not know them well enough."

"But I know what they have written. It seems to me they do not exactly
soar to the solitary heights. It is probably my own fault, though--Lars
Paulsberg uses perfumes."

"Does he? A little peculiarity. One must pardon such men a few oddities."

"But I notice that they treat each other with the greatest respect,"
Coldevin continued. "They talk about everything; they make excellent
speeches on every subject imaginable."

"Don't they, though? It is wonderful to listen to them, I must say."

"But how are you getting on--in the business, I mean?"

"Oh, we take one day at a time. We have just turned a little trick in
Brazil which I hope will prove satisfactory. I remember, you are
interested in business matters. When you come down tomorrow I will take
you around and show you how we do it. We will all go--you and Aagot and
myself--we three old friends."

"I thought I heard my name?" said Aagot merrily and joined them. "Yes, I
did; don't try to fool me, Ole. It seems to me it is my turn to speak a
little with Coldevin; you have had him to yourself long enough, Ole."

And she took Ole's chair and sat down.

"The letters from home are full of questions about you. Mamma asked me to
see that you were comfortable at your hotel."

Coldevin's lips quivered again, and he said, with his eyes on the floor:

"How can you bother with such things now? Don't worry about me; I am very
comfortable. I hope you are enjoying yourself? Though I hardly need to ask
you that."

"But, do you know, there are times when I am longing for home, too. Can
you understand that?"

"That is only the first few days--It will be a little hard never to see
you again, Miss Aagot--I mean a little--that is--"

"You talk so strangely to-night," she said. "You almost make me want to
cry; honestly you do."

"But, dear Miss Aagot--"

"To get married isn't the same as to die, I'm sure."

Coldevin's manner instantly changed; he became jocular.

"Die! Well, I like that! But you are right in saying that I have been
sitting here and depressing you with my talk. It was mostly your mother I
was thinking of. It was nobody else--Tell me, have you finished the
cushions for the yacht?"

"Yes," answered Aagot absently.

"But you have not been in Parliament yet? I imagine you have hardly had
time for that as yet. I have been there every day; but then I haven't
anything else to do."

"Listen," she said suddenly; "I may not have an opportunity to bid you
good night later, so I will do it now." She gave him her hand. "And
remember, you have promised to call to-morrow! I--You will make me very
happy if you come."

She dropped his hand and got up.

He sat there a moment as in a trance. He heard somebody say: "What can
Miss Aagot and Coldevin be so deeply absorbed in?" He heard that Aagot
was on the point of answering, and he exclaimed hurriedly:

"I shake hands with Miss Aagot on a promise to call on her to-morrow."

"Be sure and keep your promise, now," he heard Ole say. "Well, Aagot, I
suppose we ought to be getting home."

Ole put his hand in his pocket to pay the waiter; the Journalist did the
same, but Milde seized his arm and said:

"Leave that to Ole Henriksen. Kindly pay for us, too, Ole."

"With pleasure."

At the door Lars Paulsberg caught up with him and said:

"Don't go away without giving me the opportunity of shaking hands with
you. I hear you could lend me these rotten crowns."

Ole and Aagot went. A little later Coldevin got up, too; he bowed to each
of the clique and departed. He heard laughter behind his back and the word
"phenomenon" several times. He hurried into the first gateway he passed
and took out from his pocketbook a little silken bow, in the Norwegian
colours, carefully wrapped in paper. He kissed the bow, looked at it a
long time, and kissed it again, trembling in the grip of a silent, deep
emotion.




IV


It was Ole Henriksen's habit to make his rounds through the business
establishment immediately after his early morning coffee. He was an early
riser and had usually accomplished a great deal before breakfast,
inspected store and cellars, read and answered mail, telegraphed, given
instructions to his clerks; everything devolved upon him. Aagot kept him
company nowadays; she insisted on getting up as early as he, and her
little hands lightened many a task for him. Ole Henriksen worked more
enthusiastically than ever. The old man did nothing nowadays but make out
an occasional bill and balance up the cash-book; he kept to himself
up-stairs most of the time, and spent many an hour in the company of some
old crony, some visiting ship's captain or business acquaintance. But
before retiring old Henriksen always lit a lamp, shambled down-stairs to
the office, and took a last survey of the books. He took his time; and
when he came up about midnight he retired immediately.

Ole did the work for both of them; it was like play to him to direct all
these threads which he knew from the days of childhood. Aagot did not
disturb him much; it was only down in the little warehouse office that she
was apt to delay him at times. Her youth and gaiety filled the little
room, glorified everything, and brightened the world.

She was so cheerful that she carried away even the phlegmatic Ole. He was
lost in her; he played little tricks on her and trembled with the
tenderest affection for this hoydenish girl who wasn't even full grown.
When in the company of others he appeared vastly superior--she was his
little sweetheart; she was so young, much younger than he, it was up to
him to display his knowledge and experience. But when they were alone,
alas! then he could not keep up this pretence; he lost his seriousness and
was a child with her. He stole many a glance from his books and papers,
gazed at her secretly, lost in contemplation of her radiant figure and
worshipping to distraction her dimpling smile. How she could make his
heart pound when she would glance archly at him and then come over to him
and whisper: "So you are _my_ boy, are you?" She had so many adorable
ways. At times she could sit and gaze at the floor, gaze fixedly at
something which made her eyes dewy--memories, perhaps--some old memory--

Ole asked her at last when she thought they ought to get married, and when
he saw her blush deeply, even to her neck, he regretted that he had been
too abrupt. There was no hurry; she must decide that herself; no need to
answer now, not at all.

But she answered:

"I am ready when you are."

There was a knock at the door and Irgens entered. He came in order to
propose a visit to the sculpture-gallery. Ole said jestingly:

"I see! You have chosen this hour because you knew I couldn't come along!"

"What nonsense! We have to go when the galleries are open, naturally."

Ole laughed loudly.

"Look, he is getting mad, furious, ha, ha, ha! I fooled you that time,
Irgens!"

Aagot got her hat and coat and went with Irgens. Ole called after her:

"Don't stay too late, Aagot! Remember, we have promised to go with
Tidemand to Tivoli."

On the street Irgens glanced at his watch and said:

"I see it is a little too early yet. If you have no objections we might
take a walk up toward the Castle."

And they walked toward the Castle. The band played; people strolled up and
down. Irgens talked again interestingly and facetiously about different
matters, and Aagot replied and laughed, listening curiously to his words;
at times she would make some admiring little exclamation when he made a
specially striking remark. She could not refrain from looking at his
face--a handsome face, rich, curly moustache, a somewhat broad, voluptuous
mouth. He was in an entirely new suit to-day; she noticed it was bluish
like her own. He wore a silk shirt and grey gloves.

As they passed Our Saviour's Church he asked her if she liked to go to
church. She said yes--didn't he?

"Oh, no, not very often."

That was not nice of him.

He bowed smilingly. If she said so, of course. The fact of the matter was
that he had received a rude shock once; it sounded silly, it was only a
bagatelle, but it proved of far-reaching effect. He was sitting in this
very church on an occasion; a high mass was being celebrated. The minister
was all right; he was doing splendidly. He was even eloquent; he spoke
convincingly, with feeling and pathos. But in the middle of a most
stirring peroration in which he, carried away in an outburst of spiritual
fervour, had meant to shout: "Jews and Gentiles!" his tongue had tripped
and he had said: "Gents and Jewtiles! _Gents and Jewtiles!_--Imagine
these silly words hurled over the heads of the congregation in a loud,
sonorous voice! And the poor fellow stood there in full daylight and could
not get away from his miserable blunder. I assure you, it shocked me like
a cold shower!"

It sounded genuine as he spoke, not at all like an episode invented for
the occasion. Was it not possible that a particularly sensitive soul could
be seriously shaken by such a grotesque and silly mishap? Aagot could very
well understand it; and at the same time she had to laugh over that
miserable "Gents and Jewtiles," which she repeated over and over.

When they passed the Parliament buildings, Irgens pointed to the greystone
colossus and said:

"There we have Parliament; have you been there yet?"

"No, not yet."

