Finn stood at the window in Cordt’s room, with his head leaning against
the frame, and looked down into the yard, where the porter’s children
were playing.
He had come, as usual, to say good-morning and Cordt had told him to
wait while he finished a letter. The letter had been sealed for some
time, but Finn had not noticed it. He was watching the game down below
and bending forward to see better.
Then the children were called in. He laid his head against the
window-frame again and looked up at the grey sky. He thought of Hans,
who had left for Paris that morning and was to remain abroad for two
years.
Cordt sat silent. From where he was, he could see Finn’s profile: the
forehead, which was so white, the eyelids, which lifted themselves so
heavily, the mouth, which was so tired and so weak.
“Finn!”
Finn started and turned round.
“Did you see Hans off?”
“Yes.”
Finn sat down by the window where he stood, with bent head and his
hands upon his knees. He wound the cord of the blind round his fingers
and unwound it again.
“I wonder if you will miss Hans?”
“Oh ... yes.”
“I shall,” said Cordt. “Hans represents the new order at its finest
... the hero in modern poetry ... the engineer, you know, whom they can
never put on the stage without making him insipid ... because he never
acts a part. He is strong and has the courage to employ his powers. To
us he often seems lacking in refinement and he finds it difficult to
grant us our due. He has no ancestors ... he is the ancestor ... he
founds a dynasty.”
“Yes,” said Finn.
They sat silent for a while.
There was no doubt in Cordt. He knew what he wanted and wanted it. He
did not seek for kind words, but strong words. Finn knew this too. He
sat like a culprit awaiting sentence and was thankful for every minute
that passed.
Then they looked up into each other’s eyes.
They measured each other’s strength. And Finn was strong in his
hopelessness, even as Cordt was strong in the hope which he could not
let go, because he had nothing else to fall back upon.
“Do you know that you are a born artist, Finn?”
Finn smiled sadly and shook his head.
“You are,” said Cordt. “There is no doubt about it. When you were
travelling abroad ... there was simply nothing in your letters but
delight at the pictures you saw. Your journey was one long progress
through a royal gallery. At sea, in the street, on the mountains ...
everywhere you caught life and hung it on your wall and sat down to
look at it.”
“Did I?”
“Had you not been born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you would
have been lost beyond redeeming. You would have become a painter ... no
... an author.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“What use is literature to us modern people?” said Cordt. “Where does
it lead us? How does it form our lives? If the old poets had lived
nowadays, they would certainly have been merchants, or electricians,
or arctic navigators.... Just look round you, Finn ... the books we
read, the pictures we look at, the plays they perform: isn’t it all
like an orchestra that plays for an hour while people walk about the
grounds? Tired people, who like to hear a bit of music before they go
to bed. The band plays its tune and gets its pay and its applause and
we are interested in seeing that the performance is well and properly
given.... But ... the _poet_, Finn.... A solitary horn sounds over the
hills. We drop the plough and listen and look up, because the notes
seem to us so rare and so powerful and we have never heard them before
and know them so well. Then our eyes glisten. And the sorrow that bent
our back and the gladness that held us erect and the hope we had ...
all of that suddenly acquires color and light. And we go whither the
horn calls us ... over the hills ... to new green fields where it is
better living.”
“Father....”
Finn raised his head, but then could not find the phrase for what he
wanted to say.
“Don’t you think that the poet must be a _man_ ... a man like the
others, with courage in his breast and a sword at his thigh? Then he
goes forth and sings them to battle and wedding, to dance and death. He
is a part of the business, foremost in the crowd.”
“The poets also sat in the ladies’ chambers and sang,” said Finn.
Cordt nodded:
“They did that _also_,” he said. “But the poets we now have do nothing
else. There will always be fiddlers as long as there are idle women
and women with two husbands and wars and kings. As long as the stars
wander so far through the sky and the children cannot catch the bird
that flies in the bush.... But never mind that, Finn. Never mind that.
