I
He had left his Christiania full of bitterness because a public
injustice had been done him. At forty years of age he had written the
best modern drama and had invented a new form of play with a new plot
which answered the expectations of the generation which was growing
up. But the older generation was still alive, and spectators, actors,
and critics felt that their ideals were leaving them in the lurch, and
that they themselves would be involved in their fall. If the public
taste took a new direction which they could not follow, they would
be regarded as superannuated, and be left behind. Accordingly his
masterpiece had been called idiotic and had been hissed off the stage,
and it had been suggested to him that he should return to America,
where he had already been and left his wife, from whom he was separated.
But, instead of going to America, he went to Copenhagen. In the centre
of the city he set up a restaurant where he foregathered with Swedes
and Finns. After some months' delay he succeeded in getting his drama
performed at a Copenhagen theatre. It was decidedly successful and his
reputation was saved. He had felt that he had done with life, but now
he began to wake up and to look about him. But when he did enter into
life again, he did so with dull resignation and an almost fatalistic
spirit which found expression in his favourite motto: "Prepared for
everything!"
His dramatic success resulted in his receiving social invitations. One
evening he went to a soiree at a distinguished author's, round whom
the younger stars in art and literature were accustomed to gather.
The supper was long and brilliant, but several unoccupied places were
waiting for guests who should arrive after the theatres had closed. At
half-past ten there was a stir in the company, for the expected guests
came--three ladies and three men all unknown to the Norwegian. But one
of the three ladies greeted him as an acquaintance and reached the
stranger her hand. Immediately afterwards he asked the hostess in a
whisper who it was.
"Who is it? Miss X---- of course! You talked with her at Doctor E----'s
supper."
"Really! It is strange that with my good memory I cannot recall her
appearance. One evening lately, in a well-lit theatre lobby, I passed
her without a greeting."
"Of course you don't see that she is pretty."
"Is she?" He leant forward to look at the young lady who had taken her
seat far down the table. "Yes she doesn't look bad."
"Fie! Fie! She is a celebrated beauty of the best Copenhagen type."
"Oh! Formerly I only admired blondes but latterly have confined my
admiration to brunettes." Then they talked of something else. After
supper the company gathered in the drawing-room and the beautiful
Dane and the Norwegian sat so close together that he put her cup down
for her. When she asked who would escort her home, he answered: "I of
course," and his escort was accepted. When at last the company broke
up, he and she found themselves in the same mysterious way so deep in
conversation that a group of ladies and gentlemen formed a circle round
them with a mischievous air to watch them. The pair, however, did not
observe this, but continued to talk. As they went down the steps they
heard a "good night!" and a ringing laugh overhead from the young and
charming hostess who was leaning over the balcony-railing. They went
along the shore, and past the bridges, continuing their conversation
without a pause. When they came to X---- Street she invited him to
supper the following evening to meet a young female artist. But she
prepared him to find her surroundings very simple, as she was staying
in a pension kept by a strict old lady. Then they parted as though they
had been old acquaintances and colleagues.
As he walked home alone through the night, and tried to recall the
events of the evening to his mind, he noticed again the curious fact
that he could not remember her appearance. Yet as a former reporter,
he had been so accustomed to photograph people and scenes, landscapes
and interiors with his eye that he could not understand it. Moreover,
he observed that she was quite a different person this evening to
what she had been the first time they met. There was now no trace
of "independence" about her, only a mild yieldingness, a certain
melancholy, which became her well and aroused sympathy. When they
talked of the unfortunate fate of a certain person, there were tears
in her voice. It was the voice which he remembered more than anything
else about her--somewhat deep and melancholy with a slight accent
which carried one far away from the great town and awoke memories of
wood and sea, the sounds of nature, shepherds' huts, and hay-rakes.
He now recollected how they had really treated her like a child the
previous evening, had teased her about her writings, and asked her
for recommendations, at which she had only smiled. She also had the
unfortunate habit of letting fall naive expressions, which were really
seriously meant, but sometimes had a repellent effect.
The only one who had taken her seriously was himself, the foreigner.
And he had seen that she was no child but a woman with whom he could
speak of men and books and all that interested him, without once having
to explain his remarks.
When he awoke the next morning, he tried to call to his mind the events
and persons of the previous day. It was his habit, when he made a new
acquaintance, to seek in his memory for the "corresponding number," as
he called it, in order to get a clear idea of his character; i.e. he
thought which of his old friends most nearly resembled the person in
question. This psychical operation was often performed involuntarily,
i.e. when he tried to call up the image of his new acquaintance, the
figure of an old one rose up in his mind and more or less obliterated
the latter. When he now recalled his yesterday's memories of Miss
X---- he saw her with an elderly married cousin, to whom he had always
felt indifferent. This suppressed any sentimental feeling, if any
were present, and he only thought of her as a kindly woman-friend.
Accordingly, in the evening, he felt perfectly calm and without a
trace of that embarrassment which one sometimes feels in attempting
to make oneself agreeable to a young lady. He was received with
perfect frankness as an old acquaintance and led into a lady's boudoir
elegantly furnished with a well-appointed writing-table, flower-plants,
family portraits, carpets, and comfortable chairs.