Well, it wasn't a very cheerful place just now--wavering and treason all
along the line! The doughty parliamentarians lolled in their chairs and
chewed tobacco and grew fat and lazy; they used sonorous phrases and
challenged Sweden to a fight with bare knuckles, but when time for action
came--where were they then? She had no idea how he and others were boiling
with indignation over this display of loathsome cowardice. And what was
the mighty adversary like? Sweden! That invincible world power full of
doddering senility! He must compare Sweden to an octogenarian who sat,
dead drunk and feeble, and boasted of his warlike temper: "I'll never
yield--never!" And when Parliament heard that quavering voice it grew
palsied with fear. No, he, Irgens, should have been in Parliament!

How manly and proudly he spoke! She looked at him and said: "How zealous
you are now!"

"You must pardon me; I always grow impatient when our sovereignty is
discussed," he replied. "I trust I haven't unwittingly offended you by
trespassing on your personal opinions? I am glad to hear that."

They reached the Castle, turned aside, and entered the park; they forgot
that time was passing. He had started in to tell her a story from the
day's news, a scene from one of the courts: A man was being tried for
murder and had confessed. The question of mitigating circumstances arose,
and it was decided that there were mitigating circumstances. All right;
penitentiary for life. "Next case!" Suddenly a voice is heard from among
the spectators; it is the murderer's sweetheart, who shouts: "His
confession is untrue; he has not committed murder! How could he possibly
have done it; no one who knows him will believe it! And there are
mitigating circumstances; you cannot sentence him, for it wasn't
premeditated murder! No, Henry is innocent! Won't any of you who know him
say that he is innocent? Why are you all silent?" And the lady was led out
of the courtroom. That was love!

Aagot, the little goose, was moved. How beautiful--sad and beautiful! And
they carried her out? What a tragedy!

"Well, probably the story is a little exaggerated," he said. "Love as
strong as that does not grow on the bushes nowadays."

"But it does exist!"

"Perhaps, somewhere--on the Isle of the Blest--" But this expression awoke
the poet in him, and he rhapsodised. "And the place was called Evenrest,
because it was green and silent when the two arrived. A boy and a girl;
she fair, bright, shining like a white pinion against him who was dark--
two souls who gazed smilingly into each other, who voicelessly implored
each other, who closed rapturously around each other. And blue mountains
looked at them--"

He paused abruptly.

"I am making myself ridiculous," he said. "Let us sit down awhile."

They sat down. The sun sank, sank deeper; a tower-clock in the city
somewhere boomed forth the hour. Irgens continued to speak, impressively,
dreamily, warmly. He might go into the solitudes this summer, he said;
settle down in a cabin by the water and row around at night. Imagine,
wonderful nights in a rowboat!... But he had a feeling now that Aagot was
beginning to be uneasy because of the lateness of the hour, and in order
to keep her mind occupied he said:

"You must not believe, Miss Lynum, that I go around and prate about blue
mountains always; if I do it now it is only because of you. You impress me
deeply; you enrapture me when you are near me. I know what I am saying. It
is the loveliness and brightness of your face, and when you tilt your head
sideways--Of course, this is meant aesthetically, impersonally!"

Aagot had given him a quick glance, and this made him add the last words.
She did not understand him, perhaps; the reason for this last remark was
not quite clear to her, and she was on the point of saying something when
he resumed laughingly:

"I sincerely trust I haven't bored you too much with my nonsense? If I
have I'll go right down to the harbour and drown myself. Yes, you laugh,
but--I want to tell you, though, that your displeasure was charmingly
becoming to you, really. I saw that you were provoked. If I may be allowed
to express myself aesthetically once more, I would say that for a moment
you looked as the slender, wild fawn must look when she lifts her head and
snorts."

"But now I want to tell _you_ something," she said and got up. "What
time is it? But you must be crazy! Let us be off at once! If it is my
fault that you have talked too much, it is certainly yours that I have
listened to you and forgotten the time entirely. This is awful!"

And they hurried away down the park slope.

As they were going to turn toward the museum he wondered if there would be
time for a visit to-day. Perhaps they had better wait until some other
time? What did she think?

She stopped and reflected a moment; then she laughed merrily and
exclaimed:

"But we will have to go, if only for a moment! We must be able to say that
we have been there. No, this is simply terrible!"

And they hurried along.

The fact that she was conspiring with him to hide this peccadillo, that
from now on they would have a sort of secret together, filled him with a
warm pleasure. He wanted to keep on talking, to continue to keep her
interested; but she did not listen; she hurried along in order to get to
the museum before it should close. She skipped quickly up the many stairs,
ran past people going out, glanced quickly right and left in order to
identify the chief works of art, and asked breathlessly: "Where is the
Laocoön Group? Quick! I must see that!" They ran off in a wild search for
the Laocoön Group. It turned out that they had at least ten minutes before
closing time, and they took things a little easier.

Suddenly she imagined seeing Coldevin's dark eyes peering out from a
corner; but as she took a step forward to look closer the eyes disappeared
and she forgot all about it.

"What a pity we are in such a hurry!" she said several times.

When they had rushed through the first floor their time was up and they
had to leave. She talked with Irgens on the way back and seemed as pleased
as before; she gave him her hand at the door and thanked him, thanked him
twice. He begged her forgiveness because he had been responsible for her
failure to view the sculptures thoroughly, and she smiled amiably and said
that she had had a good time.

"I shall see you later at Tivoli," said Irgens.

"Are you going there?" she asked in surprise.

"I have been asked to come; I am going with some friends."

Aagot did not know that Irgens had received a pressing invitation from
Mrs. Hanka; she said all right, nodded, and went in.

Ole was waiting for her; she threw herself on his neck and cried eagerly:

"It was glorious--the Laocoön Group--everything! We did not have time to
see everything, that is, to see everything carefully; but you will take me
there some time, won't you? Promise! For I want you to take me."

       *       *       *       *       *

When later on Ole and Aagot were going to Tidemand's house on their way to
Tivoli, Aagot remarked casually:

"It is a pity that you are not a poet, Ole."

He looked at her in surprise. "Do you think so?" he asked.

Then suddenly it dawned on her what a tactless thing she had said. As a
matter of fact, she had not meant it at all; it was just a thoughtless
word, a thoughtless, thoughtless word. She repented it bitterly and would
have given anything to have it unsaid. She stopped, threw her arms around
Ole's neck right in the middle of the street, and said in agitation:

"And you believe it? It is easy to fool you, Ole! Listen--you don't for a
moment think--I swear I didn't mean it, Ole. It was so stupid of me to say
it, but I didn't for a moment think you would take it seriously. I want to
know if you think I meant it; tell me if you do?"

"Of course I don't," he said and patted her cheek; "not at all, dearest.
That you can make so much of a little thing like that, you foolish child!
He, he!"

They continued their interrupted walk. She was so grateful to him because
he had taken it so nicely. Oh, he was so good and considerate, she loved
him; Heavens! how she adored him....

But this little scene had its influence over her conduct all during the
evening.




V


When the performance was over they all gathered in the restaurant. The
entire clique was there, even Mr. and Mrs. Paulsberg; later on Attorney
Grande appeared, dragging with him Coldevin, who followed unwillingly and
protestingly; he wanted to be excused. The Attorney had met him outside
and had thought it would be fun to bring him along.

Everything under the sun had been discussed: literature and art, man and
God; they had settled the suffrage question, taken a fall out of Malthus,
strayed onto the political preserves. It had unfortunately turned out that
Paulsberg's article in the _Gazette_ failed to have the desired
effect on Parliament. With sixty-five votes to forty-four it had decided
to postpone matters indefinitely; five representatives had suddenly been
taken ill and could not participate in the voting. Milde declared that he
was going to Australia.

"But you are painting Paulsberg?" objected Norem, the Actor.

"Well, what of it? I can finish that picture in a couple of days."

It was, however, a secret arrangement that the picture was not to be
finished until after the close of the Exhibition. Paulsberg had expressly
demanded it. He did not want to be exhibited in mixed company; he desired
solitude, veneration, a large window all to himself on the promenade. This
was just like Paulsberg.

When, therefore, Milde said that he could finish the picture in a couple
of days, Paulsberg answered curtly:

"I shall be unable to sit for you at present; I am working."

That settled it.

Mrs. Hanka had placed Aagot next to her. She had called to her: "Come
here, you with the dimple, here by me!" And she had turned to Irgens and
whispered: "Isn't she sweet?"

