Quite a number of the clique were ensconced at Sara's, drinking and gossiping. Tidemand was there, happy and contented with everything. He had been all smiles since his success with that enormous enterprise in rye. The grain had begun to arrive and was being stored in his warehouses, thousands upon thousands of sacks. They grew into mountains; there was no room for anything else; even Ole Henriksen had been obliged to let him have space for storing. Tidemand walked around and viewed this wealth with pride; even he had accomplished something above the ordinary. Never for an instant did he regret that he had given such unlimited orders.

Journalist Gregersen offered Ole one finger and said: "You have something on your conscience, Ole?"

"Oh, nothing sensational, exactly," said Ole. "I had a letter from Ojen; he sends me his latest poem. Do you want to hear it?"

"Does he send you his—Has he sent you a manuscript?" exclaimed Milde in astonishment. "I have never heard anything like it!"

"Now, no personalities!" warned the Journalist.

"Yes, but excuse me—why in the world did he send it to you, Ole?" asks Milde again and does not give in.

Irgens glanced at Aagot. She did not appear to be listening, but was talking eagerly with Mrs. Hanka. Irgens turned to Milde and told him curtly that there were certain impertinences which even friends were not supposed to submit to—was that clear enough?

Milde burst out laughing. He had never heard anything funnier. Did they get offended? He had not meant anything of a harmful nature, nothing offensive, mentally or physically! The idea simply had tickled his sense of humour. But if it wasn't funny, all right….

Ole took out his manuscript.

"It is something out of the ordinary," he said. "Ojen calls it
'Memories.'"

"Let me read it," said Norem quickly. "I am, at any rate, supposed to know a little about reading."

Ole handed him the manuscript.

"Jehovah is very busy—" began Norem. "Ojen has expressly stated in a marginal note that it is not to be Jahve; now you know it!"

Jehovah is very busy; Jehovah has much to attend to. He was with me one night when I wandered in the forest; He descended to me while I lay on my face in prayer.

I lay there praying in the night, and the forest was silent.

The night oppressed me like an unbending, disjointed absurdity, and the night was like a silence in which something breathing and mute was abroad.

Then Jehovah descended to me.

When Jehovah came the air rushed away from Him like a wake; birds were blown away like chaff, and I clung to the sod and the trees and the rocks.

"You are calling me?" said Jehovah.

"I call out in my distress!" I answered.

And Jehovah spoke: "You want to know what to choose in life, Beauty or
Love or Truth?" And Jehovah said: "You want to know?"

And when He said: "You want to learn that?" I did not answer, but was
silent; for He knew my thoughts.

Then Jehovah touched my eyes, and I beheld:

I saw a tall woman against the skies. She wore no garments, and when
she moved her body shimmered like white silk, and she wore no
garments; for her body quivered toward me in rapture.

And she stood against the skies in a sunrise, yes, in a crimson dawn;
and the sun shone upon her, and a scarlet light streamed up through
the skies, yes, a light of blood surrounded her.

And she was tall and white, and her eyes were like two blue flowers which brushed my soul when she looked at me; and when she spoke to me she entreated me and urged me toward her, and her voice was like a sweet phosphorescence with a taste of the sea.

I rose from the earth and stretched forth my arms toward her, and when I stretched both my arms toward her she again implored me, and her body was odorous with rapture. And I was gloriously stirred in my inmost being, and I rose and gave her my lips in the morning glow, and my eyes fell.

When I looked up again the woman was old. And the woman was old and hoary with years, and her body had shrunk with age, and she had very little life left. But when I looked up the sky was darkling toward night, yes dark like night, and the woman was without hair. I looked to her and knew her not and knew not the sky, and when I looked toward the woman she was gone.

"This was Beauty!" said Jehovah. "Beauty wanes. I am Jehovah!"

And Jehovah touched my eyes again, and I beheld:

I saw a terrace, high, beneath a castle. There were two people there, and the two people on the terrace were young and full of joy. And the sun shone on the castle, and on the terrace, and the sun shone on the two people and on the gravel deep, deep down the abyss, on the hard driveway. And the people were two, a man and a woman in the springtide of youth, and both were speaking honeyed words, and both were tender toward each other with desire.

"See the flower on my breast!" he said; "can you hear what it is saying?" And he leaned backward toward the railing on the terrace and said: "This flower which you gave me stands here and murmurs and whispers toward you, and it murmurs: 'Beloved, Queen, Alvilde, Alvilde!' Do you hear it?"

And she smiled and looked down, and she took his hand and placed his
hand against her heart and answered: "But do you hear what my heart
says to you? My heart throbs toward you and it blushes with emotion
for your sake. And my heart babbles in joyful confusion and says:
'Beloved, I pause before you and almost perish when you look at me,
Beloved!'"

He leaned toward the terrace-railing and gloriously his breast heaved with love. And deep, deep below was the abyss and the hard driveway. And he pointed his finger down the depths and said: "Throw down your fan, and I will follow it!" And when he had spoken his breast rose and sank, and he placed his hands on the railing and made ready for the leap.

Then I cried out and closed my eyes….

But when I looked up I saw again the two people, and they were both older and both in their prime. And the two did not speak to each other, but were silent with their thoughts. And when I looked up the sky was grey, and the two walked up the white castle-stairway, and she was full of indifference, yes full of hate in her steely eyes, and when I looked for the third time I saw also anger and hate in his glance, and his hair was grey like the grey skies.

And as they ascended the stairs she dropped her fan, one step down it dropped, and she said with quivering lips and pointed downward: "I dropped my fan—there it lies on the lower step—please hand it to me, dear!"

