Shallow Soil - Knut Hamsun E-Book

Knut Hamsun

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Nobel Prize
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 368

Beschreibung

Shallow Soil is a novel that examines the complex human interactions and struggles for power in a rural context. Hamsun depicts life in a small Norwegian village, where characters confront their own desires, frustrations, and longings. Through a psychological approach, the work reveals the tension between individual impulses and social expectations, as well as the difficulties of everyday life. Since its publication, Shallow Soil has been recognized for its innovative style and deep analysis of human psychology. Hamsun uses poetic and evocative language to explore the inner lives of his characters, giving them palpable humanity. The novel addresses themes such as alienation, identity, and the struggle for authenticity in a world that often seems hostile. The work remains relevant for its representation of human vulnerability and its critiques of oppressive social structures. By examining the dynamics of power in interpersonal relationships, Shallow Soil offers reflections on the search for meaning and belonging that resonate in contemporary society.

Leseprobe

Knut Hamsun

SHALOW SOIL

Contents

INTRODUCTION

SHALLOW SOIL

PROLOGUE

GERMINATION

RIPENING

SIXTYFOLD

FINALE

INTRODUCTION

Knut Hamsun

1859 - 1952

Knut Hamsun was a Norwegian writer, recognized as one of the most influential figures in 20th-century literature. Born in Lom, Norway, Hamsun is known for his works that explore themes such as human psychology, the individual's relationship with nature, and the conflict between instinct and reason. His most famous novel, Hunger (1890), is a testament to literary modernism and has left a lasting impact on world literature.

Early Life and Education

Knut Hamsun was born into a poor family and experienced economic instability throughout his childhood, moving between different places in Norway. Despite these difficulties, Hamsun showed an early interest in literature. At the age of 19, he moved to America, where he worked various jobs, providing him with a unique perspective on life and the struggles of the individual.

Career and Contributions

Hamsun distinguished himself through his innovative style and psychological approach. His first major work, Hunger, tells the story of a struggling writer in Oslo, reflecting his internal battle with poverty and despair. This work is considered a precursor to modernism, anticipating the existential explorations that would become common in 20th-century literature.

Among his other notable works are Growth of the Soil (1917), which earned him the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1920, and Victoria (1898), which addresses love and the struggle to achieve one's dreams. The latter celebrates rural life and the connection between man and land, themes recurrent in his work. Through his characters, Hamsun explored the tensions between civilization and nature, as well as the complexities of human life.

Impact and Legacy

Hamsun's work was revolutionary for its time, challenging established narrative conventions. His psychological and subjective approach has influenced numerous writers, including Franz Kafka and Virginia Woolf. While Hamsun is considered one of the pioneers of modern literature, his legacy is complex due to his controversial political views, especially during World War II.

His narrative style, characterized by poetic prose and an intimate approach, has left an indelible mark on literature. Hamsun cultivated a form of narrative that highlights the subjective experience of the individual, capturing the anguish and alienation in the modern world.

Knut Hamsun died in 1952 at the age of 92. Despite the controversies surrounding his life and political opinions, his work remains a subject of study and admiration. Hamsun is remembered not only as a literary innovator but also as a figure who questioned and explored the nature of human existence.

His influence persists in contemporary literature, and his writings continue to resonate in the search for understanding the complexities of human life, nature, and the individual's struggle against adversity. Hamsun left a lasting legacy, offering a profound insight into the contradictions of the human condition.

About the Work

Shallow Soil is a novel that examines the complex human interactions and struggles for power in a rural context. Hamsun depicts life in a small Norwegian village, where characters confront their own desires, frustrations, and longings. Through a psychological approach, the work reveals the tension between individual impulses and social expectations, as well as the difficulties of everyday life.

Since its publication, Shallow Soil has been recognized for its innovative style and deep analysis of human psychology. Hamsun uses poetic and evocative language to explore the inner lives of his characters, giving them palpable humanity. The novel addresses themes such as alienation, identity, and the struggle for authenticity in a world that often seems hostile.

The work remains relevant for its representation of human vulnerability and its critiques of oppressive social structures. By examining the dynamics of power in interpersonal relationships, Shallow Soil offers reflections on the search for meaning and belonging that resonate in contemporary society.

SHALLOW SOIL

PROLOGUE

I

A faint, golden, metallic rim appears in the east where the sun is rising. The city is beginning to stir; already can be heard an occasional distant rumble of trucks rolling into the streets from the country, large farm-wagons heavily loaded with supplies for the markets — with hay and meat and cordwood. And these wagons make more noise than usual because the pavements are still brittle from nightly frosts. It is the latter part of March.

