II

Mrs. Hanka looked in vain for Irgens for several days. She had hurried to

him to bring him the joyful news; she was free at last! But he was never

at home. His door was locked, and it was not opened when she knocked;

consequently he must be out. She did not meet him in his usual haunts,

either. Finally she had to write to him and make an appointment; she wrote

that she had excellent news for him.

But during these two days, these long hours of waiting in which she could

do nothing, it seemed as if her joy over the coming divorce had begun to

wane. She had dwelt on her happiness so long that she had grown accustomed

to it; it did not make her heart beat faster any more. She was going to be

free from her husband--true, but she had not been so entirely shackled

before. The difference was not so pronounced that she could steadily

continue to revel in it.

And to this was added an indefinable fear, now when the irrevocable

separation confronted her; the thought that she was to leave her home was

tinged with a vague sense of regretfulness, of impalpable foreboding.

Sometimes a quivering pang would pierce her heart when the children put

out their little arms to her; why that pain? She had got out of her bed

last night and looked at them in their sleep. There they were lying, each

in her little bed; they had kicked the blankets off and were uncovered up

to their very arms, but they slept soundly and moved, now and then, a rosy

finger or a dimpled toe in their sleep. Such children! To lie there

unblushingly naked, with arms and legs pointing in all directions! She

tucked them carefully in and left them with bowed head, her shoulders

shaken by inaudible sobs.

How was she going to arrange her future? She was free, but in reality she

was married still; for three years she would have to live somewhere, pay

rent, keep house for herself. She had worried and fretted about this for

two long days without anyone to help her; what could have happened to

Irgens? God only knew where he kept himself. She had not once seen her

former husband.

She started for Irgens's rooms. Surely he would help her find a place and

get settled! Oh, it was fine to have an end to this daily galling

restraint; here she had been tortured by dissatisfaction and restlessness

for months and years, ever since she had been introduced to the clique and

had acquired a taste for their irresponsible mode of living. She was free,

free and young! She would overwhelm Irgens with this joyful news, he who

had so often sighed for that divorce during their most intimate hours--

Irgens was at home at last.

She told him the great news at once. She recounted how it had happened,

repeated Tidemand's words, and praised his superiority. She gazed into

Irgens's eyes; her own were sparkling. Irgens, however, did not show any

great exultation; he smiled, said yes and no, asked her if she were

satisfied now. So she was really going to get a divorce? He was glad to

hear it; it was foolish to go through life in this heart-breaking

manner.... But he sat there very quietly and discussed the great news in

an every-day voice.

Gradually, very gradually, she came to earth; her heart began to flutter

wildly.

"It seems as if the news does not make you so very happy, Irgens," she

said.

"Happy? Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be happy? You have sighed for this

for a long time; why shouldn't I rejoice with you now? I do, most

assuredly."

Words only, without fire, without warmth even! What could have happened?

Did he not love her any more? She sat there, her heart heavy within her;

she wanted to gain time, to hush the wakening terror in her breast. She

said:

"But, dear, where have you been all this time? I have called on you three

times without finding you in."

He answered, choosing his words carefully, that she must have missed him

because of an unfortunate series of accidents. He went out occasionally,

of course; but he spent most of his time at home. Where in the world could

he go? He went nowhere.

Pause. Finally she yielded abjectly to her fears and stammered:

"Well, Irgens, I am yours now, entirely yours! I am going to leave the

house--You will thank me, won't you? It will take three years, of course,

but then--"

She stopped suddenly; she felt that he was squirming, that he was bracing

himself against the inevitable; her terror increased as he remained

silent. A few anguished moments went by.

"Well, Hanka, this is rather unfortunate, in a way," he began finally.

"You have evidently understood me to mean that when you got your divorce--

that if you only were free--Of course, I may have said something to that

effect; I admit that if you have interpreted my words literally such a

supposition is probably justified. I have most likely said things more

than once--"

"Yes, of course," she interrupted; "we have never meant anything else,

have we? For you love me, don't you? What is the matter? You are so

strange to-day!"

