On the 17th of May, [Footnote: Norway's Independence Day.] in the
morning, the birds are singing over the city.
A coal-heaver, tired from a night of toil, wanders up through the docks
with his shovel across his shoulder; he is black, weary, and athirst; he
is going home. And as he walks along, the city begins to stir; a shade is
raised here and there; flags are flung from the windows. It is the 17th of
May.
All stores and schools are closed; the roar from the wharves and factories
is stilled. Only the winches rattle; they shatter the air with their
cheerful noise this bright morning. Departing steamers blow white clouds
of steam from their exhausts; the docks are busy, the harbour is alive.
And letter-carriers and telegraph messengers have already commenced their
rounds, bringing news, scattering information through the doors, whirling
up in the hearts of men emotions and feelings like leaves in an autumn
wind.
A stray dog with his nose on the pavement lopes through the streets, hot
on a scent and without a thought for anything else. Suddenly he stops,
jumps up and whines; he has found a little girl who is leaving on every
stoop newspapers full of 17th-of-May freedom and bold, ringing phrases.
The little girl jerks her tiny body in all directions, twitches her
shoulders, blinks and hurries from door to door. She is pale and
emaciated; she has Saint Vitus's dance.
The coal-heaver continues his walk with a heavy, long stride. He has
earned a good night's wage; these enormous English coal-steamers and the
many merchantmen from all over the world are indeed a blessing to such as
he! His shovel is shiny with wear; he shifts it to his other shoulder and
it glitters with every step he takes, signals to heaven with gleaming
flashes; it cuts the air like a weapon and shines like silver. The
coal-heaver runs foul of a gentleman coming out of a gateway; the
gentleman smells of liquor and looks a little shaky; his clothes are
silk-lined. As soon as he has lit a cigar he saunters down the street and
disappears.
The gentleman's face is small and round, like a girl's; he is young and
promising; it is Ojen, leader and model for all youthful poets. He has
been in the mountains to regain his health, and since his return he has
had many glorious nights; his friends have acclaimed him without ceasing.
As he turns toward the fortress he meets a man he seems to know; they both
stop.
"Pardon me, but haven't we met before?" asks Ojen politely.
The stranger answers with a smile:
"Yes, on Torahus. We spent an evening together."
"Of course; your name is Coldevin. I thought I knew you. How are you?"
"Oh, so so--But are you abroad so early?"
"Well, to tell the truth, I haven't been to bed yet."
"Oh, I see!"
"The fact of the matter is that I have hardly been in bed a single night
since my return. I am in the hands of my friends. And that means that I am
in my element once more--It is strange, Mr. Coldevin, how I need the city;
I love it! Look at these houses, these straight, pure lines! I only feel
at home here. The mountains--Lord preserve us! And yet, I expected much
when I went there."
"How did you get on? Did you get rid of your nervousness?"
"Did I? To tell you the truth, my nervousness is part of myself; it
belongs to me, as the Doctor says; there is nothing to be done about it."
"So you have been to the mountains and substantiated the fact that your
nervousness is chronic? Poor young talent, to be afflicted with such a
weakness!"
Ojen looked at him in amazement. But Coldevin smiled and continued to talk
innocently. So he did not like the country? But did he not feel that his
talent had been benefited by the mountain air?
"Not at all. I have never noticed that my talent stood in need of
bracing."
"Of course not."
"I have written a lengthy prose poem while I was away, so you see I have
not altogether wasted my time. Well, you will pardon me for renewing our
acquaintance so abruptly; but I must get home and get a little sleep now.
Very pleased to have met you again."
And Ojen walked off.
Coldevin shouted after him:
"But it is the 17th of May to-day!"
Ojen turned and looked surprised.
"Well, what of it?"
Coldevin shook his head and laughed shortly.
"Nothing. Nothing at all. I only wanted to see if you remembered it. And I
see that you remembered it perfectly."
"Yes," said Ojen, "one does not altogether forget the teachings of
childhood days."
Coldevin stood there and looked after him. _He_ was only waiting for
the processions to start. His coat was beginning to be rather shiny; it
was carefully brushed, but shabby; in the left lapel was fastened securely
a little silk bow in the Norwegian colours.
He shivered, for the air was still chilly; he walked rapidly in order to
get down to the harbour whence sounded the energetic rattle of anchor
chains. He nodded and glanced at the waving flags, counted them, and
followed their graceful billowing against the blue sky. Here and there a
few pale theatre bills were posted on pillars; he went from one to another
and read great and famous names--masterpieces from earlier periods. He
happened to think of Irgens's lyric drama, but he looked for it in vain.