Everything is quiet around the harbour. Here and there a sleepy sailor tumbles out of a forecastle; smoke is curling from the galleys. A skipper puts his head out of a companionway and sniffs toward the weather; the sea stretches in undisturbed calm; all the winches are at rest.

The first wharf gate is thrown open. Through it one catches a glimpse of sacks and cases piled high, of cans and barrels; men with ropes and wheelbarrows are moving around, still half asleep, yawning openly with angular, bearded jaws. And barges are warped in alongside the docks; another army begins the hoisting and stowing of goods, the loading of wagons, and the moving of freight.

In the streets one door after another is opened; blinds are raised, officeboys are sweeping floors and dusting counters. In the H. Henriksen office the son is sitting at a desk, all alone; he is sorting mail. A young gentleman is strolling, tired and sleepy, toward the railway square; he comes from a late party given in some comrade's den and is taking the morning air. At Fire Headquarters he runs across an acquaintance who has also been celebrating.

"Abroad so early, Ojen?" asks the first stroller.

"Yes — that is to say, I haven't been in bed yet!"

"Neither have I," laughs the first. "Good night!"

And he wanders on, smiling in amusement over that good night on a bright and sunny morning. He is a young and promising man; his name had suddenly become famous two years ago when he published a lyric drama. His name is Irgens; everybody knows him. He wears patent-leather shoes and is good-looking, with his curled moustache and his sleek, dark hair.

He drifts from one market square to another; it amuses him, sleepy as he is, to watch the farmers who are invading the public squares with their trucks. The spring sun has browned their faces; they wear heavy mufflers around their necks, and their hands are sinewy and dirty. They are in such a hurry to sell their wares that they even hail him, a youth of twenty-four without a family, a lyric writer who is simply loitering at random in order to divert himself.

The sun climbs higher. Now people begin to swarm in all directions; shrill whistles are heard, now from the factories in the city suburbs, now from the railway stations and docks; the traffic increases. Busy workers dart hither and thither — some munching their breakfast from newspaper parcels. A man pushes an enormous load of bundles on a push-cart, he is delivering groceries; he strains like a horse and reads addresses from a note-book as he hurries along. A child is distributing morning papers; she is a little girl who has Saint Vitus's dance; she jerks her angular body in all directions, twitches her shoulders, blinks, hustles from door to door, climbs the stairs in the high-storied houses, presses bells, and hurries on, leaving papers on every doorstep. A dog follows her and makes every trip with her.

Traffic and noise increase and spread; beginning at the factories, the wharves, the shipyards, and the sawmills, they mingle with wagon rumblings and human voices; the air is rent by steam-whistles whose agonizing wails rise skyward, meeting and blending above the large squares in a booming diapason, a deep-throated, throbbing roar that enwraps the entire city. Telegraph messengers dart hither and yon, scattering orders and quotations from distant markets. The powerful, vitalizing chant of commerce booms through the air; the wheat in India, the coffee in Java promise well; the Spanish markets are crying for fish — enormous quantities of fish during Lent.

It is eight o'clock; Irgens starts for home. He passes H. Henriksen's establishment and decides to drop in a moment. The son of the house, a young man in a business suit of cheviot, is still busy at his desk. His eyes are large and blue, although his complexion is rather dark otherwise; a stray wisp of hair sags untidily over his forehead. The tall, somewhat gaunt and taciturn fellow looks about thirty years old. His comrades value him highly because he helps them a good deal with money and articles of commerce from the firm's cellars.

"Good morning!" calls Irgens.

The other looks up in surprise.

"What — you? Are you abroad so early?"

"Yes. That is to say, I haven't been to bed yet."

"Oh — that's different. I have been at my desk since five; I have cabled to three countries already."

"Good Lord — you know I am not the least interested in your trading! There is only one thing I want to discuss with you, Ole Henriksen; have you got a drink of brandy?"

The two men leave the office and pass through the store down into the cellar. Ole Henriksen pulls a cork hurriedly; his father is expected any moment, and for this reason he is in haste. The father is old, but that is no reason why he should be ignored.

Irgens drinks and says: "Can I take the bottle along?" And Ole Henriksen nods.

On their way back through the store he pulls out a drawer from the counter, and Irgens, who understands the hint, takes something from the drawer which he puts in his mouth. It is coffee, roasted coffee; good for the breath.

II

At two o'clock people swarm up and down the promenade. They chat and laugh in all manner of voices, greet each other, smile, nod, turn around, shout. Cigar smoke and ladies' veils flutter in the air; a kaleidoscopic confusion of light gloves and handkerchiefs, of bobbing hats and swinging canes, glides down the street along which carriages drive with ladies and gentlemen in stylish attire.

