THE day came at length on which Fru Wangen's father and brother were
to leave their farm. She had determined to get up very early in order
to go and help them with anything that might be wanted; but at four
o'clock she was awakened by somebody knocking at their door. She was
surprised, but got up, put something on, and went to the door, and
asked who was there.
It was her brother. When she opened the door, she saw in the grey
light that he looked quite distracted.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked.
"Father!" he whispered in a terrified whisper, and remained standing
outside.
"Do come in! What's the matter with father?"
Her brother did not answer immediately, but walked past her into the
room, and sat down heavily. By this time she was so frightened that
she did not dare to ask, but stood dumbly waiting.
And as she stood there in the half-light, with her shawl wrapped round
her, her brother told her, as carefully as he could, that the evening
before they had missed his father, and had been round the
neighbourhood, searching and inquiring. And at last they had found him
hanging in the barn at home.
When Wangen at last came down in the morning he found his wife sitting
in the same scanty attire in the sitting-room, staring straight before
her. There was no coffee made, nothing was done; she only sat there.
"Why, Karen! What is it?"
"Nothing," she said huskily.
This day, too, she had to go about and see to the day's work. The
eldest girl had to go to school, the two younger ones to be taken care
of, and the usual errands to be gone up to the farm to fetch food and
milk. But all the time her old father seemed to be with her. Rather
than leave the home of his ancestors in poverty he had parted with
life. She could see him hanging by his thin neck in the barn where she
had so often played blind man's buff; and all the time he kept saying:
"It is your fault! Why did you marry him? Now you see!"
Great exertion was needed to make her feet carry her where she had to
go.
When Wangen heard it, he sat motionless for some time, his face buried
in his hands. The image of this old man, whom he had driven to death
by his recklessness, took him back once more to that afternoon in the
dark railway carriage when self-knowledge and cold responsibility had
overwhelmed him as a superhuman burden.
"Oh!" he cried suddenly, starting up, "this is too much, Karen! I
can't bear it; you must help me!"
"I think you ought to help me," she replied monotonously, without
looking at him.
Later in the day he came in and found her again sitting and gazing
straight before her, motionless and far away, although their youngest
child was standing crying and pulling at her skirts. And when she
fixed her eyes upon him he started involuntarily. He did not know
whether her gaze was full of terror of him, or whether it was hatred.
"Now she thinks this is my fault, and she'll say so soon!" he thought;
and although he knew it was true, he felt a desire to oppose and keep
her at a distance. "As if I hadn't enough to bear already!" he
thought. "And she wants to throw this upon me!" And he worked himself
up to still greater irritation against her, as if this new misfortune
had been in some way or other due to her.
They went about in fear of one another, each keeping silence from a
suspicion that the other was ready to recriminate. They had been torn
from the home in which they had passed happy years, and the discomfort
and poverty of the miserable cottage only helped to remind them of
their misfortune and keep them apart.
While Fru Wangen was standing in the kitchen making some soup for the
children, she suddenly sank into a chair and stared into the fire with
terrified eyes, for her father, as he hung there, said that he did not
mind about Wangen. It was only she he troubled about, she who had
brought him into the family.
It was she! It was she!
The soup boiled over, and Fru Wangen did not notice it. The floor
seemed to be sliding away from under her, and she thought that
something black stretched out hands towards her until she turned cold
with terror, and began involuntarily to look for something to save
her.
It was the bankruptcy that had ruined them all. But supposing that
Wangen were really innocent? Then her father might have made his
speech to those who were guilty. She also now saw in Wangen's
innocence a plank to which she could cling. He was innocent; he must
be innocent.
Later in the day Wangen had gone to her father's farm, as she did not
feel equal to it; but he turned back, too, when he saw the house. He
dared not see the dead man.
When he came home, his wife was sitting alone with her elbows upon the
table and her chin resting in her hands.
"Where are the children?" he asked at once, looking round.
"They're sent away," she said in a dull tone, looking at him.
An uncomfortable suspicion suddenly crossed his mind.
"But tell me where they are," he said, opening the door to the other
room; but there was no one there.
"I telephoned for your aunt," she said in the same tone as before.
"She came at once, and drove away a little while ago." And as he still
stood and looked at her a little uncertainly, she added, "I thought it
would be better for you, Henry. Is there anything you would like me to
help you with?"
It sounded so mysterious. He did not thank her, because he felt it was
not to him she spoke, but to herself.
It was uncomfortably empty in the bedroom when they went to bed that
night. The children's places were empty.
Although Fru Wangen had been frightened into turning to her husband,
clung to his innocence, and felt a desire to support him and show him
confidence, she could not speak to him yet; for she did not want to
say anything unkind, and she could not yet say anything kind. The
silence was all the greater because there was no sound of whimpering,
no gentle breathing, no little bodies turning over in bed or requiring
covering. Husband and wife were thrown back upon each other, and the
silence and the breach between them forced them to look into
themselves, where each saw the old man hanging in the barn.
Wangen was in bed before his wife, and lay looking at her. It took her
so long to undress; it was as though she dreaded going to bed. Now and
again she looked round bewildered, as if she expected to find the
children there after all.
"It's not my fault this time at any rate," he thought; "but she'll lay
the blame on to me all the same."
When at last she was in bed, lying on her back with her hands under
her head, looking up at the ceiling, he had an uncomfortable feeling
that she was capable of anything, perhaps that very night when he was
asleep. A tallow candle was burning on a stool by his bedside, but he
dared not put it out.