Just look at those who sit in the orchestra to-day.... Would you sit
among them? They are sick people singing about their sickness. One is
sick with love and one with lewdness and one with drink. One chants
his faith on vellum, another sells his doubts in sixpenny editions.
The feeble will of the one quavers in silly verses ... the other
intoxicates his pale fancy with blood and horrors drawn from the olden
times. Do you think that a free man would of his own accord select his
place among those artists?”
Finn looked up with his quiet eyes:
“Who is a free man, father?... Are you?”
Cordt put his hands on Finn’s shoulders and bent over him and looked at
him:
“You are, Finn.... You are a free man ... if you wish to be.”
“Father....”
Finn put out his hands like a child asking for something. But Cordt
looked at him inexorably. And so strong and radiant was his glance,
that Finn tried to escape it, but could not; tried to speak, but was
silent.
Then Cordt walked across the room, up and down, with great, calm
strides, and spoke and was silent and never for a moment released his
son from his stern grasp.
His words seized Finn and lifted him up where things were great and
beautiful and bitterly cold, he thought; then let him fall again, till
he relapsed into his own dark corner; and seized him anew and carried
him aloft.
But, when Cordt ceased, it was to Finn as though he heard a flourish of
trumpets from the clouds proclaiming that other words were now coming,
greater still and austerer, more loving, ever heavier to bear.
“You are right, Finn.... I am not a free man, I never was. I am bound
up in the tradition that built my house and bore my race and, when I
could not support the tradition, things broke for me. But that did not
make me free.... Those were heavy days, Finn. I could not understand
it, you see, and I fought to the end. I was young and strong and I was
in love. You are fond of the old room ... you can hear the legends
up there singing their powerful, melancholy song.... Remember, Finn,
I am one of those on whom the legend is laid. I have lived in the
secrecy of the old room.... I have stood, in my calm, proud right ...
up there, where the room stood, unseen by any one except the master
of the house and his wife ... always remote and locked and hidden
in its time-honored might ... always open to him who owned it.... I
left it like a beaten man. But I could not retire into a corner and
mourn, for I had you, Finn. You were only a little child then, so I
could not know how your paths would go. I knew only one thing, that
you would never sit with your wife up there, where people became
so small when they sat down in the big chairs and where it was so
pleasant and so safe. I was the last. With me, the tradition of the
old room was finished.... Then I had to try if I could find my way in
the world which I did not understand. I had to go through all that
which I disliked so desperately and which had killed my happiness. For
myself, I had nothing to gain: I was a bound man and a wounded. But
I had you, Finn.... And I had to know if they were building properly
and honestly somewhere behind all the dancing and flirting and singing
which I saw before my eyes. Or if it was no different from what my
eyes saw and if I should not be doing best to carry my child out into
the mountains and let the wild beasts tear it to pieces.... I was
alone in this. Your mother went to live in an old house beside the old
house where her happiness could not grow. There she found peace. But
I needed no refuge. Where I was, I was at home: I only wanted to see
the place where you and your children should flourish.... I did not
spare myself, Finn. I sought honestly, south and north, east and west.
I took their books ... the light ones burst like soap-bubbles in my
hands and the powerful ones my thoughts had to struggle to understand.
Not one of their green visions but has been with me in my room, not
one of their bright swords but has flashed before my eyes.... I did
not allow myself to be blinded by my own bitterness, or tricked by
catch-words, or frightened by abuse. I went on as long as I could see
the way ... and longer, Finn. I peered out into the farthest, where
those who thought as I did saw nothing but horror and insanity.... And
Finn ... I don’t know.... Perhaps it was your mother’s God that helped
me ... perhaps it was my ancestor, who himself had sailed into harbor
and raised our house on new ground for many a good, long day. Perhaps
it was your little hand, which lay so trustingly in mine, when you
used to come to me in those anxious, lonely days and say good-morning
and good-night.... I don’t know. I daresay it was my love for you
that lifted me above myself. I climbed as high up the mountains as a
mortal can climb. It all lay under my feet like a cloud ... longing and
happiness and daily bread and daily trouble. I could not see the valley
in which my house was built. But out of the cloud, over the mountain, I
saw the road where we hustle and strive, generation after generation,
ever forward towards the goal which we cannot see, but which is there,
because the road is there.... And I saw land ... the promised land of
you and your children ... from the mountain where I stood. A land I did
not know ... a land strange to my eyes ... people with other habits
and other beliefs, with a different form of love and a different code
of honor.... I saw it through the storm that flung the door of the old
room wide open.... That was a strange time, Finn ... the strongest in
my life and the happiest.”