Mrs. Hanka was again in her grey woollen dress with low lace collar; her
neck was bare. Spring seemed to affect her; she looked a little played
out. Her lips were cracked, and when she laughed her features were
distorted into wry grimaces because of these cracked lips.

She told Aagot that they were going to the country shortly and hoped to
see her there. They were going to eat currants and rake hay and loll in
the grass. Suddenly she turned to her husband across the table and said:

"While I remember it, can you let me have a hundred?"

"I wish you hadn't remembered it," said Tidemand good-naturedly. He
winked, jested happily, and was delighted. "Don't marry, my friends; it is
an expensive luxury! Another hundred!"

And he handed the bill to his wife, who thanked him.

"But what is it for?" he asked her banteringly.

"I refuse to tell you," she said, and turned to Aagot in order to avoid
further references to the matter.

Attorney Grande and Coldevin entered just then.

"Of course you are coming," said the Attorney. "I never heard anything
like it! I want you to join me in a little drink. Come and help me, you
fellows; I can't get the man inside!"

But when Coldevin saw who were present he wrenched himself free quickly
and disappeared.

He had visited Ole Henriksen one morning according to his promise, but he
had vanished since then and nobody had seen him until now.

The Attorney said:

"I discovered him outside; I had pity on the poor man, he seemed so
altogether alone, and I--"

Aagot had jumped up quickly and hurried outside; she caught up with
Coldevin on the stairs. They talked together a few moments; finally they
both returned.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Attorney Grande was kind enough to ask me
to come with him, but I did not know that there were others here--that
there was a party here," he corrected himself.

The Attorney laughed.

"Sit down, drink, and be merry," he said.

And Coldevin made himself at home. This tutor from the country, bald and
grey, generally taciturn and restrained, talked now with and like the
rest. He seemed somewhat changed since his arrival; he answered boldly
when he was addressed, and was not backward in expressing his opinions.
Journalist Gregersen spoke again about the political situation. He had not
heard Paulsberg say anything about it. What was going to happen? What were
they going to do?

"What can one do about an accomplished fact?" asked Paulsberg. "Simply
take it like men; that is all I can say."

The Attorney now asked Coldevin:

"I suppose you have been in Parliament to-day, also?"

"Yes."

"You know, then, what took place. What do you think of it?"

"That is not easy to say on the spur of the moment."

"Perhaps you haven't followed matters very closely; you have just arrived,
I understand," said Mrs. Paulsberg amiably.

"Followed matters closely! I should say he has; don't you worry about
that!" cried the Attorney. "I have talked with him before."

The discussion grew violent. Milde and the Journalist simultaneously
demanded the dismissal of the cabinet; others expressed their opinion
about the Swedish opera they had just attended; it appeared that not one
among them understood music in the least, and they strayed back to
politics.

"So you were not seriously shaken by what occurred to-day, Mr. Coldevin?"
asked Paulsberg in order to be friendly, too. "I am ashamed to confess
that I have sat at home and cursed all afternoon!"

"Indeed!" answered Coldevin.

"Don't you hear that Paulsberg asked if you were shaken?" said the
Journalist sharply across the table.

Coldevin murmured:

"Shaken? One can, of course, not avoid feeling disappointed when such
things happen. But the climax to-day was hardly unexpected by me. As I see
it, it was only a last rite."

"Oh, you are a pessimist."

"Indeed, no, you are mistaken. I am not that."

Beer and sandwiches were served, afterward coffee. Coldevin glanced at
those present; he met Aagot's eyes looking at him very gently, and this
agitated him so that he suddenly spoke out loudly what was on his mind:

"Did this decision to-day surprise you so very much, then?" And when he
received a qualified affirmation he continued, in order to make himself
understood: "To me it appears to be entirely in harmony with conditions
otherwise prevailing.--People are saying to themselves: 'We have our
liberty; the constitution guarantees it, and now we want to enjoy it for a
while!' Behold--the sons of Norway have become freemen and the peers of
anybody."

Everybody agreed with him. Paulsberg nodded; this phenomenon from the
country might not be entirely impossible, after all. But he would say no
more; he preserved an obstinate silence. At last the Attorney got him
started again; he asked:

"When I met you at the Grand recently you insisted that it was wrong ever
to forget, ever to forgive. Is that a principle, or how--"

"Yes, you who are young should remember, should always remember, the
disappointment you have suffered to-day. You have put your faith in a man,
and the man has betrayed your confidence; this you should never forget.
One should never forgive, never; such wrongs should be avenged. Once I saw
two truck-horses maltreated; it was in a Catholic country, in France. The
driver sat high in his seat and swung his enormous whip; it was of no use,
the horses slipped and could not budge the heavy load, even though they,
so to speak, dug their hoofs into the asphalt. The driver got down; he
turned his whip around and used the handle; he beat the horses across
their backs; they tried again, stumbled and fell, got up and made another
effort. The driver became more and more enraged as people gathered around
and witnessed his dilemma; he went forward and beat the horses across the
eyes; he went back and struck them on the tender spots beneath the flanks,
and the horses squirmed and stumbled, and fell to their knees again, as if
they begged for mercy--Three times I tried to get at that brute, and every
time I was pushed back by the railing mob who wanted no interference. I
had no gun; I was helpless; I stood there with a penknife in my hands and
cursed and swore to high Heaven at that barbaric beast. Then somebody next
to me--a woman, a nun who carried on her breast the cross of Christ--said
mildly and reproachfully: 'You are committing an awful sin, sir; the Lord
is good; he forgives everything!' I turned to that unspeakably brutal
creature and said nothing, but glared at her and happened to spit in her
face--"

This delighted the clique.

"In the face? How did it turn out? The devil you say! Did you get away
with it?"

"No; I was arrested--But what I wanted to say is this: Never forgive; it
is brutal; it turns justice into a farce. A kind act should be repaid with
a still kinder act, but a wicked wrong should be avenged. If one is struck
on one cheek and turns the other in forgiveness and submission, then
goodness and justice lose all value. I wish to point out that the
result in Parliament to-day is not altogether an illogical consequence
of the conditions that have developed among us. We forgive and forget
treason in our leaders and excuse their vacillation and weakness in every
crisis. Now the youthful element should step forward, the young Norway,
invincible in its indignation and irresistible in its strength. But the
young Norway does not step forward; indeed no, we have mollycoddled it
with hymns and rot about peace eternal; we have taught it to admire
gentleness and submissiveness; above all, to emulate those who have
reached the highest degree of neutral toothlessness. Behold the country's
youth, strapping and full-grown, six foot tall, sucking its bottle and
growing fat and harmless. If some one smites it on one cheek it turns the
other accommodatingly, and keeps its fists in its pockets with admirable
self-control."

Coldevin's speech attracted not a little attention; they all looked
closely at him. He sat there as usual and spoke quietly, without
excitement. But his eyes blazed, and his hands trembled as he awkwardly
bent back his fingers until they cracked. He did not lift his voice above
the normal. Otherwise he did not look well; he wore a loose shirt-front,
and this had become disarranged and hung lopsidedly so that one could
glimpse a blue cotton shirt beneath. His beard straggled down his breast.

The Journalist nodded and remarked to his neighbour:

"Not at all bad! He is almost one of us."

Lars Paulsberg said jestingly, and still amiably:

"As I said before, I have done nothing but curse all day, so I guess I
have contributed considerably to the indignation of our youth."

Attorney Grande, who enjoyed himself immensely, was quite proud over his
idea of getting Coldevin to come. He told Milde once more how it had
happened: "I thought it would not be very lively here, and just then I ran
across this fellow outside, standing there all by himself looking in. It
kind of moved me, you know--"

Milde spoke up.

"You mentioned the conditions now prevailing. If by that you mean that we
are entirely surrounded by weakness and submissiveness, let me inform you
that you are much mistaken--"

"In that case I do not mean it, of course."

"But what do you mean, then? You cannot say that youth like ours, teeming
with talent and genius, is weak and of no account. Good God, man! there
never was a time when our youth was as rich in talent as at present."

"If there was, then I never heard of it," said even Norem, who had been
sitting quietly at a corner of the table emptying glass upon glass.

"Talent? Now that is an entirely different question, you know," said
Coldevin quietly. "But do you really think that the talents within our
youth are so sweepingly great?"