Since the lady painter had been prevented coming, he had to be content
with a _tête-à-tête_, and this somewhat jarred on his sense of
propriety. But his hostess's simple and unaffected manner caused him to
suppress some remarks which might have hurt her feelings.
So they sat opposite each other and talked. Her black silk dress had
blue insets and was cut in the "empire style," with dark lace trimmings
which hung from her shoulders like a sleigh-net. This gave her a
somewhat matronly appearance, and when he noticed her tone like that
of an experienced woman of the world, he thought for a moment: "She is
divorced!" Her face, which he could now examine in full light, showed
a flat forehead which looked as though it had been hammered smooth and
betokened a determined will without obstinacy. The eyes were large and
well-defined as with Southerners. The nose seemed to have altered its
mind while growing, for it took a little bend in the middle and became
Roman by degrees. This little unexpected "joy-ful surprise" lent a
cameo-like charm to her profile.
Their conversation was still more lively this evening, for they had
already amassed a small store of common experiences to discuss,
acquaintances to analyse, and ideas to test. They sat there and cut
out silhouettes of their friends, and as neither of them wished to
seem spiteful, they cut them in handsome shapes, and not with pointed
scissors.
During this innocent interchange of thought, he had glanced at a
very large flower-basket full of splendid roses. She had divined
his thoughts, and just as a servant brought in a bottle of wine and
cigarettes, she got up and went towards the roses.
("She is engaged!" he thought and felt himself superfluous.)
"I was given these by a friend on his departure," she said.
But in order to show that she was not engaged she broke off a stem
carelessly. It was fastened with wire, and she had to look for her
scissors. As these were in her work-basket on the lowest shelf of her
work-table, she knelt down and remained kneeling. She remained in that
attitude while she fastened two of the finest roses in his buttonhole,
and she only needed to stretch out an arm to reach a glass of wine and
drink to his health.
"'Roses and wine!' I have used that as a refrain for a ballad," he
said. He thought the situation somewhat strange but insignificant in
itself.
"Oh! do repeat the ballad!"
He had forgotten it.
She rose up and sat on her chair, and he persuaded her to tell him
something of her life. She had early left her parents, who lived
separated without being divorced, for they were Catholics. She had been
educated in convent-schools in London, Paris, Italy, and elsewhere.
In Paris especially, when with English ladies, she had been bothered
with religion, but had finally thrown it all overboard. She certainly
felt an emptiness without it, but expected, like everyone else, that
some new substitute was coming into the world. Meanwhile, like her
contemporaries, she devoted her energies to the deliverance of humanity
from pauperism and oppression. She had superficially studied Nietzsche
among others and laid him aside again after finding in him a slight
corrective to over-strained expectations of universal equality.
While she was talking, he noticed that light fell through a curtain
behind her back, which screened a door apparently leading into the
interior of the house. Like lightning the thought struck him that
he might be the object of a joke, and was to be surprised in the
ridiculous position of a woman-worshipper. Or perhaps it was only
for propriety's sake that communication was kept open with the main
building. This wholesome doubt kept their conversation free from all
tincture of flirtation, and when supper was served he reproached
himself for having suspected his hostess of evil purposes or a want of
trust in him.
About half-past eight he was about to go, but she only needed to
express a suspicion that he was longing for the café to make him
remain. About half-past nine o'clock he was going again but was kept
back.
"But," he remonstrated, "it is my part as the elder and more prudent to
spare you any unpleasantness."
She understood nothing, but declared that she was independent and that
the lady who kept the pension was accustomed to her suppers.
At last his instinct told him that it was a mistake to stay longer;
he rose and took his leave. On his way home, he said to himself, "No,
people are not so simple, and cannot be labelled by formulas, for I
don't comprehend an atom of this evening or of this woman."
The next time they met it was in a museum. Her outer dress made her
look like a young married woman of thirty or more. Her mouth had a
tired expression and had fine little wrinkles near it, as is the
case with those who laugh often. But she was melancholy, hinted at
having had a breach with her father, and spoke of taking her departure
shortly. She inquired regarding her friend's relations to theatres and
publishers, and offered to help him with advice and influence. To-day
she was mere motherly tenderness, and a certain carelessness in her
toilet suggested that she did not want to please as a woman.
But when she proposed that they should go to the theatre together he
declined, from a feeling that he ought not to compromise her, nor
expose himself to danger, for his precarious pecuniary position did not
permit him to think of a love affair.
He proposed to her instead that they should go for a stroll together,
and she suggested that he should escort her from her new lodging, for
she had changed her rooms.
("They have given her notice at the pension, because of me," he
thought, but said nothing.)
By this time his curiosity as an author was aroused, and he wished to
learn the riddle of this woman, for he had never seen any other change
their appearance as she did.
When in the evening he rang at her door, he was shown into a side room
and asked to wait. When she was dressed he was let out into the front
hall, where they met. This, then, was a new order of things.
