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!