"He--he asks if--So our talents at present do not amount to so very much,
Mr. Coldevin?" Milde laughed contemptuously and turned to Irgens, who had
kept aloof from the conversation. "It looks bad for us, Irgens; the
phenomenon does not approve of us."

Mrs. Hanka now spoke; she wanted to smooth matters over. It could only be
a misunderstanding; Mr. Coldevin would surely explain himself
satisfactorily. Couldn't they listen to a man without losing their temper?
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Milde--"

"You are not much impressed with us who are supposed to have a little
talent, then?" asked Paulsberg, still indulgent.

"Impressed? I must admit that in my humble opinion things are a little on
the down grade with us," answered Coldevin. "I confess that that is my
opinion. And it is especially the country's youth I am thinking of. We
have begun a slow retrogression; in plain words, we are lowering our
standards, we are tapering down to a general zero. The young do not demand
much from themselves or from others any more; they accept the diminutive
and call it great; there is not much, not very much, needed to create a
stir nowadays. That is what I meant when I referred to the general
conditions."

"But, good Lord! what do you think of our younger writers, then?" cried
Journalist Gregersen, flushed and angry. "Our poets, yes! Have you read
any of them? Have you, for instance, ever come across the name of
Paulsberg, the name of Irgens?"

Aagot could not refrain from observing her old tutor. She was surprised to
note that this man, who invariably used to yield when he was contradicted,
now sat there with a ready reply to every remark and did not look very
timid either.

"You must not take offence at what I say," he begged. "I admit that I have
no business to express such opinions here; I ought to leave that to others
who understand these matters better than I; but if you want to know what I
think, then I must say that, according to my lights, our younger writers
do not seem to improve the conditions greatly. Of course, there can be no
fixed standard; everything depends on the point of view, and yours is not
mine; we are bound to differ. But, anyway, our younger writers do not lift
the level greatly; hardly, according to my understanding. It would seem
they lack the ability. Of course, that is no fault of theirs; but then
they have no right to pose as being greater than they are. It is a pity
that we lose sight of the greater and make mediocrity take its place. Look
at our youth; look at our authors; they are very clever, but--Yes, they
are both clever and industrious; they labour and toil, _but they lack
the spark_. Good God, how far they are from squandering their
treasures! They are saving and calculating and prudent. They write a few
verses and they print these few verses. They squeeze out a book now and
then; they delve into their inmost recesses and conscientiously scrape the
bottom until they arrive at a satisfactory result. They do not scatter
values broadcast; no, they do not fling gold along the highways. In former
days our poets could afford to be extravagant; there was wealth untold;
they towered rich and care-free and squandered their treasures with
glorious unconcern. Why not? There was plenty left. Oh, no, our
present-day authors are clever and sensible; they do not show us, as did
the old, a flood, a tempest, a red eruption of flame-tongued, primeval
power!"

Aagot's eyes were on him; he caught her glance of rapt attention, and she
made him understand with a warm smile that she had listened to his every
word. She wanted to show Ole how little she had meant her thoughtless
regret that he was no poet. She nodded to Coldevin and wished the poets
all they got. Coldevin was grateful for her smile; she was the only one
who smiled at him, and he did not mind the violent interruptions, the
shouts and rude questions: What kind of a phenomenon was he who could
assume this superior pose? What world-subduing exploits had he performed?
He should not remain incognito any longer; what was his real name? They
wanted to acclaim him!

Irgens was least affected of them all; he twirled his moustache and looked
at his watch to make everybody understand how this bored him. Glancing at
Coldevin, he whispered to Mrs. Hanka with an expression of disgust:

"It seems to me that this man is a little too untidy. Look at his collar,
or bib, or whatever one may call it. I noticed that he put his
cigar-holder in his vest-pocket a moment ago without first putting it in a
case. Who knows, there might be an old comb in the same pocket."

But with his air of undisturbed serenity, with his eyes fixed on a point
in the table, quietly indifferent, Coldevin listened to the exclamations
from the gentlemen of the party. The Journalist asked him pointblank if he
were not ashamed of himself.

"Leave him alone!" said Paulsberg. "I don't see why you want to annoy
him."

"It certainly looks bad for our poor country!" sneered the Journalist. "No
talents, no youth, nothing only a 'general condition.' He, he! God only
knows how it will all end! And we who have innocently assumed that a
people should honour and respect its young writers!"

Coldevin seized on this.

"Yes, but that is exactly what people are doing; nobody can justly
complain on that score! People respect most highly a man who has written a
book or two; he is admired far more, for instance, than the ablest
business man or the most talented professional! To our people an author
means a great deal; he is the essence of all that is distinguished and
admirable. There are probably very few countries in which the intellectual
life is dominated by authors to the degree it is here. As you probably
will admit, we have no statesmen; but our authors direct our politics, and
they do it well. It may have struck you that there are barren spots in our
scientific attainments; however, with true intuition, our authors are not
afraid to assume the burden and pose as scientists. It has surely not
escaped your attention that in all our history we have never produced a
thinker; never mind, our authors dabble in philosophy, and everybody
thinks they do it splendidly. It seems highly unjust to complain because
of a lack of appreciation of and admiration for our authors."

Paulsberg, who in his works had repeatedly proven himself a thinker and
philosopher of rank, sat and toyed with his eye-glass and smiled
superciliously. But when Coldevin added a few words and ended up with
saying that he had the greatest hope and faith in the country's practical
youth, in its young commercial talents, then a loud laugh greeted him, and
both the Journalist and Paulsberg shouted simultaneously that this was
great, by all the saints the best ever, so help me! Commercial talents--
whatever could that be? Talents for trading--what? Glory be!

"In my opinion you will find really great talents within the ranks of our
business youth," Coldevin continued undisturbed. "And I would advise you
to pay a little attention to them. They are building ships, opening new
markets, carrying on involved business enterprises on a hitherto undreamed
of scale--"

Coldevin could not be heard; they laughed and shouted, although out of
respect for their good friends the business men present they endeavoured
to change the subject. Ole Henriksen and Tidemand had listened in silence;
they were embarrassed and did not know how to take it, but began to speak
together in low voices. Suddenly Tidemand whispered:

"Can I come over and see you to-morrow about a business matter? I would
like to come early, about ten, if you have time then? All right; thanks!"

At Milde's corner of the table the discussion had swung to wines--old
wines, Johannisberger, Cabinet, Musigny. Milde understood the subject
thoroughly and contradicted the Attorney violently, although Grande, of
the well-known Grande family, was supposed to have drunk such wines since
he was a child.

"There is no end to your assertiveness lately," said Milde.

The Attorney glanced at him and muttered:

"Such a bit of an oil-painter will also presume to understand wines!"

Conversation strayed to the government art subsidies. Irgens listened
without changing a feature when Milde asserted that Ojen was the worthiest
applicant. It was exceedingly generous in Milde to express such views; he
himself had applied and needed the money as much as anybody. Irgens could
hardly understand it.

Interest in the preposterous tutor had entirely waned. Nobody spoke to him
any more; he had got hold of his hat, which he sat and twirled. Mrs. Hanka
addressed a couple of questions to him in order to be polite, but after
answering them he was entirely silent. It was strange that the man did not
notice how his shirt-front sagged; the slightest movement would correct
it. But he did not adjust it.

Paulsberg got up to take his leave. Before he went he manoeuvred the
Journalist into a corner and whispered:

"You might do me the favour to mention that I have about half completed my
new book. It might interest people to know I am at it."

Milde and the Attorney got up next; they awoke Norem, who was dozing after
all the many glasses he had emptied, and they got him on his legs with
difficulty. He began to speak; he had not quite heard the last, the very
last of the discussion; how had the poets fared? Oh, there was Mrs. Hanka;
so pleased to see her. But why had she arrived so late?

He was finally led outside.

"This means a general departure, I suppose?" asked Irgens, displeased. He
had tried to approach Miss Lynum once during the evening but without
success. She had plainly avoided him. He had noticed later on that
Coldevin's foolish remarks about the poets and the youth of the country
had amused her inordinately; what could that mean? Altogether it had been
an unpleasant evening. Mrs. Hanka had sat there with her cracked lips
unable to smile decently, and Mrs. Paulsberg was impossible. The evening
was simply wasted. And now the company was breaking up; no prospects for
livening up one's spirits with a little intimate half-hour.