Cordt stood at the window with his arms crossed over his chest. He
looked at his son and smiled sadly. Finn sat still, with his head
thrown back in his chair and his eyes closed.
“Then I equipped you for the journey, Finn.... I did not show you this
way or that, for I was a bound man and could not go with you. I gave
you books and masters, who opened all the gates of the world to you. I
let you look into the mist where you wanted to ride. I feared nothing,
because I wanted nothing for myself and because I had seen through the
mist.... You grew up and I saw that you grew good and clever. Then I
sat down and waited and longed for the day when I should wave to you
from the balcony of my old house, when you marched forth to conquer
your new land.... I was right to wait for the day.... Ah.... I have
seen them, the poor devils, hungry and wounded, rush blindfold towards
the new, which they did not know, because it could not possibly be
worse than the old. I have heard them call for new laws because they
had violated the old ... they were driven from their huts and sat on
the deck of the emigrant-ship with their bundle and their uncertain
hope for a better fate in the new world.... But you.... You had done no
wrong and had nothing to revenge. Free as a king’s son, you rode over
the bridge with your retinue and rode through the world and planted
your banner wherever you chose to dwell. Born of your mother’s longing
for excitement ... in your father’s house, whose walls are as thick
as the walls of a castle ... with the strong air of the old room in
your lungs and without its yoke upon your neck ... a rich and spotless
nobleman, taking his place of his own free will in the ranks of the
revolution.”
He was silent. His steps sounded heavily through the stillness:
“Are you with me, Finn?”
“Yes, father.”
“Come.”
Finn rose. Cordt put his arm over his shoulder and they paced the room
together.
“I had so many dreams, Finn. And I gained such confidence, because my
own happiness was shattered and I had you. I had become an old man, but
my mind was not blunted. I had suffered shipwreck, but I was not afraid
of the sea. I believed in life ... in God, if you like.”
They did not walk well together and Cordt removed his arm. Finn sat
down in his chair again and listened. Cordt went on walking:
“Then came the days which you know ... the days of the present.... You
grew up into the quiet man you are. Your eyes looked heavily upon life,
you shrank back timidly when you saw that there was fire and smoke on
earth.... You kept your scutcheon untarnished, but that is easily done,
when one doesn’t fight. You were never in places where one does not
wish to be seen ... that is true. But you never went outside your door,
Finn ... never. There was no fire in your blood, no desire in your
thoughts. You were tired, Finn ... merely tired.... I grew frightened
for you.... As the years passed, you had become more to me than a son.
You were not only flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone ... you were
a link in the human chain that goes on through the ages, ever onward.
Your hand was in mine, but your life was more precious than mine. For
you had to carry a greater burden and to carry it into new ways....
Remember, Finn, I had been on the mountain and seen through the mist.
It was more than the question of an inheritance, more than family pride
and family loyalty. You and I were allied in a great cause. And I sat
with the map before me and followed the course of the battle ... like
an old soldier, who can no longer sally forth himself, but who has
his son and his colors and his emperor under fire.... Remember how I
had arrived at where I was. Remember what I had lost, what I had let
go, how completely I had sacrificed myself for you. I had you, Finn
... had I anything else?... When I, then, became frightened for you,
I plunged into my wonderful treasure and endowed you lavishly. I told
you the legend of the old house and thought it would call you to arms,
like the blast of the bugle over the camp. I revealed your father’s
and your mother’s fate to you, that you might see how people fight
for happiness. I sent you out into the world, where life is bigger
and stronger than at home, so that life might make you into a man....