"I am awfully sorry, but really--things are not as they used to be." He

looked away sadly and searched for words. "I cannot lie to you, Hanka, and

the plain truth is that I am not enraptured by you as much as I used to

be. It would hardly be right to deceive you; anyway, I couldn't do it--it

is beyond me."

At last she understood; these were plain words. And quietly bending her

head, yielding to the inevitable, letting go of the last lingering hope,

she whispered in a dull and broken voice:

"Couldn't do it; no--It is all over, irrevocably over--"

He sat there silent.

Suddenly she turned and looked at him. Her white teeth showed beneath the

slightly raised upper lip as she endeavoured to force a smile. She said

slowly:

"But surely it cannot all be over, Irgens? Remember, I have sacrificed a

great deal--"

But he shook his head.

"Yes, I am awfully sorry, but--Do you know what I was thinking of just now

when I didn't answer you? You said 'irrevocably over.' I was wondering if

that was proper grammar, if it sounded right. That shows how little this

scene really affects me; you can see for yourself that I am not beside

myself with grief--not even deeply stirred. That ought to show you--" And

as if he wanted to utilise the opportunity to the utmost and leave no room

for doubt, he continued: "Did you say that you have been here three times,

looking for me? I know that you have been here twice. I think I ought to

tell you, so that you can see how impossible it is for me to pretend: I

sat here and heard you knock, but I didn't open. That surely proves the

matter is serious--Dearest Hanka, I cannot help it; really, you mustn't

be unhappy. But you surely will admit that our relationship must have been

a little galling, a little humiliating, to me as well? It is true; it has

not been easy for me to accept money from you continually; I have said to

myself: 'This degrades you!' You understand, don't you--a man with a

nature like mine; unhappily, I am proud, whether it is a virtue or a vice

in me--"

Pause.

"All right," she said mechanically, "all right." And she rose in order to

go. Her eyes were wide and staring, but she saw nothing.

However, he wanted to explain himself thoroughly; she must not leave with

a wrong impression of him. He called her back; he wanted to prove why it

could not have been otherwise, why his conduct was beyond reproach. He

spoke at length and cleared up the matter perfectly; it seemed as if he

had expected this and had prepared himself thoroughly. There were a number

of bagatelles; but it was just the little things that counted with a man

like him, and these little things had gradually made it so clear to him

that they were not compatible. Of course, she was fond of him, a great

deal more so than he deserved; but all the same he was not sure that she

understood and appreciated him fully. This was not said reproachfully,

but--She had said that she was proud of him, and that she enjoyed seeing

the ladies turn and look after him when they walked down the street

together. All right! But that did not prove that she valued his

individuality. She took no pride in the fact that he was, above all, a

somewhat different individuality. Of course, he did not blame her; but,

unfortunately, it proved that her understanding of him was not deep

enough. She was not proud of him for what he had thought or written; not

primarily, at any rate; she loved to see the ladies look after him on the

street. But ladies might turn and look after anybody, even after an

officer or a tradesman. She had once given him a cane so that he might

look well on the street....

"No, Irgens, I had no such thought, not at all," she interrupted.

All right, he might have been mistaken; if she said so, of course....