Irgens promised to take his revenge on the clique because of the
indifference it seemed to show him. Perhaps next week....

Outside Tivoli the company parted. Mrs. Hanka and Aagot walked together
down the street.




VI


Tidemand came to H. Henriksen's office at ten the next morning. Ole was
standing at his desk.

Tidemand's errand was, as he had said, a matter of business only; he spoke
in a low voice and placed before Ole a telegram couched in mysterious
words. Where it said "Rising One," it really meant "Ten," and where it
said "Baisse U. S.," it meant an exportation prohibition on the Black Sea
and along the Danube, and a rise in America. The telegram was from
Tidemand's agent in Archangel.

Ole Henriksen immediately grasped the situation: on account of the Russian
crop failure, in connection with the already low supplies, Russia was
preparing to prohibit all grain exports. Hard times were coming. Norway,
too, would feel the pressure, and grain would soar to incredible prices.
It was necessary to get hold of as much as possible at no matter what
figure. In spite of official Russian denials of the rumours in English
newspapers, it seemed as if America already had scented the danger, for
American wheat was rising daily. From eighty-seven and eighty-eight it had
risen until it now fluctuated between one hundred and ten and one hundred
and fifteen. Nobody could predict to what heights it would climb.

Tidemand's business with Ole was a proposition that the two friends and
colleagues join in a speculation in American rye while there still was
time. They were to join forces and import a mass of rye that should
materially assist in keeping the country fed during the coming year. But
it was a matter of urgency; rye, too, was soaring; in Russia it was almost
unpurchasable.

Ole left his desk and began to walk up and down. His mind was working; he
had intended to offer Tidemand some refreshment, but forgot it entirely.
He was greatly tempted, but he was up to his neck in other pressing
engagements--that Brazilian affair had almost paralysed him for the
moment, and he did not expect to be able to take his profits until early
summer.

"There ought to be money in it," said Tidemand.

No doubt; that was not why Ole hesitated. But he simply was not able to do
it. He explained his circumstances and added that he was afraid to tackle
anything more at present. The speculation appealed to him, notwithstanding
his inability to participate; his eyes gleamed, and he inquired eagerly
into all the details. He took a piece of paper, made estimates, and
studied the telegram afresh with a thoughtful air. Finally he declared
that he could do nothing.

"Of course I can operate alone," said Tidemand. "I will do it on a smaller
scale, that is all. But I should have liked you to be in on this; I would
have felt safer. I realise that you cannot go further. However, I'll
telegraph myself; have you got a blank?"

Tidemand wrote out his telegram and handed it to Ole.

"I guess that is clear enough?"

Ole stepped back a pace.

"So much?" he exclaimed. "This is a big order, Andreas."

"It is big. But I hope the results will justify it," answered Tidemand
quietly. And unable to control a feeling that overwhelmed him at the
moment, he looked toward the wall and whispered as if to himself: "I don't
care how it turns out or about anything any more."

Ole looked at him and asked:

"Any news?"

"No--"

"Well, we'll see how it turns out."

Tidemand put the telegram in his pocket.

"I should have liked us both to be in this enterprise, Ole. I must confess
that I am in deep elsewhere, too, but--I have my ice to realise on. When
the warm weather comes I'll make money on that, don't you think?"

"Decidedly! As good as ready money, ice is."

"So I am not altogether on my knees. And may the Lord keep that sad fate
from me, both for my own sake and for the sake of mine!"

"But could you not as a matter of safety--Wait a moment. Pardon me for not
offering you a cigar; I know how you like to smoke while talking; I
forgot. Sit down a moment; I'll be back directly."

Tidemand knew that Ole was on his way to the cellar for the usual bottle
of wine, and tried to call him back, but Ole did not hear and returned in
a moment with the old, fuzzy bottle. They sat on the sofa as usual and
drank to each other.

"I simply wanted to ask," continued Ole, "are you sure you have considered
everything in connection with this American affair? I do not flatter
myself that I can teach you anything, you know, but--"

"Yes, I fancy I have calculated all contingencies," answered Tidemand.
"You notice I am using the term 'Delivery within three days.' Success
depends on quick action. I haven't even forgotten to consider the effect
of a possible presidential change in America."

"But wouldn't it be safer to place your limit a little closer? Perhaps you
ought not to buy over twelve."

"No; that would not be well. For you understand that if Russia closes,
then fifteen, or even twenty, is not too much. On the other hand, if she
does not close, then a hundred, yes, ninety, is far too much. In that case
I am done for."

They both reflected.

"I believe this enterprise is going to be lucky," said Tidemand suddenly.
"Really, I feel it. You know what it means when we traders have a
premonition of this kind."

"How are things otherwise?" asked Ole.

"Well," Tidemand answered hurriedly, "it does not look so bad just now,
not at all. Things are very much as usual at home."

"No change, then?"

"Well, no--I must get back now."

Tidemand got up. Ole followed him to the door and said:

"It wasn't you who didn't care how matters turn out, was it? Well, I am
glad you came, anyway."

The awkward fellow! This was Ole Henriksen's way of stiffening a comrade's
backbone.

But Tidemand did not go at once; he stood there with his hand on the
door-knob and shifted his eyes nervously from place to place.

"It can hardly be thought strange if I get a little downhearted once in a
while," he said. "Things do not look very bright for me; I do my best to
fix everything up, but I do not make much headway, not very much, no.
Well, we'll have to wait and see how matters shape themselves. I think it
is getting a little better, thank God."

"Does your wife keep at home more now? It seems to me that--"

"Hanka has been a good mother to the children lately. I have been very
happy because of that; it has brought us closer together, as it were. She
is busy fitting the children out for the country. It is wonderful the
things she gets together; I have never seen anything like it--blue and
white and red dresses! They are lying home; I look at them whenever I am
home. Perhaps I shouldn't place too much faith in it. She does not
consider herself married yet, she continues to call herself Lange. That
may be only a whim. She calls herself Tidemand, too; she does not forget
that. You yourself heard last night in Tivoli how she asked me for a
hundred. I am glad she does that; I don't mind, and shouldn't have
mentioned it if you hadn't heard it yourself. But it happened to be the
third hundred crowns she had got from me in two days. Don't misunderstand
me! But why does she ask me for money before people? Isn't that as if she
wanted to give out the impression that that is the only way to take me,
otherwise she wouldn't get any? She uses a good deal of money; I hardly
think she uses it for herself; I am sure she doesn't, for Hanka was never
extravagant. She must be giving it away; it is her affair if she helps
somebody. She gets quite a lot of money from me in a week's time;
sometimes she gets it when she goes out, and she has nothing left when she
returns, although she has bought nothing. Well, that does not matter. As
long as I have anything it belongs to her as well as to me; that is only
right and natural. I asked her jokingly once if she wanted to ruin me--
make a beggar out of me. It was only a joke, and I laughed heartily myself
as I said it. But I shouldn't have said it; she offered to leave the house
whenever I wanted her to--in short, divorce. She has told me that often
enough, but this time simply because of a joke. I said that I was sorry,
and I asked her pardon; I had never for a moment thought of such a thing
as that she might ruin me. 'Dear Andreas,' she asked me, 'can we never get
free from each other?' I do not know what I answered; I guess there was
not much sense to it, for she asked immediately for my key, as she had
lost her own. I gave it to her, and then she smiled. 'Smile again,' I
said, and she did it for my sake, and said smilingly that I was a big
baby. Yesterday morning I didn't see her before I got home from the
office. She was still working with the children's summer outfit and showed
me everything. She took out her handkerchief, and as she pulled it out
from her dress a tie fell out, a gentleman's red tie. I made out that I
did not see it; but I knew very well that the tie did not belong to me. I
knew it only too well. That is--understand me correctly--I did not see it
well enough to be sure whom it might belong to. It might even have been
one of my own ties, some old rag I have ceased to use. It is a peculiarity
of mine never to remember my own ties; I notice them so little, I
imagine--So things are coming around, as I said. And if my big trade now
succeeds, perhaps that will bring luck for us all. It would be fun to show
her that I am not such a dunce, ha, ha!"

