After dinner, when they had returned to the drawing-room, Hanka said
suddenly:
"Andreas, you mustn't think I came here to-day thinking that everything
could be well again with us. Don't think that. I simply came because I
couldn't wait any longer; I had to see you again."
"I have not thought of that at all," he said. "But it seems the children
don't want to let you go."
"I have no thought of asking you again what I asked you for once," she
said. "That would be impossible; I know it too well. But perhaps you would
allow me to come and visit you at times?"
Tidemand bowed his head. She had no thought of coming back; it was all
over.
"Come whenever you like; come every day," he said. "You are not coming to
see me."
"Oh, yes, to see you also. I think of you with every breath. Ever since
that sail last summer; it began then. You have changed and so have I. But
that is neither here nor there. I have seen you on the streets oftener
than you know; I have followed you at times."
He rose and went in his confusion over to the barometer on the wall; he
examined it carefully and tapped the tube.
"But in that case--I don't understand why it is necessary to live apart. I
mean--Things are in a sad state of disorder here; and then there are the
children--"
"I didn't come for that!" she exclaimed. "Yes, I did, in a way; of course
I did; but--I am afraid you will never be able to forget--Oh, no. I cannot
expect that--"
She took her wraps.
"Don't go!" he called. "You have never been out of my thoughts, either. As
far as that goes, I am as much to blame as you, and it is true that I have
changed. I am, perhaps, a little different now. But here is your room just
as before. Come and see! We haven't touched a single thing. And if you
would stay--By the way, I am afraid I shall have to stay in the office
all night. I am almost sure there is a lot of mail to attend to. But your
room is just as when you left it. Come and see!"
He had opened the door. She came over and peeped in. The lamp was lit. She
looked at everything and entered. He really wanted to, after all, after
all! She could stay; he had said so; he took her back! She stood there
timidly and said nothing; then their eyes met. He flung his arms around
her and kissed her, as he had kissed her the first time, all these many
years ago. Her eyes closed and he felt suddenly the pressure of her arms
around his neck.
X
And morning came.
The city woke up and the hammers danced their ringing dance along the
shipyards. Through the streets the farmers' wagons rolled in a slow
procession. It is the same story. The squares are filling with people and
supplies, stores are opened, the roar increases, and up and down the
stairs skips a slip of a girl with her papers and her dog.
It is the same story.
It is twelve before people begin to group themselves on the "corner,"
young and carefree gentlemen who can afford to sleep late and do what they
feel like. There are a few from the well-known clique, Milde and Norem and
Ojen. It is cold, and they are shivering. The conversation is not very
lively. Even when Irgens appears, in high spirits and elegant attire, as
befits the best-dressed man in town, nobody grows very enthusiastic. It is
too early and too chilly; in a few hours it will be different. Ojen had
said something about his latest prose poem; he had half-finished it last
night. It was called "A Sleeping City." He had begun to write on coloured
paper; he had found this very soothing. Imagine, he says, the heavy,
ponderous quiet over a city asleep; only its breathing is heard like an
open sluice miles away. It takes time; hours elapse, a seeming eternity;
then the brute begins to stir, to wake up. Wasn't this rather promising?
And Milde thinks it very promising; he has made his peace with Ojen long
ago. Milde is busy on his caricatures to "Norway's Dawn." He had really
drawn a few very funny caricatures and made ruinous fun of the impossible
poem.
Norem said nothing.
Suddenly Lars Paulsberg bobs up; with him is Gregersen. The group is
growing; everybody takes notice; so much is gathered here in a very small
space. Literature is in the ascendant; literature dominates the entire
sidewalk. People turn back in order to get a good look at these six
gentlemen in ulsters and great-coats. Milde also attracts attention; he
has been able to afford an entirely new outfit. He says nothing about
Australia now.
At two the life and traffic has risen to its high-water mark; movement
everywhere, people promenade, drive in carriages, gossip; engines are
breathing stertorously in the far distance. A steamer whistles in the
harbour, another steamer answers with a hoarse blast; flags flutter,
barges swim back and forth; sails rattle aloft and sails are furled. Here
and there an anchor splashes; the anchor-chains tear out of the
hawse-holes in a cloud of rust. The sounds mingle in a ponderous harmony
which rolls in over the city like a jubilant chorus.
Tidemand's tar steamer was ready to weigh anchor. He had come down himself
to see it off. Hanka was with him; they stood there quietly arm in arm.
They glanced at each other every few moments with eyes that were filled
with youth and happiness; the harbour saluted them with a swirl of flags.
When the steamer at last was under way, Tidemand swung his hat in the air
and Hanka waved with her handkerchief. Somebody on the ship waved back a
greeting. The steamer slid quietly out into the fiord.
"Shall we go?" he asked.