The first thing was that Finn had his former room arranged so that he
and Hans could be there when Hans came to see him.
There was nothing said about it. For it was taken as a matter of course
that no stranger should set foot in the old room. But Cordt at once
thought that his hope in Hans was shattered.
Sometimes Finn was glad when Hans was there.
They could never talk together.
Hans’ thoughts were constantly at work on plans and difficulties, the
least of which seemed quite unsurmountable to Finn, and he had not the
remotest idea as to what passed in his friend’s brain. He talked to
all men alike and his words were all questions or answers or opinions.
So it was Hans who spoke and, wholly taken up with himself as he was,
he seldom noticed that Finn fell a-dreaming.
When Finn could get him to set to work on some calculation or other, he
himself sat delighted and watched Hans while he struggled with figures
and drawings.
He was amused at Hans’ wrinkled forehead, his eager, impatient
movements. And he waited expectantly, like one sitting on a
race-ground, or wherever else men are engaged in contest, for the shout
with which the engineer would fling aside the pencil when the problem
was solved.
Then Finn’s face beamed with delight. He was as pleased as if it had
been himself that had gained the triumph and he had no notion what sort
of triumph it was or what it was worth.
But sometimes, and more and more frequently, Hans was too active, too
restless for him.
There were days on which Finn hid when his friend called. Often, Hans’
mere presence in the room occasioned him real bodily pain. He could
feel half unconscious under his powerful glance, his voice, which was
so loud and jolly, his words, which all meant something.
Then he sat tortured and wretched, because it was not possible for him
to ask the other to go. And it was only seldom that Hans perceived
this. When it did happen, there was no end to his awkward distress; and
then Finn was not content before he had succeeded in persuading him
that he was quite wrong.
Then Finn submitted, in the same way in which a hopeless invalid
submits to a new cure which prepares new sufferings for him and in
which he does not himself believe. And, while he suffered, he thought
incessantly of his father, who suffered more than he did and whom he
could not help.
His best time was when they were out together.
They drove and rode; and then they were never agreed, for Finn wanted
to ride slowly and drive fast and Hans wanted just the opposite. They
were always eager to accommodate themselves to each other, but this
came to pass only when it was Finn’s wish that prevailed.
Finn did not like going out. But, once he had started, he was glad; and
then he always wanted to have Hans with him. He was shy in a crowd and
his friend’s presence reassured him.
They generally walked in the streets, for Finn felt cold if he went
outside the town. Then he took Hans’ arm and kept step with him and was
proud of him. He liked to hear his strong voice through the noise of
the street, his quick step, the tap of his stick on the pavement.
Then Finn would sometimes begin to talk.
Mostly of his travels. And he could speak of these almost as he thought
and as he spoke to his mother. It was as though the life and the noise
that half drowned his words made him feel freer and safer.
And, although Hans cared but little for what Finn had seen and talked
about, still there was a color and a gleam about his words that
captivated him.
But, when it happened that the noise in the street was suddenly
stilled, then Finn was silent and frightened. And, if, for a moment,
they were separated in the crowd and Hans failed to catch a sentence
and asked him to repeat it, or seized upon some phrase and asked for a
further explanation and confirmation, then Finn was forthwith tired
and his mood changed.
He often stopped when a piece of street-life caught his attention. He
pointed it out to his friend and made it the subject of his talk. Then
Hans would underline his words with some racy observation or other,
which amused Finn, but afterwards annoyed him, because it spoilt the
picture for him.
They never talked about women.
Finn was silent, because his thoughts were vague and modest. And Hans’
experiences were not of such a nature that he cared to talk about them.
Then, also, they both had an instinctive feeling that they had less in
common on this subject than on any other and that they did not wish
ever to cross each other’s path.
On one occasion only was Finn his friend’s guest in his home.
It was a regular feast in the little rooms, high up under the roof, and
Finn was glad to be there.
He looked in delight at the two little old people who stood and sat
with folded hands and little bows and nods and did not know how to show
their respect and gratitude to the young master of the house. They took
it for granted, as a settled thing, that Finn must be vexed because
Hans had broken with tradition and gone his own way and they made
endless covert excuses for it.
And through the excuses rang their pride in the strong son whom they
handled as cautiously as though he would fall to pieces if they took
firm hold of him ... their joyous dread of the greatness that awaited
him.
Finn understood them and was touched by them. He sang his friend’s
praises and prophesied a preposterous success for him and was happy to
read the gladness in the little parents’ eyes.
And, while he was deep in conversation with them and amused at Hans,
who was utterly confused that his friend should see the adoration of
which he was the object, the picture of his own parents suddenly rose
before his thoughts like great black silhouettes against the light
background.
He stopped talking and then they all became silent and it was not
pleasant in the room.
Afterwards, he stood with Hans and looked through the open window.
His eyes roamed over the hundreds of roofs. The sun shone on the slates
and the red tiles and lit up the telephone-wires. Little garret-windows
stuck out on every side ... with chintz curtains, with wall-flowers and
geraniums and pelargoniums and yellow birds in white cages.
In one place there hung an elegantly-painted wooden box with ferns,
which were quite brown, but stood proud and stiff, and a little
fir-tree in the middle. In another, the curtain fluttered right out
into the air and waved and flapped like a flag. Here, two sparrows
hopped about in the gutter ... there, a caged bird was singing, shrilly
and sweetly.
“How charming this is!” he said.
Hans did not exactly think so.
But, at that moment, Finn set eyes on a window a little to one side and
so near that he felt as if he could reach across to it.
The window was open. There were flowers in it and there was a bird
which hopped from perch to perch in its cage, silently and unceasingly.
Behind the flowers sat a young girl sewing. He could see the back of
her and a bit of her chin and hear the stitching of the sewing-machine:
“Look,” he said, in an undertone.
Hans came up and at once looked away again:
“That’s Marie,” he said. “She’s a seamstress.”
There was nothing wrong either in the words or in the tone in which
they were uttered. But he said it so loud and so carelessly that it
hurt Finn. The girl opposite looked up and smiled.
Then something like a cloud passed over the whole picture, with the
flowers and the bird and the sunny roofs. Finn sighed and came away
from the window.
And, when they sat together at supper and had finished eating, suddenly
there fell upon him an insuppressible melancholy.
He looked from one to the other and read in their faces that they were
subduing their gladness on his account. He imagined what it was like
when the three were alone, busy and cheerful in their work and in
their faith in one another.
And behind their kind words and smiles he felt the pity for their quiet
guest. But he thought of this only as pity for Cordt and of himself as
one who suffered blame.
Then he hurriedly took his leave.