The two friends talked a little further, after which Tidemand went to the
telegraph office. He was full of hope. His great idea was to discount the
crisis, to hold enormous supplies of grain when nobody else should have
any. He would succeed! He walked with a springy step, like a youth, and
avoided meeting anybody who might detain him.

       *       *       *       *       *

A telegram to the foreign office announced five days later that the
Russian government, owing to the shortage of grain and the dark outlook
for the coming harvests, had been obliged to prohibit all exports of rye,
wheat, corn, and grist from the harbours of Russia and Finland.

Tidemand's calculations had proven correct.




RIPENING




I


Irgens had published his book. This superior soul, who never took anybody
into his confidence, had, to the great surprise of everybody, put out a
charming volume of poems just when spring was in full blow. Was that not a
surprise? True, it was two years since his drama had appeared; but it was
now proven that he had not been idle; he had conceived one poem after
another, and quietly put them away, and when the heap had grown big enough
he had given it to the printer. It was thus a proud man should act; nobody
exceeded Irgens in strong and warm discretion.

His book was exhibited in the bookstore windows; people discussed it and
predicted it would attract much attention; the ladies were enraptured with
the gently glowing love stanzas scattered through it. There were also many
bold and courageous words, full of manliness and will: poems to Justice,
to Liberty, to the Kings--God knows he did not spare the kings. But Irgens
noticed no more than ever that people admired him when he strolled down
the promenade. Gracious! if they enjoyed looking at him, that was their
affair. He was frigidly indifferent, as ever.

"I must admit you are a foxy fellow!" exclaimed even Norem, the Actor,
when he ran across him on the street. "Here you go along quietly and say
nothing, and all of a sudden you set off a rocket right under our very
noses. You are unique!"

The Attorney, however, could not help giving him a little dig; he laughed
and said: "But you have enemies, Irgens. I was talking to a man today who
refused to see anything gigantic in the publishing of a small volume after
a lapse of nearly two years and a half!"

Then Irgens flung back the haughty reply: "I take a pride in a limited
production. The quantity does not matter."

Later on, however, he inquired concerning the identity of this detractor.
He was not tortured by curiosity; people knew fortunately that he was
quite indifferent to public opinion. But anyhow--was it Paulsberg?

No, it was not Paulsberg.

Irgens made a few more questions and guesses, but the pretentious Attorney
refused to betray his critic. He made a secret out of it, and irritated
Irgens as much as he could. "It seems you are not so altogether
indifferent," he teased and chuckled gleefully.

Irgens murmured contemptuously: "Nonsense!" But he was evidently
considerably bothered by this defamer, this jealous fellow who had
criticised him, and tried to belittle his exploit. If not Paulsberg, who
then? Who among them had done better during the last two and a half years?
Irgens knew nobody; among the younger writers he was absolutely paramount.
Suddenly something struck him, and he said indifferently:

"Of course, it is a matter of absolute indifference to me who the person
is; but if it is that lout Coldevin--Lord, man! do you really pay any
attention to what such a freak says? A man who carries a cigar-holder and
a dirty comb in the same pocket! Well, I must be going; so long!"

Irgens walked off. If the enemy was this barbarian from the backwoods,
well and good! His mind was again relieved; he nodded to acquaintances and
looked quite cheerful. He had for a moment felt aggrieved that anybody
should be grumbling behind his back, but that was now forgotten; it would
be foolish to take offence at this old bushwhacker.

Irgens intended to take a walk around the harbour so as to be left in
peace; this more or less stupid talk about his book had really got on his
nerves. Were people now beginning to prate about working hours and
quantity in connection with poetry? In that case his book would be found
wanting; it was not so very ponderous; it did not outweigh one of
Paulsberg's novels, thank God!

When he reached the harbour he suddenly caught a glimpse of Coldevin's
head behind a pile of packing-cases. Irgens noticed the direction of his
glance, but this told him nothing; the old imbecile was evidently lost in
some crazy meditation or other. It was amusing to see him so altogether
unconscious of his surroundings, standing there agape with his nose in the
air. His eyes were almost in a direct line with the little office window
at the end of Henriksen's warehouse; he stared unblinkingly and apparently
unseeingly at that particular spot. Irgens was on the point of going over
in order to inquire if he perhaps wanted to see Ole Henriksen; he would
then be able to turn the conversation to his book and get the old man to
express an opinion. It would be quite entertaining; the oaf would be
forced to admit that he valued poetry according to weight. But was it
worth while? It was really of no account whatever what this person might
think. Irgens made a turn across the docks; he looked up--Coldevin had not
moved. Irgens sauntered past, crossed the street on his way up-town.
Suddenly Ole Henriksen and Aagot came out of the warehouse and caught
sight of him.

"Good day, good day, Irgens!" called Ole with outstretched hand. "Glad to
see you. I want to thank you for the book you sent us. You are a wonder;
you surprise your very best friends even--poet, master!"

Ole talked on, pleased and happy over his friend's accomplishment,
admiring now one stanza, now another, and thanking Irgens over and over.

"Aagot and I have read it with beating hearts!" he said. "I really believe
Aagot wept a little now and then--Yes; you did; no use denying it, Aagot.
You need not feel ashamed of that--What I wanted to say--come along to
the telegraph office, Irgens; then we'll drop in at Sara's afterward, if
you like. I have a little surprise for you."

Aagot said nothing.

"You can walk up and down a little while I telegraph," said Ole. "But
don't get impatient if it takes some time. I have got to catch a ship
before it leaves Arendal!"

And Ole ran up the stairs and disappeared; Irgens looked after him.

"Listen--I want to thank you for your book!" said Aagot quickly in a low
voice. "You will never know how I have enjoyed it."

"Really? Truly? It is good to hear you say that," he replied, full of
gratitude. That she should have waited until Ole had left in order to
thank him was a charming and delicate tribute; she had done it now much
more genuinely and warmly; her words meant so much more now. She told him
what had especially stirred her; it was that wonderful "Song to Life";
never had she read anything so beautiful. Then, as if she feared she had
spoken too warmly and laid herself open to misunderstanding, she added in
an ordinary tone of voice that Ole had been just as enchanted as she; he
had read most of it aloud to her.

Irgens made a wry face. Did she care to have things read to her? Really?

It was intentionally that Aagot had mixed Ole's name into the
conversation. This afternoon he had once more asked her about the wedding,
and she had left everything to him; there was no reason for delay. It had
been decided to have the wedding after Ole had returned from London this
coming fall. Ole was as good as the day was long; he never grew impatient
with her and was almost absurdly fond of her. He had said that perhaps she
had better spend a little time in the house occasionally. She had flushed;
she could not help it; it was disgraceful not to have stirred a finger to
make herself a little useful instead of hanging around the office early
and late. Suppose she began to think a little about their house, said Ole;
she might make up her mind about things they wanted, furniture and such.
Of course, she should have all the help she needed, but--Yes, it was only
too true; she had not given her new home a thought; she had simply hung
about the office with him. She had begun to cry, and had told him how
silly and useless she really was; she was a goose, a stupid little goose.
But Ole had taken her in his arms and had sat down with her on the sofa
and told her that she was only a child, a charming, wonderful child, but
she was getting older and more sensible right along; time and life were
before them. How he loved her! His eyes, too, were wet; he looked like a
child himself. Above all, there was no hurry; she had free hands to decide
and arrange, just as she pleased. Yes; they were fully agreed....

"I must confess I feared you had lost interest in us poets," said Irgens.
"I was afraid we had forfeited your good-will in some way."

She woke up and looked at him.

"Why do you say that?"

"I had come to that conclusion. You remember that evening at Tivoli when
your old tutor was quite severe on us poor scribblers? You looked as if
you heartily approved of everything he said."

"No, you are mistaken."

Pause.

"I am very glad that I have met you, anyway," said Irgens as indifferently
as he could. "Only to see you is enough to put me in good spirits. It must
be wonderful to be able to bring happiness to others simply by appearing."

She had not the heart to show displeasure over that; perhaps he really
meant it, strange though it sounded, and she answered smilingly:

"It would be hard on you if you depended on me to bring you good spirits."
God knows she had not meant to pain him; she had said it in all innocence,
without any veiled thought or ulterior motive; but when Irgens's head
drooped and he said quietly, "Yes, I understand!" it occurred to her that
several interpretations might be placed upon this sentence, and she added
hurriedly: "For you do not see me very often. By the way, I am going to
the country this summer; I shall probably be away until fall."