Nevertheless, he had the impression that such was her reason. He had

thought that if he couldn't pass muster without a cane, then.... For even

those two sheared sheep of Ojen's used a cane. In brief, he gave the cane

away to the first comer.... But there were other little things, other

bagatelles: She liked to go to the opera; he didn't. She went without him,

and he was very much pleased, of course; still.... She wore a light

woollen dress, and when he was with her his clothes got full of fuzz from

her dress, but she never noticed it. He had to brush and pick fuzz

unceasingly to avoid looking as if he had been in bed fully dressed; but

did she notice? Never. And in this manner one thing after another had come

between them and had affected his feelings for her. There were hundreds of

little things! A little while ago her lips had been so badly cracked that

she couldn't even smile naturally; and just think, an insignificant thing

like that had repulsed him, absolutely spoiled her for him! Dear me, she

must not think that he found fault with her because of a cracked lip; he

knew very well that she could not help such a thing; he was not

stupid.... But the truth of the matter was that it had reached a point

where he was beginning to dread her visits. He had to admit it; he had sat

on this very chair and suffered, suffered tortures, when he heard her

knock on the door. However, no sooner had she gone away than he felt

relieved; he got ready and went out, too. He went to some restaurant and

dined, dined unfeelingly and with a good appetite, not at all deploring

what he had done. He wanted her to know these things so that she would

understand him.... "But, dearest Hanka, I have told you all this and

perhaps added to your sorrow instead of alleviating it. I wanted you to

see how necessary has become our parting--that there are deep and weighty

reasons for it--that it is not merely a whim. Unfortunately, these things

are deeply rooted in my nature--But don't take it so to heart! You know I

am fond of you and appreciate all you have done for me; and I shall never

be able to forget you; I feel that only too well. Tell me that you will

take it calmly--that is all I ask--"

She sat there, dull and immobile. Her premonition had not deceived her; it

was all over. There he sat; he had spoken about this and that and

remembered this and that--everything that could possibly explain and

justify his actions. He had said a great deal, he had even bared himself

in spots; yes, how penuriously hadn't he scraped up the least little thing

that might vindicate him in the slightest degree! How could she ask him to

advise her? He would simply refer her to the newspaper advertisements:

"Flats and Apartments to Let." How insignificant he suddenly appeared!

Slowly he blurred before her eyes; he was blotted out; he became lost in

the dim distance; she saw him as through a haze; she barely discerned his

mother-of-pearl buttons and his sleek and shiny hair. She realised how her

eyes had been opened during his long speech; there he sat.... She felt

languidly that she ought to go, but she lacked the energy to get up. She

felt hollow and empty; the last little illusion to which she had clung so

tenaciously had collapsed miserably. Somebody's step sounded on the

stairs; she did not remember whether or no the door was locked, but she

did not go and make sure. The steps died down again; nobody knocked.

"Dearest Hanka," he said in an effort to console her as best he might,

"you ought to start in in earnest and write that novel we have talked

about. I am sure you could do it, and I will gladly go over the manuscript

for you. The effort, the concentration would do you good; you know I want

to see you content and satisfied."

Yes, once upon a time, she had really thought she would write a novel. Why

not? _Here_ one miss bobbed up, and _there_ another madam bobbed

up, and they all did write so cutely! Yes, she had really thought that it

was her turn next. And how they all had encouraged her! Thank God, she had

forgotten about it until now!

"You do not answer, Hanka?"

"Yes," she said absently, "there is something in what you say."

She got up suddenly and stood erect staring straight ahead. If she only

knew what to do now! Go home? That would probably be the best. Had she had

parents she would most likely have gone to them; however, she had never

had any parents, practically. She had better go home to Tidemand, where

she still lived....

And with a desolate smile she gave Irgens her hand and said farewell.

He felt so relieved because of her calmness that he pressed her hand

warmly. What a sensible woman she was, after all! No hysterics, no

heartrending reproaches; she said farewell with a smile! He wanted to

brace her still more and talked on in order to divert her mind; he

mentioned his work and plans; he would surely send her his next book; she

would find him again in that. And, really, she ought to get busy on that

novel.... To show her that their friendship was still unbroken he even

asked her to speak to Gregersen about that review of his book. It was most

extraordinary that his verses had attracted so little attention. If she

would only do him this favour. He himself would never be able to approach

Gregersen; he was too proud; he could never stoop to that....

She went over to the mirror and began arranging her hair. He could not

help watching her; she really surprised him a little. It was of course

admirable in her to keep her feelings in leash; still, this unruffled

composure was not altogether _au fait_. He had really credited her

with a little more depth; he had ventured to think that a settlement with

him would affect her somewhat. And there she stood tranquilly and arranged

her hair with apparent unconcern! He could not appreciate such a display

of _sang-froid_. To tell the truth, he felt snubbed; and he made the

remark that he was still present; it seemed peculiar that she had already

so completely forgotten him....