And he turned his face toward the sea; the rattle of chains reached his
ears refreshingly.
The ships were dressed in bunting; the entire harbour scintillated with
these bright colours against the blue. Coldevin breathed deeply and stood
still. The odour of coal and tar, of wine and fruit, of fish and oils; the
roar from engines and traffic, the shouts, the footfalls on the decks, the
song from a young sailor who was shining shoes in his shirtsleeves--it all
stirred him with a violent joy which almost made his eyes moisten. What a
power was here! What ships! The harbour gleamed; far away he saw Miss
Aagot's little yacht with the shining masthead.
He lost himself in this spectacle. Time passed; suddenly he dived into a
basement restaurant that had opened up and asked for a sandwich for
breakfast. When he emerged a little later there were many people in the
streets; it was getting along toward the time for the boys' parade to
start. He had to hurry; it would never do to miss the processions.
* * * * *
Along toward three o'clock a few members of the clique had occupied a
vantage-point at the corner, in order to see the big procession pass by
toward the Royal Castle. None of them marched in the parade. Suddenly one
of them called out:
"Look, there is Coldevin!"
They saw him march now under one, now under another banner; it was as if
he wanted to belong to them all; he was almost too enthusiastic to keep in
step. Attorney Grande crossed over and joined the procession; he caught up
with Coldevin and started a conversation.
"And where is the young Norway?" asked Coldevin, "the poets, the artists--
why aren't they marching? They ought to; it would not hurt their talent.
It might not help it much, either; I don't say that, but I am sure it
would never hurt. The trouble is, they don't care! They are indifferent;
but it is surely wrong to be so indifferent."
Coldevin had grown still more absurd, although he spoke with his usual
calm deliberation. He was obstinate; he talked about the suffrage
movement, and even hinted that it would be better if women should be a
little more anxious to make their homes attractive. It was wrong, he said,
that women should think too little of their home life and prefer a
hall-room in order to become what they called "independent." They had to
"study" until they, too, could wear glasses; they went to a business
school if they could do no better. And they did their things so
excellently that they were graduated, and if they were lucky they would
finally secure a position at twenty crowns a month. Fine! But they had to
pay twenty-seven for the hall-room and meals. Then they were
"independent"!
"But you cannot say that it is the fault of the women if their work is
paid so poorly," objected the Attorney, whose wife was liberal.
Certainly, these arguments were familiar; they were old and tried. They
had been answered, but.... In fact, they had been riddled several thousand
times. But the worst of it was that the home was simply destroyed by the
corroding influence of these ideas. Coldevin accentuated this. He had
noticed that a great many people here in the city mainly lived in the
restaurants. He had looked for acquaintances in their homes, but in vain;
however, he met them when he occasionally went to a café. He did not want
to speak about artists and authors; they simply did not have nor did they
want any other home than the cafés, and he did not understand how they
could accomplish anything under these circumstances. But women nowadays
were lacking in ambition and heart; they were satisfied with the mixed
company they found in these hang-outs. They did not extend themselves in
any one direction; they were not occupied with any single idea; they
became simply roundheaded. God, how rarely one nowadays saw real race!
Somebody in the procession called for cheers and was answered with
scattering hurrahs. Coldevin cheered enthusiastically, although he did not
hear what the cheers were for. He looked resentfully down the ranks and
swung his hat, urging the marchers to shout still louder.
"These people don't know how to cheer!" he said. "They shout in a whisper;
nobody can hear them. Help me, Mr. Attorney, and we'll liven them up!"
The Attorney thought it fun and shouted with him until they succeeded in
stirring up the dying hurrahs.
"Once again!" shouted Coldevin.
And again the cheers rolled down the ranks.
The Attorney said smilingly:
"That you should _care_ to do this!"