Several young gentlemen have taken their accustomed stand at "The Corner." They form a circle of acquaintances — a couple of artists, a couple of authors, a business man, an undefinable — comrades all. They are dressed variously: some have already dispensed with their overcoats, others wear long ulsters with turned-up collars as in midwinter. Everybody knows "the clique."

Some join it while others depart; there remain a young, corpulent artist by the name of Milde, and an actor with a snub nose and a creamy voice; also Irgens, and Attorney Grande of the prominent Grande family. The most important, however, is Paulsberg, Lars Paulsberg, the author of half a dozen novels and a scientific work on the Atonement. He is loudly referred to as the Poet, even though both Irgens and Ojen are present.

The Actor buttons his ulster tightly and shivers.

"No — spring-time is a little too chilly to suit me," he says.

"The contrary here!" exclaims the Attorney. "I could shout all the time; I am neighing inwardly; my blood sings a hunting chorus!" And the little stooping youth straightens his shoulders and glances secretly at Paulsberg.

"Listen to that!" says the Actor sarcastically. "A man is a man, as the eunuch said."

"What does that remark signify?"

"Nothing, God bless you! But you in your patent leathers and your silk hat hunting wolves — the idea appealed to my sense of humor."

"Ha, ha! I note the fact that Norem has a sense of humor! Let us duly appreciate it."

They spoke with practiced ease about everything, had perfect control over their words, made quick sallies, and were skilled in repartee.

A number of cadets were passing.

"Did you ever see anything as flabby as these military youths!" said Irgens. "Look at them; they do not walk past like other mortals, they stalk past!"

Both Irgens and the Artist laughed at this, but the Attorney glanced quickly at Paulsberg, whose face remained immovable. Paulsberg made a few remarks about the Art Exhibition and was silent.

The conversation drifted to yesterday's performance in Tivoli, and from there to political subjects. Of course, they could refuse to pass all financial bills, but — And perhaps there was not even a sufficient majority to defeat the government budget. It certainly looked dubious — rotten — They cited quotations from leading parliamentarians, they proposed to put the torch to the Castle and proclaim the republic without delay. The Artist threatened a general revolt of the laboring classes. "Do you know what the Speaker told me in confidence? That he never, never would agree to a compromise — rather let the Union sink or swim! 'Sink or swim,' these were his very words. And when one knows the Speaker — "

Still Paulsberg did not say anything, and as the comrades were eager to hear his opinion, the Attorney finally ventured to address him:

"And you, Paulsberg, you don't say a word?"

Paulsberg very seldom spoke; he had kept to himself and to his studies and his literary tasks, and lacked the verbal facility of his comrades. He smiled good-naturedly and answered:

"'Let your communication be Yea, yea, and Nay, nay,' you know!" At this they all laughed loudly. "But otherwise," he added, "apart from that I am seriously considering going home to my wife."

And Paulsberg went. It was his wont to go when he said he would.

But after Paulsberg's departure it seemed as if they might as well all go; there was no reason to remain now. The Actor saluted and disappeared; he hurried off in order to catch up with Paulsberg. The Painter threw his ulster around himself without buttoning it, drew up his shoulders, and said:

"I feel rotten! If a fellow could only afford a little dinner!"

"You must try and strike a huckster," said Irgens. "I struck one for a brandy this morning."

"I am wondering what Paulsberg really meant by that remark," said the Attorney. "'Your communication shall be Yea, yea, and Nay, nay'; it is evident it had a deeper meaning."

"Yes, very evident," said Milde. "Did you notice, he laughed when he said it; something must have amused him."

Pause.

A crowd of promenaders were sauntering continually up and down the street, back and forth, laughing and talking.

Milde continued:

"I have often wished that we had just one more head like Paulsberg's here in Norway."

"And why, pray?" asked Irgens stiffly.

Milde stared at him, stared at the Attorney, and burst into a surprised laugh.

"Listen to that, Grande! He asks why we need another head like Paulsberg's in this country!"

"I do," said Irgens.

But Grande did not laugh either, and Milde was unable to understand why his words failed to provoke mirth. He decided to pass it off; he began to speak about other things.

"You said you struck a huckster for brandy; you have got brandy, then?"

"As for me, I place Paulsberg so high that I consider him alone able to do what is needed," said Irgens with thinly veiled sarcasm.

This took Milde by surprise; he was not prepared to contradict Irgens; he nodded and said:

"Certainly — exactly. I only thought it might accelerate matters to have a little assistance, so to speak — a brother in arms. But of course I agree with you."

Outside the Grand Hotel they were fortunate enough to run across Tidemand, a huckster also, a wholesaler, a big business man, head of a large and well-known business house.

"Have you dined?" called the Artist to him.

"Lots of times!" countered Tidemand.

