At that time, Finn made a friend whom he had not chosen or wanted for
himself, but whom Cordt gave him in his anxiety, because he thought he
could never get any one better.
His name was Hans and they had known each other since they were
children. He was a year older than Finn, not quite so tall, but more
powerfully developed, with bright hair and eyes and disposition.
His father was a little man who sat among the people in the
counting-house, where his father had sat before him. He and his little
wife had no luck in life save their son. But at times they trembled for
his future, because his ideas were so pronounced and took so wide a
range.
For, even as he was taller than his father, so he would not be content
with his measure in anything.
Above all, he did not want to sit in the office, but to go out in the
world, big as it was. And, from the time when he was a little boy, he
believed that it was bigger than they told him.
Now that he had grown up and become conscious of his need and his
powers and could not get anywhere, he went fearlessly to the master of
the house and told him how the matter stood.
Cordt liked him and wanted to keep him for his house, but soon saw that
he had nothing that could tempt him. He asked him what he would like to
be; and it appeared that Hans wanted to be an engineer.
Cordt looked at him and thought that his glance could blast rocks.
Then he promised his assistance and remained sitting in deep thought,
while Hans went down the stairs singing.
Time passed. He advanced along his road and both he and the others
could see that he was fully keeping pace with his dreams. Cordt did not
lose sight of him and was pleased when he called. But Fru Adelheid did
not like him, because he talked so loud and had such a heavy tread.
One evening, Cordt stood in Hans’ room and talked to him as he had
never talked to any one:
“I am your father’s employer,” he said, “and my father was your
grandfather’s. My son will never be yours. For you mean to make your
own way and be your own master. You would have done that even if no
one had lent you a helping hand. That is true. But then you would have
become bitter, perhaps, and distrustful and narrow-minded in the use of
your strength. From this I delivered you. To-day, I come to ask for a
return.”
Hans had taken the hand which he put out to him and stood ill at ease,
without understanding. And Cordt sat down wearily and sat long without
speaking further.
At last, he woke from his thoughts and looked at the young man, who
could not interpret his glance, but was moved by it:
“I do not wish that you were my son,” he said. “I have a son and he is
a good lad and I love him. He has not your strength of character, but
then he does not need it. His path was smoothed and shaded from the day
when he was born and grew up. But he can give you many things which you
have not.”
He listened to his own words, to the way in which they kept on shaping
themselves into an apology for Finn, a prayer for forbearance towards
him. He suffered at this; and Hans, who saw his distress, felt, without
understanding, that something important and tragic was taking place in
this great house, where he and his had earned their living.
“Will you try if you can be his friend?”
Hans was quite willing.
Cordt looked at him and gauged his strength. He looked round in the
little low-ceilinged room which contained nothing but what served Hans
in his work. He looked out of the window, where the roofs intersected
one another, dirty and grey against the sky: smoke rose from hundreds
of chimneys, the noise of the courtyard and the street filled the room,
the window was broken and pasted up with paper.
Then he again turned his eyes to the man who sat amidst these mean
surroundings and grew up strong. And Cordt knew that he was not
standing here as his benefactor and his father’s employer, who was
opening his rich house to him. He stood here as one who could beg and
nothing more.
“You know you used to play together as children,” he said.
And, when he had said that, he was overcome with emotion, because he
remembered that Finn had never played. Hans thought the same thing, but
could not find the words that should be spoken on this occasion and the
silence became heavy and painful to both of them.
To say something at all costs, Hans asked if Finn was ill.
Then Cordt understood that Hans must long since have pronounced his
judgment on the pale, silent heir of the house and that the judgment
could not be good.
He rose, tired of seeking for guarded phrases. He laid his hands on
Hans’ shoulders and looked at him in such a way that Hans never forgot
it:
“Do you be David,” he said. “Come to us with your harp. And come of
your own accord and come when we send for you.”