He stopped.

"Are you going to the country?"

"Yes. I am going with Mrs. Tidemand. I shall be with her until fall."

Irgens was silent and thoughtful a few moments.

"Has it been decided that Tidemands are going to the country, then?" he
asked. "I understood it was not settled yet."

Aagot nodded and said that it had been decided.

"That pleasure has been denied me," he said with a wistful smile. "No
country joys for me."

"Why not?"

She regretted her question immediately; of course, he could not afford it.
She was always so indelicate and awkward! She added a few meaningless
words to save him the humiliation of a reply.

"When I want to go to the country I hire a boat and row over to the
island," he said with his sad smile. "Anyway, it is better than nothing."

The island? She grew 'attentive. "Of course, the island! I haven't been
there yet. Is it pretty?"

"Beautiful! There are some wonderful places. I know them all. If I only
dared I would ask you to let me row you over some time?"

This was not said in simple courtesy; it was a request. She understood it
perfectly. But she said, all the same, that she was not sure she had time;
it would be interesting, but--

Pause.

"I wrote many of my poems there," continued Irgens. "I should like to show
you the place."

Aagot was silent.

"Come, please!" he exclaimed suddenly, and wanted to take her hand.

Just then Ole Henriksen appeared on the stairs and came toward them.
Irgens remained in his pleading attitude; he said with outstretched hand:

"Do, please!"

She glanced at him hurriedly.

"Yes," she whispered.

Ole joined them; he had not been able to get hold of Arendal at once; he
could not get a reply until to-morrow. Off to Sara now! He really had a
surprise for them--he carried in his pocket Ojen's latest work. They just
ought to hear it!




II


Quite a number of the clique were ensconced at Sara's, drinking and
gossiping. Tidemand was there, happy and contented with everything. He had
been all smiles since his success with that enormous enterprise in rye.
The grain had begun to arrive and was being stored in his warehouses,
thousands upon thousands of sacks. They grew into mountains; there was no
room for anything else; even Ole Henriksen had been obliged to let him
have space for storing. Tidemand walked around and viewed this wealth with
pride; even he had accomplished something above the ordinary. Never for an
instant did he regret that he had given such unlimited orders.

Journalist Gregersen offered Ole one finger and said: "You have something
on your conscience, Ole?"

"Oh, nothing sensational, exactly," said Ole. "I had a letter from Ojen;
he sends me his latest poem. Do you want to hear it?"

"Does he send you his--Has he sent you a manuscript?" exclaimed Milde in
astonishment. "I have never heard anything like it!"

"Now, no personalities!" warned the Journalist.

"Yes, but excuse me--why in the world did he send it to _you_, Ole?"
asks Milde again and does not give in.

Irgens glanced at Aagot. She did not appear to be listening, but was
talking eagerly with Mrs. Hanka. Irgens turned to Milde and told him
curtly that there were certain impertinences which even friends were not
supposed to submit to--was that clear enough?

Milde burst out laughing. He had never heard anything funnier. Did they
get offended? He had not meant anything of a harmful nature, nothing
offensive, mentally or physically! The idea simply had tickled his sense
of humour. But if it wasn't funny, all right....

Ole took out his manuscript.

"It is something out of the ordinary," he said. "Ojen calls it
'Memories.'"

"Let me read it," said Norem quickly. "I am, at any rate, supposed to know
a little about reading."

Ole handed him the manuscript.

"Jehovah is very busy--" began Norem. "Ojen has expressly stated in a
marginal note that it is not to be Jahve; now you know it!"

    Jehovah is very busy; Jehovah has much to attend to. He was with me
    one night when I wandered in the forest; He descended to me while I
    lay on my face in prayer.

    I lay there praying in the night, and the forest was silent.

    The night oppressed me like an unbending, disjointed absurdity, and
    the night was like a silence in which something breathing and mute was
    abroad.

    Then Jehovah descended to me.

    When Jehovah came the air rushed away from Him like a wake; birds were
    blown away like chaff, and I clung to the sod and the trees and the
    rocks.

    "You are calling me?" said Jehovah.

    "I call out in my distress!" I answered.

    And Jehovah spoke: "You want to know what to choose in life, Beauty or
    Love or Truth?" And Jehovah said: "You want to know?"

    And when He said: "You want to learn that?" I did not answer, but was
    silent; for He knew my thoughts.

    Then Jehovah touched my eyes, and I beheld:

    I saw a tall woman against the skies. She wore no garments, and when
    she moved her body shimmered like white silk, and she wore no
    garments; for her body quivered toward me in rapture.

    And she stood against the skies in a sunrise, yes, in a crimson dawn;
    and the sun shone upon her, and a scarlet light streamed up through
    the skies, yes, a light of blood surrounded her.

    And she was tall and white, and her eyes were like two blue flowers
    which brushed my soul when she looked at me; and when she spoke to me
    she entreated me and urged me toward her, and her voice was like a
    sweet phosphorescence with a taste of the sea.

    I rose from the earth and stretched forth my arms toward her, and when
    I stretched both my arms toward her she again implored me, and her
    body was odorous with rapture. And I was gloriously stirred in my
    inmost being, and I rose and gave her my lips in the morning glow,
    and my eyes fell.

    When I looked up again the woman was old. And the woman was old and
    hoary with years, and her body had shrunk with age, and she had very
    little life left. But when I looked up the sky was darkling toward
    night, yes dark like night, and the woman was without hair. I looked
    to her and knew her not and knew not the sky, and when I looked toward
    the woman she was gone.

    "This was Beauty!" said Jehovah. "Beauty wanes. I am Jehovah!"

    And Jehovah touched my eyes again, and I beheld:

    I saw a terrace, high, beneath a castle. There were two people there,
    and the two people on the terrace were young and full of joy. And the
    sun shone on the castle, and on the terrace, and the sun shone on the
    two people and on the gravel deep, deep down the abyss, on the hard
    driveway. And the people were two, a man and a woman in the springtide
    of youth, and both were speaking honeyed words, and both were tender
    toward each other with desire.

    "See the flower on my breast!" he said; "can you hear what it is
    saying?" And he leaned backward toward the railing on the terrace
    and said: "This flower which you gave me stands here and murmurs
    and whispers toward you, and it murmurs: 'Beloved, Queen, Alvilde,
    Alvilde!' Do you hear it?"

    And she smiled and looked down, and she took his hand and placed his
    hand against her heart and answered: "But do you hear what my heart
    says to you? My heart throbs toward you and it blushes with emotion
    for your sake. And my heart babbles in joyful confusion and says:
    'Beloved, I pause before you and almost perish when you look at me,
    Beloved!'"

    He leaned toward the terrace-railing and gloriously his breast heaved
    with love. And deep, deep below was the abyss and the hard driveway.
    And he pointed his finger down the depths and said: "Throw down your
    fan, and I will follow it!" And when he had spoken his breast rose and
    sank, and he placed his hands on the railing and made ready for the
    leap.

    Then I cried out and closed my eyes....

    But when I looked up I saw again the two people, and they were both
    older and both in their prime. And the two did not speak to each
    other, but were silent with their thoughts. And when I looked up the
    sky was grey, and the two walked up the white castle-stairway, and she
    was full of indifference, yes full of hate in her steely eyes, and
    when I looked for the third time I saw also anger and hate in his
    glance, and his hair was grey like the grey skies.

    And as they ascended the stairs she dropped her fan, one step down it
    dropped, and she said with quivering lips and pointed downward: "I
    dropped my fan--there it lies on the lower step--please hand it to me,
    dear!"

    And he did not answer, but walked on and called a servant to pick up
    the fan.

    "This was Love," said Jehovah. "Love perishes. I am Jehovah!"

    And Jehovah touched my eyes for the last time, and I beheld:

    I saw a town and a public square, and I saw a scaffold. And when I
    listened I heard a seething sound of voices, and when I looked I saw
    many people who talked and gritted their teeth with joy. And I saw a
    man who was being bound, a malefactor who was being bound with leather
    thongs, and the malefactor's countenance was haughty and proud, and
    his eyes shone like stars. But his garment was torn and his feet stood
    naked on the ground, and his clothes were almost gone, yes his cloak
    was worn to almost nothing.