"Now, no nonsense! Are you going to take me to dinner?"

"May I be permitted to shake hands first?"

It was finally arranged that they should take a run up to Irgens's rooms to sample the brandy, after which they were to return to the Grand for dinner. Tidemand and the Attorney walked ahead.

"It is a good thing that we have these peddlers to fall back on," said Milde to Irgens. "They are useful after all."

Irgens replied with a shrug of the shoulders which might mean anything.

"And they never consider that they are being imposed upon," continued Milde. "On the contrary, they think they are highly favored; it flatters them. Treat them familiarly, drink their health, that is sufficient. Ha, ha, ha! Isn't it true?"

The Attorney had stopped; he was waiting.

"While we remember it, we have got to make definite arrangements about that farewell celebration for Ojen," he said.

Of course, they had almost forgotten about that. Certainly, Ojen was going away; something had to be done.

The situation was this: Ojen had written two novels which had been translated into German; now his nerves were bothering him; he could not be allowed to kill himself with work — something had to be done to procure him a highly needed rest. He had applied for a government subsidy and had every expectation of receiving it; Paulsberg himself had recommended him, even if a little tepidly. The comrades had therefore united in an effort to get him to Torahus, to a little mountain resort where the air was splendid for neurasthenics. Ojen was to go in about a week; the money had been raised; both Ole Henriksen and Tidemand had been exceedingly generous. It now only remained to arrange a little celebration to speed the parting comrade.

"But where shall we find a battle-ground?" asked Milde. "At your house,

Grande? You have plenty of room?"

Grande was not unwilling; it might be arranged; he would speak to his wife about it. For Grande was married to Mrs. Liberia, and Mrs. Liberia simply had to be consulted. It was agreed to invite Paulsberg and his wife; as contributors Mr. and Mrs. Tidemand and Ole Henriksen were coming as a matter of course. That was settled.

"Ask whom you like, but I refuse to open my doors to that fellow Norem," said the Attorney. "He always gets drunk and sentimental; he is an awful bore. My wife wouldn't stand for him."

Then the affair could not be held at Grande's house. It would never do to slight Norem. In the perplexity Milde offered his studio.

The friends considered. It was not a bad idea; a better place would be hard to find. The studio was big and roomy as a barn, with two cosy adjoining rooms. Milde's studio, then — settled.

The affair was coming off in a few days.

The four gentlemen stopped at Irgens's place, drank his brandy, and went out again. The Attorney was going home; this decision about the studio did not suit him; he felt slighted. He might decide to stay away altogether. At any rate, he said good-bye now and went his own way.

"What about you, Irgens — I hope you will join us?"

Irgens did not say no; he did not at all refuse this invitation. To tell the truth, he was not unduly eager to return to the Grand; this fat artist vexed him considerably with his familiar manners. However, he might be able to get away immediately after the dinner was over.

In this desire Tidemand himself unconsciously assisted him; he left as soon as he had paid the check. He was going somewhere.

III

Tidemand made his way to H. Henriksen's large warehouse on the wharf where he knew that Ole could be found at this time.

Tidemand had passed thirty and was already getting a little grey around the temples. He, too, was dark of hair and beard, but his eyes were brown and had a listless expression. When he was sitting still and silent, blinking slowly, these heavy lids of his would rise and sink almost as if they were exhausted by much watching. He was beginning to get a little bit stout. He was considered an exceedingly able business man.

He was married and had two children; he had been married four years. His marriage had begun auspiciously and was still in force, although people were at a loss to understand how it could possibly last. Tidemand himself did not conceal his astonishment over the fact that his wife had managed to tolerate him so long. He had been a bachelor too long, had travelled too much, lived too much in hotels; he admitted it himself. He liked to ring whenever he wanted anything; he preferred his meals served at all hours, whenever he took a notion, no matter if it happened to be meal-time or not. And Tidemand went into details: he could not bear to have his wife serve him his soup, for instance — was it possible for a woman, even with the best intention in the world, to divine how much soup he might want?

And, on the other side, there was Mrs. Hanka, an artistic nature, two and twenty, fond of life and audacious as a boy. Mrs. Hanka was greatly gifted and warmly interested in many things; she was a welcome guest wherever the youthful assembled, whether in homes or bachelor dens; nobody could resist her. No, she did not greatly care for home life or house drudgery. She could not help that; unfortunately she had not inherited these tastes. And this unbearable blessing, of a child every year two years running, drove her almost to distraction. Good Lord! she was only a child herself, full of life and frivolity; her youth was ahead of her. But pursuant to the arrangement the couple had made last year, Mrs. Hanka now found it unnecessary to place any restraint upon herself….

