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."