Miss Torsen no longer talks about leaving. Not that she looks very happy
about staying, either; but Miss Torsen is altogether too restless and
strange to be contented with anything.
Naturally she caught cold after that evening in the woods with Solem, and
stayed in bed with a headache next day; when she got up again, she was
quite all right.
Was she? Why was her throat so blue under the chin, as though someone had
seized her by it?
She never went near Solem any more, and behaved as though he were
nonexistent. Apparently there had been a struggle in the woods that had
made her blue under the chin, and they were friends no longer! It was like
her to want nothing real, nothing but the sensation, nothing but the
triumph. Solem had not understood that, and had flown into a passion. Had
it been thus?
Yes, there was no doubt that Solem had been cheated. He was more direct
and lacked subtlety; he made allusions, and said things like "Oh, yes,
that Miss Torsen, she's a fine one; I'll bet she's as strong as a man!"
And then he laughed, but with repressed fury. He followed her with gross
eyes wherever she went, and in order to assert himself and seem
indifferent, he would sing a song of the linesman's life whenever she was
about. But he might have saved himself the trouble. Miss Torsen was
stone-deaf to his songs.
And now it seemed she was going to stay at the resort out of sheer
defiance. We enjoyed her company no more than we had done before, but she
began to make herself agreeable to the lawyer, sitting by his work table
in the living room as he drew plans of houses. Such is the perverse
idleness of summer resorts.
* * * * *
So the days pass; they hold no further novelty for me, and I begin to
weary of them. Now and then comes a stranger who is going across the
fjeld, but things are no longer, I am told, as they were in other years,
when visitors came in droves. And things will not improve until we, too,
get roads and cars.
I have not troubled to mention it before this, but the neighboring valley
is called Stordalen (Great Valley), while ours is only called Reisa after
the river: the whole of the Reisa district is no more than an appendage.
Stordalen has all the advantages, even the name. But Paul, our host, calls
the neighboring valley Little Valley, because, says Paul, the people there
are so petty and avaricious.
Poor Paul! He has returned from his tour to the village as hopeless as he
went, and hopelessly drunk besides. For more than a day, he stayed in his
room without once emerging. When he reappeared at last, he was aloof and
reserved, pretending he had been very successful during his absence; he
should manage about the cars, never fear! In the evening, after he had had
a few more drinks, he became self-important in a different way: oh, those
fools in the village had no sense of any kind, and had refused to give
their consent to a road to his place. He was the only one with any sense.
Would not such a bit of a road be a blessing to the whole appendage?
Because then the caravans would come, scattering money over the valley.
They understood nothing, those fools!
"But sooner or later there will have to be a road here," said the lawyer.
"Of course," replied Paul with finality.
Then he went to his room and lay down again.
On another day, a small flock of strangers came again; they had toiled up
themselves, carrying their luggage in the hot sun, and now they wanted
some help. Solem was ready at once, but he could not possibly carry all
the bags and knapsacks; Paul was lying down in his room. I had seen Paul
again during the night go out to the woods, talking loudly and flinging
his arms about as though he had company.
And here were all the strangers.
Paul's wife and Josephine came out of the house and sent Solem across to
Einar, the first cotter, to ask if he would come and help them carry. In
the meantime the travelers grew impatient and kept looking at their
watches, for if they could not cross the Tore fjeld before nightfall, they
would have to spend the night outdoors. One of them suggested to the
others that perhaps this delay was intentional. The owner of the place
probably wanted them to spend the night there; they began to grumble among
themselves, and at last they asked:
"Where is the master, the host?"
"He's ill," said Josephine.
Solem returned and said:
"Einar hasn't time to come; he's lifting his potatoes."
A pause.
Then Josephine said:
"I've got to go across the fjeld anyhow--wait a minute!"
She was gone for a moment, then returned, loaded the bags and knapsacks on
her little back, and trotted off. The others followed.
I caught up with Josephine and took her burden from her. But I would not
allow her to turn back, for this little tour away from the house would do
her good. We walked together and talked on the way: she had really no
complaints, she said, for she had a tidy sum of money saved up.