Tidemand entered the warehouse. A cool and tart smell of tropical products, of coffee and oils and wines, filled the atmosphere. Tall piles of tea-boxes, bundles of cinnamon sewn in bast, fruits, rice, spices, mountains of flour-sacks — everything had its designated place, from floor to roof. In one of the corners a stairway led to the cellar, where venerable hogsheads of wine with copper bands could be glimpsed in the half-light and where enormous metal tanks rested in massive repose.

Tidemand nodded to the busy warehousemen, walked across the floor, and peeped through the pane into the little office. Ole was there. He was revising an account on a slate.

Ole put the slate down immediately and rose to meet his friend.

These two men had known each other since childhood, had gone through the business college together, and shared with each other their happiest moments. Even now, when they were competitors, they continued to visit each other as often as their work would permit. They did not envy each other; the business spirit had made them broad-minded and generous; they toyed with ship-loads, dealt in large amounts, had daily before their eyes enormous successes or imposing ruin.

Once Tidemand had expressed admiration for a little yacht which Ole Henriksen owned. It was two years ago, when it was known that the Tidemand firm had suffered heavy losses in a fish exportation. The yacht lay anchored just outside the Henriksen warehouse and attracted much attention because of its beautiful lines. The masthead was gilded.

Tidemand said:

"This is the most beautiful little dream I have ever seen, upon my word!"

Ole Henriksen answered modestly:

"I do not suppose I could get a thousand for her if I were to sell her."

"I'll give you a thousand," offered Tidemand.

Pause. Ole smiled.

"Cash?" he asked.

"Yes; I happen to have it with me."

And Tidemand took out his pocketbook and paid over the money.

This occurred in the warehouse. The clerks laughed, whispered, and wondered.

A few days later Ole went over to Tidemand's office and said:

"I don't suppose you would take two thousand for the yacht?"

"Have you got the money with you?"

"Yes; it just happens that I have."

"All right," said Tidemand.

And the yacht was Ole's once more….

Tidemand had called on Ole now in order to pass away an hour or so. The two friends were no longer children; they treated each other with the greatest courtesy and were sincerely fond of each other.

Ole got hold of Tidemand's hat and cane, which he put away, at the same time pointing his friend to a seat on the little sofa.

"What may I offer you?" he asked.

"Thanks — nothing," said Tidemand. "I have just had my dinner at the

Grand."

Ole placed the flat box with Havanas before him and asked again:

"A little glass? An 1812?"

"Well, thank you, yes. But never mind; it is too much trouble; you have to go down-stairs for it."

"Nonsense; no trouble at all!"

Ole brought the bottle from the cellar; it was impossible to tell what it was; the bottle appeared to be made of some coarse cloth, so deeply covered

with dust was it. The wine was chilled and sparkling, it beaded in the glass, and Ole said:

"Here you are; drink hearty, Andreas!"

They drank. A pause ensued.

"I have really come to congratulate you," said Tidemand. "I have never yet made a stroke like that last one of yours!"

It was true that Ole had turned a trick lately. But he insisted that there really was nothing in it that entitled him to any credit; it was just a bit of luck. And if there was any credit to bestow, then it belonged to the firm, not to him. The operations in London had succeeded because of the cleverness of his agent.

The affair was as follows:

An English freight-steamer, the Concordia, had left Rio with half a cargo of coffee; she touched at Bathurst for a deck-load of hides, ran into the December gales on the north coast of Normandy, and sprung a leak; then she was towed into Plymouth. The cargo was water-soaked; half of it was coffee.

This cargo of damaged coffee was washed out and brought to London; it was put on the market, but could not be sold; the combination of sea-water and hides had spoiled it. The owner tried all sorts of doctorings: he used coloring matter — indigo, kurkuma, chrome, copper vitriol — he had it rolled in hogsheads with leaden bullets. Nothing availed; he had to sell it at auction. Henriksen's agent bid it in for a song.

Ole went to London; he made tests with this coffee, washed out the coloring matter, flushed it thoroughly, and dried it again. Finally, he had the entire cargo roasted and packed in hermetically sealed zinc boxes. These boxes were brought to Norway after a month of storing; they were unloaded, taken to the warehouse, opened, and sold. The coffee was as good as ever. The firm made a barrel of money out of this enterprise.

Tidemand said:

"I only learned the particulars a couple of days ago; I must confess that

I was proud of you!"

"My part of the business was simply the idea of roasting the coffee — making it sweat out the damage, so to speak. But otherwise, really — "

"I suppose you were a little anxious until you knew the result?"

"Yes; I must admit I was a little anxious."

"But what did your father say?"

"Oh, he did not know anything until it was all over. I was afraid to tell him; he might have disinherited me, cast me off, you know. Ha, ha!"