She did not answer. But when she left the mirror she paused for a moment

in the middle of the room, and with her eyes somewhere in the vicinity of

his shoes, she said wearily and indifferently:

"Don't you understand that I am entirely through with you?"

But in the street, bathed in the bright sunshine, surrounded by people and

carriages--there her strength gave way entirely and she began to sob

wildly. She covered her face with her veil, and sought the

least-frequented side-streets in order to avoid meeting anybody; she

walked hurriedly, stooping, shaken by convulsive sobs. How densely dark

the outlook whichever way she turned her eyes! She hurried on, walking in

the middle of the street, talking to herself in a choked voice. Could she

return to Andreas and the children? What if the door should be closed

against her? She had wasted two days; perhaps Andreas now had grown

impatient. Still, the door might be open if she only hurried....

Every time she took out her handkerchief she felt the crinkle of an

envelope. That was the envelope with the hundred-crown bill; she still had

that! Oh--if she only had somebody to go to now, a friend--not any of her

"friends" from the clique; she was through with them! She had been one of

them a year and a day; she had listened to their words and she had seen

their deeds. How had she been able to endure them? Thank God, she was done

with them forever. Could she go to Ole Henriksen and ask help from him?

No, no; she couldn't do that.

Andreas would probably be busy in his office. She had not seen him for two

days; very likely it was an accident, but it was so. And she had accepted

a hundred crowns from him, although he was ruined! Dear me, that she

hadn't thought of this before now! She had asked him for that money.

"Yes," he had said; "will you please come into the office? I have not so

much with me." And he had opened his safe and given her the hundred;

perhaps it was all the money he had! He had proffered the bill in such a

gentle and unobtrusive manner, although, perhaps, it was all the money he

owned! His hair had turned a little grey and he looked as if he hadn't had

much sleep lately; but he had not complained; his words were spoken in

proud and simple dignity. It had seemed as if she saw him then for the

first time.... Oh, would that she never had asked him for this money!

Perhaps he might forgive her if she brought it back. Would she bother him

very much if she stopped at his office a moment? She would not stay

long....

Mrs. Hanka dried her eyes beneath her veil and walked on. When at last she

stood outside Tidemand's office she hesitated. Suppose he turned her out?

Perhaps he even knew where she had been?

A clerk told her that Tidemand was in.

She knocked and listened. He called: "Come in." She entered quietly. He

was standing at his desk; he put down his pen when he saw her.

"Pardon me if I disturb you," she said hurriedly.

"Not at all," he said, and waited. A pile of letters was before him; he

stood there, tall and straight; he did not look so very grey, and his eyes

were not so listless.

She took the bill out and held it toward him.

"I only wanted to return this; and please forgive me for asking for money

when I might have known that you must need it so badly. I never thought of

it until now; I am extremely sorry."

He looked at her in surprise and said:

"Not at all--you just keep that! A hundred more or less means nothing to

the business--nothing at all."

"Yes, but--please take it! I ask you to take it."

"All right, if you don't need it. I thank you, but it is not necessary."

He had thanked her! What a fortunate thing that she had the money and

could give it back to him! But she suppressed her agitation and said

"Thank you" herself as she shoved the bill over toward him. When she saw

him reach for his pen again, she said with a wan smile:

"You must not be impatient because of this long delay--I have made very

little progress in the matter of taking an apartment, but--"

She could control herself no longer; her voice broke entirely and she

turned away from him, fumbling for her handkerchief with trembling

fingers.

"There is no great hurry about that," he said. "Take all the time you

want."

"I thank you."

"You thank me? I don't quite understand. It isn't I who--I am simply

trying to make it easy for you to have your own way."

She was afraid she had irritated him, and she said hastily:

"Of course, yes! Oh, I didn't mean--Pardon me for disturbing you."

And she turned and fled out of the office.