They went westward by an empty street which led to the Zoological
Gardens, and entered a restaurant which she seemed to know well. In her
fur jacket and with a kerchief on her head she looked in the dark like
an old woman, and as she stooped somewhat, she seemed to have something
witchlike about her. But when they entered the well-lit restaurant,
and she laid aside kerchief and jacket she stood revealed all at once
in her youthful beauty. A moss-green, tightly fitting dress showed
the figure of a girl of eighteen, and with her hair brushed smooth,
she looked like an overgrown schoolgirl. He could not conceal his
astonishment at this witchery, and looked her all over as though he
were seeking a concealed enemy with a searchlight. ("Eros! Now I am
lost!" he thought. And from that moment he was indeed.)
She saw quite well the effect she had produced, and seemed to glisten
there in a sort of phosphorescent light, sure of victory, with a
triumphant expression round her mouth, for she saw that he was
conquered. He felt a sudden fear. She had his soul in her pocket, and
could cast it into the river or into the gutter; therefore he hated
her at the same time. He saw that his only chance of safety lay in
awakening a reciprocal flame in her, so that she might be as closely
bound to him as he was to her. With this half-conscious purpose, he
did what every man in his place would have done--insinuated himself
into her confidence, made himself as little as a child and aroused her
sympathy, the sympathy of a woman for a lacerated and damned soul which
has no more hope of happiness. She listened to him and received his
confidence as a tribute, with calm majestic motherliness, without a
trace of coquetry or pleasure at hearing of another's misfortune.
When at last, after eating a cold supper, they were about to go, he
rose to look up a train in a railway guide. When he returned to the
table and wished to pay the bill, the waiter informed him that it
had already been paid by the lady! Then he flared up, and wrongly
suspecting that she thought he had no money, demanded that at any rate
he should pay for himself.
"I don't know the customs of your country," he said, "but in mine a man
who lets a lady pay for him is dishonoured."
"You were my guest," she answered.
"No, we went out together, and we cannot come here again. Don't you
know what kind of a reputation you will give me, and by what a hateful
name this waiter may call me?"
When he recalled the waiter to make good the mistake, there was another
scene, so that he rose angrily and laid his share on the table. She was
sad, but would not acknowledge herself in the wrong. They were both out
of humour, and he noticed that she was thoughtless, just as thoughtless
as when she invited a gentleman alone to her room so late in the
evening. Or was it an expression of feminine independence demanding
to be treated exactly like a man in spite of propriety and prejudice?
Perhaps it was the latter, but he fell it to be a piece of presumption,
and was angry. There threatened to be an uncomfortable silence between
them as they walked home, but she put out her hand and said in a kind,
confidential voice: "Don't be cross."
"No I am not that, but, but ... never do it again."
They parted as friends, and he hurried to the café. He had not been
there for a long time, partly through a certain dislike to the tone
prevailing there, which no longer harmonised with his present mood,
and partly because he had promised his friend to be moderate. He found
the usual company, but felt somewhat out of place, and made a clear
resolve never to bring her there. Accordingly, he soon went home and
sank in meditations which were partly gloomy and partly bright. When
he recollected the moment of emergence of the youthful beauty from
the fur skin of the animal there seemed to him something weird and
ominous about it. It was not the youthful beauty which is clothed in
reflections from a paradise of innocence, but a dark, demoniac beauty
which becomes a man's death, the grave of his virile will, and which
leads to humiliation, ruin, and disgraceful bargaining. But it is as
inevitable and unescapable as Fate.
The next day he was invited, together with her, to dinner at an art
professor's. She then appeared in a new character, talking like a woman
of the world in a confident tone, firing off smart sayings and epigrams
and never at a loss for an answer. At intervals she seemed indifferent,
blase, and cruel.
The professor, who had just been sitting on a jury, told us that he had
joined in giving a verdict of guilty against a child murderess.
"I should have acquitted her," said Miss X----. The professor, who
belonged to the Danish Academy and had the entree to the Court, was
astonished, but did not argue with her. He construed her answer as a
burst of caprice and let the matter drop. The conversation at table was
somewhat forced. The Norwegian, who had been invited by the lady of the
house, did not feel at ease in this circle where everything revolved
round the Court. Probably his friend had arranged this invitation with
the kind intention of making him known and of investing him, who had
the reputation of being half an anarchist, with an air of gentility.
The discord was felt when the talk turned upon Art, and the professor
was in a minority of one with his opinions and academic ideals.
Therefore, when at dessert time his hostess asked the Norwegian whether
he would come to one of her receptions, where he would have the
opportunity of meeting many celebrities, she received such a sharp look
from her husband, that the Norwegian declined the invitation decidedly.
Just then the Scandinavians were in ill favour in the higher circles of
society because a Norwegian artist by his new style of painting had
caused a schism in the Academy.
Again he had let himself be enticed by his friend's thoughtlessness.
She had brought him into a circle to which he did not belong and in
which he was not welcome. On the other hand she seemed to notice
nothing of it, but was as much at home and at her ease as before.
After dinner there was music. The young beauty behaved as though her
friend was not there and never looked at him at all. When the party
broke up, she took leave of him as though of a stranger, and let
herself be escorted home by someone else.