But never ... never did I put any constraint upon you. Never did I
usurp the place of Providence.... And you turned over the pages of the
picture-book and came home paler than before and wearier. The old room
was merely a charming poem to you, that sang you into deeper dreams.
Up there ... where the strong men of our race met their wives, when
the sun went down upon the business of the day, and talked gladly and
earnestly when their hearts impelled them to ... there you sit, alone,
all day long, with your slack hands.”
Then he laid his hands firmly on Finn’s shoulders. And Finn looked up
with moist eyes and quivering mouth.
“To-day, Finn, I have given you your inheritance. From to-day, I look
upon you as of age. You were such that one could not use coercion with
you ... and, in fact, there was none that wanted to use it. Nor could
one be angry with you ... you were the same ... it was the same ...
always. To-day, that is past. Go out and buy yourself a house and take
a wife and have children by her. And remember that, if there were some
in the family that fell, there was none that flinched.”
“Father.... I understand you ... but I cannot do what you want.”
Cordt took a step back and tossed his thick hair from his forehead:
“You pale people _understand_ everything, because no faith blinds your
eyes: you are so kind and clever, you think. You judge leniently, you
do not judge at all, you know that the truth is nowhere and everywhere.
You justify every silly thought you have entertained ... you sit for
all time and contemplate your navel ... and then you let the murderer
go and the thief escape. God help you poor wretches! The stupidest, the
most ignorant dervish is cleverer and kinder than you!”
Finn wanted to say something, but Cordt made a preventive gesture with
his hand:
“A man _must_ not understand everything. He must choose and judge and
reject. If he doesn’t do that, there is no happiness in the world and
no loyalty and no peace. And, if he cannot hate, he cannot love either.”
He went to the window and looked out. And, as he stood there, Finn came
up to him and seized his hand and looked at him pleadingly:
“I can’t do what you want,” he said.
But Cordt withdrew his hand and moved away from him:
“You have no right to say that to me, Finn. I won’t listen to it. For
what I want is only that you should live. Take the inheritance which I
have given you and use it as you can. One day, you shall be called upon
to answer for your son, as I to-day for you.”
Finn smiled sadly:
“I shall never have a son,” he said, softly.
Cordt did not hear what he said. He was struggling with a memory
... passed his hand over his face and stared before him. He saw Fru
Adelheid ... that evening in the old room, when she had said what Finn
was saying now ... the same hopeless, impotent words: “I cannot do what
you want.”
He sat down and fell back in his chair.
All the despair of the old days came over him like a tremendous
weariness. He was struggling against what was stronger than himself. He
had nothing to set against that eternal, hopeless, “I cannot do what
you want.”
Then he sprang up and stood in front of Finn with blazing eyes:
“If it’s your mother who paralyzes your will, then fly from her, hate
her, thrust her from you....”
“Father ... father....”
“Hate her, I say. She was smitten with the pestilence from her youth.
She understood everything ... like you. To her nothing was small or
great, nothing near or far. Her will was gone, like yours. She knew
where the glory lay, if she could reach it, but she could not. She
hearkened to the times and the times made her their own. She was always
sick ... sick unto death.”
He crossed the room and said nothing more.
They were both of them very pale and both longed to be alone. They had
nothing more to say to each other.
And Finn was not angry on his mother’s account. He thought only of the
one thing, that he could not do what Cordt wanted and could not appease
his sorrow ... could not even tell him that he loved him. And then he
longed to sit still ... in the old room ... with his mother, who was
so pretty and whom he had never offended:
“Are you angry with me, father?”
Cordt looked at him long and intently. Then he said:
“Yes.”
But, when Finn was gone, he sat with his face buried in his hands and
wept.