Tidemand looked at him.

"Hm. This is all very well, Ole. But if you want to give your father, the firm, half the credit, then you should not at the same time tell me that your father knew nothing until it was all over. I have you there!"

A clerk entered with another account on a slate; he bowed, placed the slate on the desk, and retired. The telephone rang.

"One moment, Andreas; it is probably only an order. Hello!"

Ole took down the order, rang for a clerk, and gave it to him..

"I am detaining you," said Tidemand. "Let me take one of the slates; there is one for each now!"

"Not much!" said Ole; "do you think I will let you work when you come to see me?"

But Tidemand was already busy. He was thoroughly familiar with these strange marks and figures in the many columns, and made out the account on a sheet of paper. They stood at the desk opposite each other and worked, with an occasional bantering remark.

"Don't let us forget the glasses altogether!"

"No; you are right!"

"This is the most enjoyable day I have had in a long time," said Ole.

"Do you think so? I was just going to say the same. I have just left the Grand — By the way, I have an invitation for you; we are both going to the farewell celebration for Ojen — quite a number will be there."

"Is that so? Where is it going to be?"

"In Milde's studio. You are going, I hope?"

"Yes; I will be there."

They went back to their accounts.

"Lord! do you remember the old times when we sat on the school bench together?" said Tidemand. "None of us sported a beard then. It seems as if it were only a couple of months ago, I remember it so distinctly."

Ole put down his pen. The accounts were finished.

"I should like to speak to you about something — you mustn't be offended, Andreas — No; take another glass, old fellow, do! I'll get another bottle; this wine is really not fit for company."

And he hurried out; he looked quite confused.

"What is the matter with him?" thought Tidemand.

Ole returned with another bottle, downy as velvet, with trailing cobwebs; he pulled the cork.

"I don't know how you'll like this," he said, and sniffed the glass. "Try it, anyhow; it is really — I am sure you'll like it; I have forgotten the vintage, but it is ancient."

Tidemand sniffed, sipped, put down his glass, and looked at Ole.

"It isn't half bad, is it?"

"No," said Tidemand, "it is not. You should not have done this, Ole."

"Ho! don't be silly — a bottle of wine!"

Pause.

"I thought you wanted to speak to me about something," asked Tidemand.

"Yes, well — I don't know that I do, exactly." Ole went over and locked the door. "I thought that, as you cannot possibly know anything about it, I had perhaps better tell you that people are talking about you, calumniating you, blackening your reputation, so to speak. And you hear nothing, of course."

"Are they blackening me? What are they saying?"

"Oh, you can feel above anything they say. Never mind what they say. The gossip is that you neglect your wife; that you frequent restaurants although you have a home of your own; that you leave her to herself while you enjoy life single-handed. You are above such insinuations, of course. But, anyway, why do you eat away from home and live so much in restaurants? Not that I have any business to — Say, this wine is not half bad, believe me! Take another glass; do me the favor — "

Tidemand's eyes had suddenly become clear and sharp. He got up, made a few turns across the floor, and went back to the sofa.

"I am not at all surprised that people are talking," he said. "I myself have done what I could to start the gossip; I know that only too well. But I have ceased to care about anything anymore." Tidemand shrugged his shoulders and got up again. Drifting back and forth across the floor, staring fixedly straight ahead, he murmured again that he had ceased to care about anything.

"But listen, old friend, I told you you need not pay the slightest attention to such contemptible gossip," objected Ole.

"It is not true that I neglect Hanka, as people think," said Tidemand; "the fact is that I don't want to bother her. You understand, she must be allowed to do as she pleases; it is an agreement, otherwise she will leave me." During the following sentences Tidemand got up and sat down again; he was in a state of deep emotion. "I want to tell you this, Ole; it is the first time I have ever mentioned it to anybody, and no one will ever hear me repeat it. But I want you to know that I do not go to restaurants because I like to. Where else can I go? Hanka is never at home; there is no dinner, not a soul in the whole house. We have had a friendly understanding; we have ceased to keep house. Do you understand now why I am often seen in restaurants? I am not wanted; I keep to my office and go to the Grand, I meet friends of whom she is one, we sit at a table and have a good time. What should I do at home? Hanka is more likely to be at the Grand; we sit at the same table, perhaps opposite each other; we hand each other a glass, a carafe. 'Andreas,' she says, 'please order a glass for Milde, too.' And, of course, I order a glass for Milde. I like to do it; don't believe anything else! 'I have hardly seen you today,' she sometimes says; 'you left very early this morning. Oh, he is a fine husband!' she tells the others and laughs. I am delighted that she is in good spirits; I help her along and say: 'Who in the world could wait until you have finished your toilet; I have business to attend to!' But the truth is that perhaps I haven't seen her for a couple of days. Do you understand why I go to restaurants? I go in order to meet her after not having seen her for a couple of days; I go to spend a few moments with her and with my friends, who all are exceedingly nice to me. But, of course, everything has been arranged in the friendliest manner possible; don't think otherwise. I am sure it is all for the best; I think the arrangement excellent. It is all a matter of habit."

