Three days later Irgens received a note from Mrs. Hanka.
He was down-town; he had met a few acquaintances; he did not say much, but
was in a satisfied frame of mind. He had taken a look at Paulsberg's great
portrait which was now exhibited in the Arrow, in the large window which
everybody had to pass; people crowded in front of it continually. The
painting was elegant and obtrusive; Paulsberg's well-groomed form looked
very distinguished in the plain cane-bottomed chair, and people wondered
if that was the chair in which he had written his books. All the
newspapers had mentioned the picture in flattering terms.
Irgens had a glass of wine in front of him and listened abstractedly to
the conversation. Tidemand was still optimistic; that bit of rain in
Russia had not depressed his hopes. The prices were not soaring as yet,
but they surely would. Suddenly Irgens pricked up his ears: Tidemand was
talking about their summer plans.
"We are not going to the country after all," he said; "Hanka thought--In
fact, I told her plainly that if she wanted to go she would have to go
alone; I was too busy to think of getting off. Hanka was very nice about
it; she agreed to stay in the city."
The door opened and Milde entered. The corpulent chap beamed happily and
shouted, full of the great sensation he was going to spring:
"Congratulate me, good people, I have won the prize! Imagine, in its
inscrutable wisdom the ministry has chosen to bestow the subsidy upon me!"
"Have _you_ received the subsidy?" asked Irgens slowly.
"Yes, can you understand it? How it happened I am at a loss to know. I got
it from under your very noses! I hear that you, too, applied, Irgens?"
Silence fell upon the crowd at the table. Nobody had expected that, and
they were all wondering what influence had been brought to bear. Milde had
got the subsidy--what next?
"Well, I congratulate you!" said Tidemand, and gave Milde his hand.
"Thank you," Milde replied. "I want you to lend me some money now, so that
I can celebrate properly; you'll get it back when I cash in."
Irgens looked at his watch as if he suddenly remembered something and got
up.
"I, too, congratulate you," he said. "I am sorry to have to leave at once;
I have to--No; my object in applying was an entirely different one; I'll
tell you about it later," he added in order to hide his disappointment.
Irgens went home. So Milde had been chosen! That was the way Norway
rewarded her talents. Here he had hurled his inspired lyric in their
faces, and they did not even know what it was! _Whom_ had they
preferred? None other than oil-painter Milde, collector of ladies'
corsets!
Of course, he knew how it had happened; Paulsberg was behind it. Paulsberg
had supported Milde's application, and Milde had painted Paulsberg's
picture. A simon-pure advertising conspiracy! And when Irgens passed the
Arrow and saw the painting he spat contemptuously on the pavement. He had
seen through this hypocritical scurviness. However, he would find means to
make himself felt.
But why in the world should Lars Paulsberg be allowed to dispose of these
subsidies? True, he had never let slip an opportunity to ingratiate
himself with the newspapers; he had his press-agents; he took good care
that his name shouldn't be forgotten. But apart from that? Alas, a few
novels in the style of the seventies, a popular and amateurish criticism
of such a moss-grown dogma as the Atonement! What did it amount to when
one looked at it critically? But the fact that he had the press behind him
made his words carry weight. Yes, he was certainly a shrewd and thrifty
soul, a real backwoods bargain-hunter. He knew what he was doing when he
even allowed his wife to accept Journalist Gregersen's beer-perfumed
attentions! Faugh, what a sordid mess!
Well, he was not going to gain success by employing such methods; he hoped
he would manage to get along without unfairness. He had one weapon--his
pen. That was the kind of man _he_ was.
He went home and locked his door. There would still be time to regain his
composure before Mrs. Hanka's arrival. He tried to write, but found it
impossible. He paced back and forth furiously, pale with anger, bitter and
vindictive because of this defeat. He would, by Heaven, avenge this wrong;
no gentle words were to flow from his pen henceforth!
At last Mrs. Hanka arrived.
No matter how often she had entered this apartment, she always felt a
certain embarrassment at first, and she usually said in order to hide it:
"Does Mr. Irgens live here?"
But she noticed at once that Irgens was not in a playful mood to-day, and
she asked what was the matter. When he had told her of the great calamity
she, too, was indignant: "How unjust! What a scandal! Had Milde been
selected?"
"In payment for Paulsberg's portrait," said Irgens. "Well, it cannot be
helped; don't let it irritate you; I am reconciled."
"You take it beautifully; I don't see how you can."
"The only effect it has on me is to make me a little bitter; it does not
break my spirit."
"I simply cannot understand it; no, I can't. Did you send your book with
your application?"
"Certainly--Oh, my book! I might as well not have written it; so far
nobody seems to have noticed it. There has been no review of it so far in
any of the papers." And, angry because of this newspaper neglect of his
work, he gritted his teeth and walked up and down.
She looked sadly at him.
"Now, don't allow this to embitter you," she said. "You have great
provocation, but all the same--You can live without that miserable
subsidy. You know that nobody is your equal!"
"And what good does that do me? Judge for yourself; my book has not been
mentioned in a single newspaper!"
Mrs. Hanka had for the first time--yes, for the very first time--a feeling
that her hero was not the superior being she had imagined. A shuddering
thought pierced her heart: he did not carry his disappointment with more
than ordinary pride. She looked at him a little closer. His eyes were not
so clear, his mouth was drawn and his nostrils dilated. But it was only a
shuddering thought.
Then he added: "You might do me the favour to try to interest Gregersen in
my book, and see if he won't review it in the _Gazette_." And as he
noticed that she grew more and more thoughtful, that she even looked
interrogatingly straight into his eyes, he added: "Of course, you need not
ask him directly--only give him a little hint, a reminder."
Could this be Irgens? But she remembered at once his painful position,
alone as he was, fighting a conspiracy single-handed; and she excused him.
She ought to have thought of giving Gregersen a little hint herself and
spared her Poet this humiliation. Yes, she certainly would speak to
Gregersen at once.
And Irgens thanked her; his bitterness vanished slowly. They sat silently
on the sofa some time; then she said:
"Listen! An awful thing happened with that red tie of yours--you remember
the one I took from you once? He saw it!"
"How could you be so careless? What did he say?"
"Nothing; he never says anything. It fell out as I opened my dress. Well,
don't let that worry you; it doesn't matter. When can I see you again?"
Ever, _ever_ her tenderness was the same! Irgens took her hand and
caressed it. How fortunate he was to have her! She was the only one in all
the world who understood him, who was good to him--How about that stay in
the country? Had she given it up?
Yes; she was not going. She told him frankly that she had had no trouble
changing her husband's mind; he had given in at once. But she was sorry
for the children.
"Yes," answered Irgens sympathetically. And suddenly he asked in a
whisper:
"Did you lock the door as you came in?"