When we reached the top of the fjeld, Josephine wanted to turn back. She
thought it a waste of time to walk by my side, with nothing to do but
walk.
"I thought you had to cross the fjeld anyhow?" I said.
She was too shrewd to deny it outright, for in that case she, the daughter
of the old man at the Tore Peak farm, would have been going with the
tourists solely to carry their luggage.
"Yes, but there's no hurry. I was to have visited someone, but that can
wait till the winter."
We stood arguing about this, and I was so stubborn that I threatened to
throw all the luggage down the mountainside, and then she would see!
"Then I'll just take them and carry them myself," replied Josephine, "and
then _you'll_ see!"
By this time the others had caught up with us, and before I knew what had
happened, one of the strangers had come forward and lifted the burden from
my back, taken off his cap with a great deal of ceremony, and told me his
own and his companions' names. I must excuse them, I really must forgive
them; this was too bad, he had been so unobserving....
I told him I could easily have carried him as well as the bags. It is not
strength I lack; but day and night I carry about with me the ape of all
the diseases, who is heavy as lead. Ah, well, many another groans under a
burden of stupidity, which is little better. We all have our cross to
bear....
Then Josephine and I turned homeward again.
* * * * *
Yes, indeed, people treat me with uncontrollable politeness; this is
because of my age. People are indulgent toward me when I am troublesome to
others, when I am eccentric, when I have a screw loose; people forgive me
because my hair is gray. You who live by your compass will say that I am
respected for the writing I have been doing all these years. But if that
were so, I should have had respect in my young days when I deserved it,
not now when I no longer deserve it so well. No one--no one in the
world--can be expected to write after fifty nearly so well as before, and
only the fools or the self-interested pretend to improve after that age.
Now it is a fact that I have been practicing a most distinctive
authorship, better than most; I know that very well. But this is due, not
so much to my endeavors, as to the fact that I was born with this ability.
I have made a test of this, and I know it is true. I have thought to
myself: "Suppose someone else had said this!" Well, no doubt others have
said it sometimes, but that has not hurt me. I have gone even further than
this: I have intentionally exposed myself to direct contempt from other
literary men, and this has not hurt me either. So I am sure of my ground.
On the other hand, my way of life has lent me an inner distinction for
which I have a right to demand respect, because it is the fruit of my own
endeavors. You cannot make me out a small man without lying. Yet one can
endure even such a lie if one has character.
You may quote Carlyle against me--how authors are misjudged!--"_Considering
what book-writers do in the world, and what the world does
with book-writers, I should say it is the most anomalous thing the world
at present has to show_." You may quote many others as well; they will
assert that a great to-do is made over me for my authorship as well as my
native ability, and my struggle to hammer this ability into a useful
shape. And I say only what is the truth, that most of the fuss is made
because I have reached an age in which my years are revered.
And that is what seems to me so wrong; it is a custom which makes it easy
to hold down the gifted young in a most hostile and arrogant fashion. Old
age should not be honored for its own sake; it does nothing but halt and
delay the march of man. The primitive races, indeed, have no respect for
old age, and rid themselves unhesitatingly of it and of its defects. A
long time ago I deserved honor much more, and valued it; now, in more than
one sense, I am a richer man and can afford to do without.
Yet now I have it. If I enter a room, respectful silence falls. "How old
he's grown!" everyone present thinks. And they all remain silent so that I
may speak memorable words in that room. Amazing nonsense!
The noise should raise the roof when I enter: "Welcome, old fellow and old
companion; for pity's sake don't say anything memorable to us--you should
have done that when you were better able to. Sit down, old chap, and keep
us company. But don't let your old age cast a shadow on us, and don't
restrain us; you have had your day--now it's our turn..."
This is honest speech.
In peasant homes they still have the right instinct: the mothers preserve
their daughters, the fathers their sons, from the rough, unpleasant
labors. A proper mother lets her daughter sew while she herself works
among the cattle. And the daughter will do the same with her own daughter.
It is her instinct.