Ole Henriksen sat with open mouth. He said in surprise:

"Is that how matters stand? I had no idea it was that way with you two — that it was that bad."

"Why not? Do you find it strange that she prefers the clique? All of them are famous men, artists and poets, people who count for something. When you come to look at it they are not like you and me, Ole; we like to be with them ourselves. Bad, you say? No, understand me rightly, it is not at all bad. It is a good arrangement. I couldn't always get home on time from the office, and so I went to a restaurant, naturally. Hanka could not make herself ridiculous and preside at table in solitary state, and so she went to a restaurant. We do not go to the same place always; sometimes we miss each other. But that is all right."

There was a pause. Tidemand leaned his head in his hands. Ole asked:

"But who started this? Who proposed it?"

"Ha, do you think for a moment it was I? Would I be likely to say to my wife: 'You will have to go to a restaurant, Hanka, so I can find the house empty when I get home to dinner!' Hardly. But all the same, things are not so bad as you might think — What would you say if I were to tell you that she does not even regard herself as being married? Of course, you cannot realize that. I reasoned with her, said this and that, a married woman, house and home, and she answered: 'Married, did you say? That is rather an exaggeration, don't you think?' How does that strike you? For this reason, I am careful not to say anything to her; she isn't married; that is her affair. She lives occasionally where I live, we visit the children, go in and out, and part again. It is all right as long as she is satisfied."

"But this is ridiculous!" exclaimed Ole suddenly. "I can't imagine — Does she think you are an old glove she can throw away when she is through with it? Why haven't you put your foot down?"

"Of course, I have said something like that. Then she wanted a divorce. Twice. What could I do then? I am not made so that I can tear everything up all at once; I need a little time; it will come later. She is right about the divorce; it is I who am against it; she is justified in blaming me for that. Why haven't I played the part of a man, showed her her place, made her behave? But, my dear man, she would have left me! She said so plainly; there was no misunderstanding possible; it has happened twice. What could I do?"

The two men sat awhile in silence. Ole asked quietly:

"But has your wife, then — I mean, do you think she is in love with somebody else?"

"Of course," answered Tidemand. "Such things are bound to happen; not intentionally, of course, but — "

"And you do not know who it is?"

"Don't you think I know? That is, I don't know really; how could I know for sure? I am almost certain she is not really in love with anybody; it is hard to say. Do you think that I am jealous, perhaps? Don't for a moment imagine anything, Ole; I am glad to say that I have a little sense left; not much, perhaps, but a little. In short, she is not in love with anybody else, as people suspect; it is simply a whim, a fancy. In a little while she will probably come and propose that we shall begin housekeeping again and live together; it is not at all impossible, I tell you, for I know her thoroughly. She is, at any rate, very fond of the children; I have never seen anybody so fond of children as she has been lately. You ought to come and see us sometime — Do you remember when we were married?"

"I certainly do."

"She was a somewhat passable bride, what? Not at all one to be ashamed of, don't you think? Ha, ha, ha, not at all, Ole! But you ought to see her now, I mean at home, now that she is so very fond of the children again. I cannot describe her. She wears a black velvet gown — Be sure and come over some time. Sometimes she is in red, a dark red velvet — This reminds me — perhaps she is at home now; I am going to drop in; I might be able to do something for her."

The two friends emptied their glasses and stood facing each other.

"I hope everything will come out all right," said Ole.

"Oh, yes, it will," said Tidemand. "I am grateful to you, Ole; you have been a good friend to me. I haven't had such a pleasant hour as long as I can remember."

"Listen!" Tidemand turned in the doorway and said: "What we have discussed here remains between us, eh? Not a hint on Thursday; everything is as it should be as far as we are concerned, what? We are no mopes, I hope!"

And Tidemand departed.

IV

Evening falls over the town. Business rests, stores are closed, and lights are lowered. But old, grey-haired business men shut themselves in their offices, light their lamps, take out papers, open heavy ledgers, note some figures, a sum, and think. They hear the noise from the docks where steamers load and unload all night long.

It gets to be ten, eleven; the cafés are crowded and the traffic is great. All sorts of people roam the streets in their best attire; they follow each other, whistle after girls, and dart in and out from gateways and basement stairs. Cabbies stand at attention on the squares, on the lookout for the least sign from the passers-by; they gossip between themselves about their horses and smoke idly their vile pipes.