    And I listened and heard a voice, and when I looked I saw that the
    malefactor was speaking, and the malefactor spoke proudly and
    gloriously. And they bade him be silent, but he spoke, he testified,
    he shouted, and when they bade him be silent he did not cease with
    fear. And when the malefactor spoke the mob ran up and silenced his
    lips, and when he mutely pointed to the sky and to the sun, and when
    he pointed to his heart which still beat warmly, the mob ran up and
    struck him. And when the mob struck him the malefactor fell to his
    knees, and he knelt and clasped his hands and testified mutely,
    without words, in spite of the cruel blows.

    And I looked at the malefactor and saw his eyes like stars, and I saw
    the mob throw him down and hold him on the scaffold with their hands.
    And when once more I looked I saw an axe-blade write in the air, and
    when I listened I heard the stroke of the axe against the scaffolding
    and the people joyfully shouting. And while I listened a
    single-throated cry rose toward heaven from people groaning with
    ecstasy.

    But the malefactor's head rolled in the dirt and the mob ran up and
    seized it and lifted it high by the hair. And the malefactor's head
    still spoke, and it testified with unquenchable voice and spoke loudly
    all the words it uttered. And the malefactor's head was not silent
    even in death.

    But the mob ran up and took hold of the malefactor's head by the
    tongue and lifted it high by the tongue. And the vanquished tongue was
    mute, and the tongue spoke no more. But the eyes were like stars, yes,
    like gleaming stars to be seen by everybody....

    Then Jehovah said: "This was Truth. And Truth speaks even after its
    head is severed. And with its tongue bound its eyes shine like stars.
    I am Jehovah!"

    When Jehovah had spoken I fell on my face and spoke not, but was
    silent with much thought. And I thought that Beauty was lovely ere
    it waned and Love was sweet ere it perished, and I thought that Truth
    endured like stars everlasting. And tremblingly I thought of Truth.

    And Jehovah said: "You wanted to know what to choose in life?" And
    Jehovah said then: "Have you chosen?"

    I lay on my face and answered, full of many thoughts:

    "Beauty was lovely and Love was very sweet; and if I choose Truth,
    it is like the stars, eternal."

    And Jehovah spake once more and asked me:

    "Have you chosen?"

    And my thoughts were many, my thoughts warred mightily within me, and
    I answered:

    "Beauty was like a morning glow." And when I had said this I whispered
    and said: "Love was also sweet and glorious like a little star in my
    soul."

    But then I felt Jehovah's eye on me, and Jehovah's eye read my
    thoughts. And for the third time Jehovah asked and said:

    "Have you chosen?"

    And when He said for the third time: "Have you chosen?" my eyes stared
    with terror, yes, all my strength had left me. And when He said for
    the last time: "Have you chosen?" I remembered Beauty and Love and
    remembered them both, and I answered Jehovah:

    "I choose Truth!"

       *       *       *       *       *

    But I still remember....

"Well, that's all," concluded Norem.

Everybody was silent for a moment; then the Journalist said:

"I refrain from expressing an opinion; I notice Milde is going to say
something."

And Milde did not refrain; far from it; on the contrary, he had a remark
to make. Could anybody tell him what it was all about? He admired Ojen as
much as anybody, but was there any sense to all this "Jehovah said" and
"Jehovah said"? He wanted to be enlightened.

"But why are you always so unkind to Ojen?" asked Mrs. Hanka. "Memories--
can't you understand? To me it seemed beautiful and full of feeling; don't
spoil it for me now." And she turned to Aagot and said: "Didn't you find
it so, too?"

"But, dear Mrs. Hanka," exclaimed Milde, "don't say that I am always
unkind to Ojen! Do I not wish him success with his application for the
subsidy, contrary to my own interests? But this blessed new 'intention' is
beyond me. Memories--all right. But where, in Heaven's name, is the point?
Jehovah has never visited him; it is an invention. And, furthermore, why
didn't he choose both Youth and Beauty, and Truth as well? That is what I
should have done. The point, I say!"

"But that is just it--there is no definite point," replied Ole Henriksen.
"So Ojen says in a letter to me. Its effect lies in its euphony, he says."

"He does? No, that fellow is the same wherever he goes. That is the
trouble. Not even the mountains can do anything for him. Goats' milk and
pine woods and peasant girls have not the slightest effect on him, as it
were--I am still at a loss to understand why he sent _you_ his
manuscript, Ole; but if it is an offence to ask, of course, then--"

"I really don't know why he sent it to me," said Ole quietly. "He tells me
that he wanted me to see that he was doing something and not wasting his
time altogether. He is anxious to get back, though; he cannot stand
Torahus any longer."

Milde whistled.

"I understand! He asked you for carfare!"

"I do not suppose he has much money left. That could hardly be expected,"
answered Ole, and put the manuscript in his pocket. "As for me, I think it
is a remarkable poem, irrespective of your opinion."

"Surely, old fellow; but please don't talk about poetry," interrupted
Milde. And as it dawned on him that he had been a little too rude to the
poor peddler in Aagot's presence, he added hurriedly: "I mean--Isn't it
too much of a bore to talk about poetry and poetry all the time? Give us,
for a change, a little fishery talk, a little railway politics--Isn't it a
fierce lot of rye you are storing, Tidemand?"

As Tidemand saw many eyes upon him, he could not entirely ignore the
Artist's question, and he answered:

"Yes, I have tried to strike a modest blow; I cannot deny it. It all
depends now on how things turn out in Russia. If, in spite of everything
that had been forecasted, the crops should prove even middling, it does
not look any too bright for me and my rye. Rains in Russia now would
mean--"

"Rains are falling now," said Gregersen. "The English papers have been
informed of a sufficient rainfall in the larger provinces. Are you selling
your rye already?"

Of course, Tidemand had bought to sell if he could get his price.

Milde had moved over to Paulsberg, and spoke to him in a low whisper.
Ojen's prose poem had caused him some anxiety. Perhaps, after all, there
was something to this fellow, this competitor in the matter of the
subsidy. What was Paulsberg's opinion?

"You know I don't care to speak for or against in such a matter," said
Paulsberg. "But I have called at the ministry a few times and expressed my
preference. I hope it may carry some weight."

"Of course, of course, I didn't mean--Well, the Exhibition closes
to-morrow. We ought to get busy and finish that picture of yours. Can you
sit tomorrow?"

Paulsberg nodded and turned away.

Irgens had gradually lost his good spirits; it irritated him that no one
had mentioned his book. It was the latest event; why wasn't it even
referred to? Everybody was only too familiar with Ojen's filigree fancies.
Irgens shrugged his shoulders. Paulsberg had not indicated approval of his
book by a single word. Perhaps he was waiting to be asked? But Irgens
could get along without Paulsberg's opinion.

Irgens rose.

"Are you going?" asked Mrs. Hanka.

Irgens said good night to her and to Miss Aagot, nodded to the others, and
left Sara's.

He had only gone a few steps when he heard somebody call him. Mrs. Hanka
was hurrying after him; she had left her wraps in the cafe and had
followed in order to say good night properly. Wasn't that nice of her? She
smiled and was very happy.

"I have hardly seen you since I got your book. How I have enjoyed every
word!" she exclaimed, and put her hand in his coat pocket in order to be
close to him. He felt that she left an envelope in his pocket. "Oh, your
verses, your verses!" she said again and again.

He could not remain impassive in the presence of this warm admiration. He
wanted to return it, to show her how fond he was of her, and while in this
mood he confided to her that he, too, had applied for the subsidy. What
did she think of that? He had really applied, briefly and without
enclosing any recommendations, simply sending his book. That ought to be
sufficient.

Mrs. Hanka did not answer at once.

"You have suffered, then," she said; "you have lacked--I mean, you have
had to apply like the others--"

"Well, good Lord," he answered, and laughed, "what are the subsidies for,
anyway? I have not suffered want; but why not apply when one can do it
without loss of prestige? And I did not humble myself; be sure of that. 'I
hereby apply for the subsidy and enclose my last book'--that was all.
There was no kowtowing whatever. And when I survey my fellow applicants I
hardly think I s

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