Coldevin looked at him. He said seriously:
"You should not say that. We should all care to do this; it would not hurt
us. Of course, this parading has not in itself great significance; but
there will be opportunities to cheer for Norway, for the flag, and then we
ought to be present. Who knows--these booming cheers may have their effect
on Parliament; it may be reminded of a few things it has begun to forget--
a little loyalty, a little steadfastness. People should not be so
unconcerned; now is the time for the young to step forward. Perhaps, if
the youth of the country had shown up occasionally and met together and
hurrahed at times, Parliament might have settled a few things differently
lately. And, if you had cared to take a walk along the docks to-day and
witnessed the nation's life throb so mightily, then, by Heaven, you would
have felt that the country is worth our cheers--"
The Attorney spied Ojen on the sidewalk; he excused himself and stepped
out of the procession. He looked back a moment later and saw that Coldevin
had changed places again; he was marching under the business-men's banner,
erect, grey-bearded, and shabby, with the glint of the Norwegian colours
on his lapel.
V
Aagot was dressed for the excursion; she pulled on her gloves and was
ready.
It had not been at all difficult to arrange this little trip; Ole had only
requested that she be careful and dress warmly; it was only May.
And they started.
It was calm, warm, and bright; not a cloud in the skies. Irgens had the
boat ready; they had only to go aboard. He spoke intentionally about
indifferent matters; he wanted to make her forget that she had originally
agreed to this island trip with a whispered yes, a sudden submission right
before Ole's very eyes. She was reassured. Irgens had not invested her
sudden consent with a deeper significance than she had intended; he walked
along as unconcernedly as possible and talked about the weather and almost
had to be hurried along. Just as they were on the verge of starting she
caught a glimpse of Coldevin, who stood on the dock half hidden behind a
pile of boxes. She jumped out of the boat and called:
"Coldevin! I want to see you!"
It was impossible to avoid her; he stepped forward and took off his hat.
She gave him her hand. Where in the world had he kept himself all this
time? Dear me, why was he never to be seen? It began to look a little
strange--really it did.
He stammered an excuse, spoke about library work, a translation from a
book, an absolutely necessary bit of work....
But she interrupted and asked where he lived now. She had looked for him
at the hotel but was told that he had left; nobody knew where he had gone.
She had also had a glimpse of him on the seventeenth; she was in the Grand
and saw him march by in the parade.
He repeated his excuses and trotted out the old joke about the impropriety
of disturbing sweethearts too much. He smiled good-naturedly as he spoke.
She observed him carefully. His clothes were threadbare, his face had
become thinner, and she wondered suddenly if he were in want. Why had he
left the hotel, and where did he live? He said something about a friend, a
college chum--honest, a teacher, a splendid fellow.
Aagot asked when he was going back to Torahus, but he did not know
exactly; he was unable to say. As long as he had this library work and was
so busy....
Well, he simply must promise to come before he went away; she insisted.
And she asked suddenly: "When I saw you on the seventeenth, didn't you
have a bow in your buttonhole?"
Certainly, he had a bow; one had to show the colours on such a day! Didn't
she remember that she had given it to him herself? She had wanted him to
be decorated last year, when he was going to speak to the peasants at
Torahus, and she had given him the bow. Didn't she remember?
Aagot recalled it. She asked:
"Was it really the same bow?"
"Yes; isn't it strange? I happened to come across it; I must have brought
it along with some clothes; I found it by accident."
"Imagine! I thought at once it was my bow. It made me glad; I don't know
why," she said and bowed her head.
Irgens shouted and asked her if she were coming.
"No!" she called bluntly and without thinking. She did not even turn her
head. But when she realised how she had answered she grew confused and
cried to Irgens: "Pardon me just a moment!" And she turned to Coldevin
again: "I would have loved to stay and talk with you, but I have no time;
I am going to the island." She offered Coldevin her hand and said:
"Anyway, I hope everything will turn out for the best; don't you think it
will, too? I am sorry to have to hurry off. So long; be sure and come up
soon!"
She skipped down the steps and into the boat. Again she apologised for
keeping Irgens waiting.
And Irgens rowed out. They talked about the sea, the far journeys, the
strange countries; he had been abroad only in his dreams, and he supposed
that would be the extent of his travellings. He looked sad and listless.
Suddenly he said:
"I hear you are not going to the country after all."
"No. The Tidemands have changed their plans."
"So I am told. It is a pity; I am sorry for your sake, in a way." And,
resting on his oars, he added bluntly: "But I am glad for my own sake; I
admit it frankly."
Aagot skipped up the stone jetty when they landed. The trees delighted
her; it was ages since she had seen a real forest--such great big trees,
just like home. She sniffed the pungent, pine-laden air, she looked at
stones and flowers with a feeling of recognition; memories from home
surged through her, and she was for an instant on the verge of tears.
"But here are other people!" she exclaimed suddenly.