"Aren't you going to put out the candle?" she asked in a dull voice,
still looking up at the ceiling.
He had to put it out at last. The grey light of the spring night
showed in the window, which had no blind, and they both lay with
wide-open eyes fixed on this faint light, as if they were afraid of
closing them or looking into darkness. Neither of them had any pretext
for rising to attend to one or other of the children; so they were
forced to lie still and let the thoughts put up their heads out of the
night. She seemed to see her father as he was the last time he came to
her, saw him down in the garden, heard his opinion of her husband.
"Why wasn't I more compliant then?" she thought. "It's too late now! I
can never make up for it! What have I done?"
Wangen lived over again the scene when he had borrowed the last ten
thousand krones. He lied, he exaggerated, he persuaded--and believed
in it. That was how it seemed with all his ideals now. He believed in
them; they intoxicated him slightly; but just look at the
consequences!
He involuntarily began to tremble in his bed, for he felt as if he
would have to drag the dead body of the old man after him for ever and
ever. Fru Wangen noticed his distress, and it made her own greater.
"Is it his fault after all?" she thought, and felt her anger rise. But
in that case it would be her fault too. No, he was innocent; he must
be innocent. The desire to hold him up insensibly gained the upper
hand, and she put out her hand towards him.
"Take hold of my hand, Henry!"
And when their hands lay in one another's--the two alone
together--they were as they had been when they were newly married and
fell asleep with fingers intertwined.
"Shouldn't I have married him when I was fond of him?" she thought, as
if her father could hear; and she insensibly conjured up the memory of
the beautiful moments in their early love, as if to convince herself
that she was honest now.
But her father had objections to make--hanging there--and she
involuntarily pressed her husband's hand closer. This union of their
hands in affection gave their fear another direction. They were at
last able to occupy themselves with others, and therefore began to be
sorry for one another, because that kept them from seeing to the
bottom of their own misery.
"My poor Karen!" said Wangen. "It's worst for you after all."
She loosed his hand to stroke his wrist, and answered in a low voice:
"Oh no, Henry! It's worst for you. Good heavens!"
"No, Karen, for I'm a man; and he was your father."
The last words gave her a shock, and once more brought the image of
the dead man before her eyes. But she could not stand this any longer.
It couldn't be Wangen's fault. And insensibly she took refuge in
Wangen, in his innocence, wherein now lay her only safety.
"Henry, may I come into your bed?"
"Yes, dear."
He too was glad not to feel alone any more. He held up the bedclothes,
and she crept in, and as in the old days laid her head upon his
shoulder, clung to him so as to feel safe and calm.
He covered her up carefully, and put his arms about her. The
confidence of each inspired the other, and they took refuge in one
another, in the hope of finding the good conscience they both sought
for. And as the warmth of one body was imparted to the other, and they
became one, they began involuntarily to talk of their common excuse,
as if to convince themselves each through the other.
After lying a little while, she said softly, against his cheek, with a
sigh: "Oh dear! All this wouldn't have happened, if----"
He understood what she meant, and passed his disengaged hand across
his forehead. "No," he said, "it wouldn't." And at the words they both
saw Norby and the rich men as the powers of evil against which their
indignation might rise; and instead of feeling themselves guilty, they
began to feel themselves as a kind of champions of right and truth.
For him especially it was so good to hear this from her; for now she
no longer doubted either.
Outside the spring night was passing slowly. They could hear the sound
of rain on the doorstep, and of the brook that ran down past their
house from the little valley.
She had been lying some time looking at the window, when she said:
"Perhaps Haarstad's widow was pressed into making that declaration
too!"
"Yes!" said he, stretching himself.
This suspicion of his, that she had abhorred before, she now felt a
desire to cling to; there was a relief, a kind of acquittal in it.
They tried to close their eyes and be silent, but neither of them
could sleep, and both wanted to go on listening to their defence.
"Well, now they'll go to America, most of the work-people," he said,
and left her to say the rest. And in a little while she said: "All
those who can work are likely to go, when things are managed as they
are here."
He felt such pleasure and comfort every time she said what he had so
often said. She was quite on his side at last. At last she, too, felt
convinced.
"And you had thought of establishing a pension fund for them, too,"
she said.
"Yes, if I could only have gone on."
"And how well the working men lived! I remember when their wives
brought them their meals how pleased and happy they looked!"
"Yes, it's different now," said he.
The night was very long; but they kept close to one another, and
talked at intervals about the same thing, as if it were a fire that
had to be kept up. She even ventured to say: "Don't you think people
would have got pretty good interest on their money, if only you could
have gone on in peace?"
"Yes, of course! Why, it was improving all the time--until the rich
men grew frightened."
"Yes, I haven't understood until now, what a disappointment it must
have been for you," she said with feeling; and burying her head in his
shoulder she whispered: "Can you forgive me, Henry? I haven't been
what I should have been."
He was touched. "Forgive?" he said. "Why, I've nothing to forgive!
You've been so clever, Karen, and have had so much to see to. But I'll
help you now."
"Don't talk like that, Henry! I see now that you must have felt
paralysed."
Thus the night passed. They talked themselves more and more together,
and found their own confidence in one another. They both felt haunted
by the dark, cold responsibility, and fled hand in hand towards the
land of innocence.