A woman hurries past — a child of night whom everybody knows; after her a sailor and a gentleman in silk hat, both eagerly stepping out to reach her first. Then two youths with cigars at an impertinent angle, hands in pockets, speaking loudly. Behind them another woman; finally, a couple of men hurrying to catch up with her.

But now one tower-clock after another booms forth the twelve solemn strokes all over the city; the cafés empty themselves, and from the musichalls crowds of people swarm into the streets. The winches are still groaning along the docks; cabs roll through the streets. But inside the hidden offices one old business chief after another has finished his accounts and his planning; the grey-headed gentlemen close their ledgers, take their hats from the rack, put out the lights, and go home.

And the last guests depart from the Grand, a crowd that has stuck to the end, young fellows, joyful souls. They saunter down the street with coats wide open, canes held jauntily under the arms, and hats slightly askew. They talk loudly, hum the latest popular air, call jestingly to a lonely, forgotten girl in a boa and white veil.

The company wanders toward the university. The conversation is about literature and politics, and, although nobody contradicts them, they are loud and eager: Was Norway a sovereign state or not? Was Norway perhaps not entitled to the rights and privileges of a sovereign state? Just wait a moment, the Speaker had promised to attend to things; besides, there were the elections…. All were agreed, the elections would decide.

Three of the gentlemen part from the group when the university is reached; the remaining two take another turn down the street, stop outside the Grand, and exchange opinions. It is Milde and Ojen. Milde is highly indignant.

"I repeat: If Parliament yields this time, it is me for Australia. In that case it will be unbearable here."

Ojen is young and nervous; his little, round, girlish face is pale and void of expression; he squints as if he were near-sighted, although his eyes are good, and his voice is soft and babyish.

"I am unable to understand that all this can interest you so greatly. It is all one to me." And Ojen shrugs his shoulders; he is tired of politics. His shoulders slope effeminately.

"Oh well, I won't detain you," says Milde. "By the way, have you written anything lately?"

"A couple of prose poems," replies Ojen, brightening at once. "I am waiting to get off to Torahus so I can start in in earnest. You are right — this town is unbearable!"

"Well — I had the whole country in mind, though — Say, don't forget next Thursday evening in my studio. By the way, old fellow, have you got a crown or so you could spare?"

Ojen unbuttons his coat and finds the crown.

"Thanks, old man. Thursday evening, then. Come early so that you can help me a little with the arrangements — Good Lord, silk lining! And I who asked you for a miserable crown! I hope I did not offend you."

Ojen smiles and pooh-poohs the joke.

"As if one sees anything nowadays but silk-lined clothes!"

"By Jove! What do they soak you for a coat like that?" And Milde feels the goods appraisingly.

"Oh, I don't remember; I never can remember figures; that is out of my line.

I put all my tailor bills away; I come across them whenever I move."

"Ha, ha, ha! that is certainly a rational system, most practical. For I do not suppose you ever pay them!"

"In God's own time, as the Bible says — Of course, if I ever get rich, then — But I want you to go now. I must be alone."

"All right, good night. But listen, seriously speaking: if you have another crown to spare — "

And once more Ojen unbuttons his coat.

"A thousand thanks! Oh, you poets, you poets! Where, for instance, may you be going now?"

"I think I'll walk here awhile, and look at houses. I can't sleep, so I count the windows; it is not such a bad occupation at times. I take an exquisite pleasure in satiating my vision with squares and rectangles, with pure lines. Of course, you cannot understand such things."

"I should say I did understand — no one better! But I prefer human beings. Don't you at times — flesh and blood, humans, eh — they have their attraction, don't you think?"

"I am ashamed to say it, but people weary me. No; take for instance the sweep of a solitary, deserted street — have you never noticed the charm of such a view?"

"Haven't I? I am not blind, not entirely. A desolate street, of course, has its own beauty, its own charm, in its kind the highest charm imaginable. But everything in its place — Well, I must not detain you! Au revoir — Thursday!"

Milde saluted with his cane, turned, and strolled up the street. Ojen continued alone. He proved a few moments afterward that he had not lost all his interest in human beings; he had calumniated himself. To the very first hussy who hailed him he gave, absent-mindedly, every penny he had left, and continued his way in silence. He had not spoken a word; his slender, nervous figure disappeared in the darkness before the girl could even manage to thank him —

And at last, everything is still; the winches fall to rest along the wharves; the town has turned in. From afar, nobody knows from where, comes the sound of a single footfall; the gas flames flicker in the streetlamps; two policemen talk to each other, occasionally stamping their feet to keep warm.

Thus the night passes. Human footsteps here and there; now and then a policeman who stamps his feet to keep warm.

V