And he did not answer, but walked on and called a servant to pick up the fan.

"This was Love," said Jehovah. "Love perishes. I am Jehovah!"

And Jehovah touched my eyes for the last time, and I beheld:

I saw a town and a public square, and I saw a scaffold. And when I listened I heard a seething sound of voices, and when I looked I saw many people who talked and gritted their teeth with joy. And I saw a man who was being bound, a malefactor who was being bound with leather thongs, and the malefactor's countenance was haughty and proud, and his eyes shone like stars. But his garment was torn and his feet stood naked on the ground, and his clothes were almost gone, yes his cloak was worn to almost nothing.

And I listened and heard a voice, and when I looked I saw that the malefactor was speaking, and the malefactor spoke proudly and gloriously. And they bade him be silent, but he spoke, he testified, he shouted, and when they bade him be silent he did not cease with fear. And when the malefactor spoke the mob ran up and silenced his lips, and when he mutely pointed to the sky and to the sun, and when he pointed to his heart which still beat warmly, the mob ran up and struck him. And when the mob struck him the malefactor fell to his knees, and he knelt and clasped his hands and testified mutely, without words, in spite of the cruel blows.

And I looked at the malefactor and saw his eyes like stars, and I saw the mob throw him down and hold him on the scaffold with their hands. And when once more I looked I saw an axe-blade write in the air, and when I listened I heard the stroke of the axe against the scaffolding and the people joyfully shouting. And while I listened a single-throated cry rose toward heaven from people groaning with ecstasy.

But the malefactor's head rolled in the dirt and the mob ran up and seized it and lifted it high by the hair. And the malefactor's head still spoke, and it testified with unquenchable voice and spoke loudly all the words it uttered. And the malefactor's head was not silent even in death.

But the mob ran up and took hold of the malefactor's head by the tongue and lifted it high by the tongue. And the vanquished tongue was mute, and the tongue spoke no more. But the eyes were like stars, yes, like gleaming stars to be seen by everybody….

Then Jehovah said: "This was Truth. And Truth speaks even after its
head is severed. And with its tongue bound its eyes shine like stars.
I am Jehovah!"

When Jehovah had spoken I fell on my face and spoke not, but was
silent with much thought. And I thought that Beauty was lovely ere
it waned and Love was sweet ere it perished, and I thought that Truth
endured like stars everlasting. And tremblingly I thought of Truth.

And Jehovah said: "You wanted to know what to choose in life?" And
Jehovah said then: "Have you chosen?"

I lay on my face and answered, full of many thoughts:

"Beauty was lovely and Love was very sweet; and if I choose Truth, it is like the stars, eternal."

And Jehovah spake once more and asked me:

"Have you chosen?"

And my thoughts were many, my thoughts warred mightily within me, and
I answered:

"Beauty was like a morning glow." And when I had said this I whispered
and said: "Love was also sweet and glorious like a little star in my
soul."

But then I felt Jehovah's eye on me, and Jehovah's eye read my
thoughts. And for the third time Jehovah asked and said:

"Have you chosen?"

And when He said for the third time: "Have you chosen?" my eyes stared with terror, yes, all my strength had left me. And when He said for the last time: "Have you chosen?" I remembered Beauty and Love and remembered them both, and I answered Jehovah:

"I choose Truth!"

* * * * *

But I still remember….

"Well, that's all," concluded Norem.

Everybody was silent for a moment; then the Journalist said:

"I refrain from expressing an opinion; I notice Milde is going to say something."

And Milde did not refrain; far from it; on the contrary, he had a remark to make. Could anybody tell him what it was all about? He admired Ojen as much as anybody, but was there any sense to all this "Jehovah said" and "Jehovah said"? He wanted to be enlightened.

"But why are you always so unkind to Ojen?" asked Mrs. Hanka. "Memories— can't you understand? To me it seemed beautiful and full of feeling; don't spoil it for me now." And she turned to Aagot and said: "Didn't you find it so, too?"

"But, dear Mrs. Hanka," exclaimed Milde, "don't say that I am always unkind to Ojen! Do I not wish him success with his application for the subsidy, contrary to my own interests? But this blessed new 'intention' is beyond me. Memories—all right. But where, in Heaven's name, is the point? Jehovah has never visited him; it is an invention. And, furthermore, why didn't he choose both Youth and Beauty, and Truth as well? That is what I should have done. The point, I say!"

"But that is just it—there is no definite point," replied Ole Henriksen.
"So Ojen says in a letter to me. Its effect lies in its euphony, he says."

"He does? No, that fellow is the same wherever he goes. That is the trouble. Not even the mountains can do anything for him. Goats' milk and pine woods and peasant girls have not the slightest effect on him, as it were—I am still at a loss to understand why he sent you his manuscript, Ole; but if it is an offence to ask, of course, then—"

"I really don't know why he sent it to me," said Ole quietly. "He tells me that he wanted me to see that he was doing something and not wasting his time altogether. He is anxious to get back, though; he cannot stand Torahus any longer."

Milde whistled.

"I understand! He asked you for carfare!"

"I do not suppose he has much money left. That could hardly be expected," answered Ole, and put the manuscript in his pocket. "As for me, I think it is a remarkable poem, irrespective of your opinion."

"Surely, old fellow; but please don't talk about poetry," interrupted Milde. And as it dawned on him that he had been a little too rude to the poor peddler in Aagot's presence, he added hurriedly: "I mean—Isn't it too much of a bore to talk about poetry and poetry all the time? Give us, for a change, a little fishery talk, a little railway politics—Isn't it a fierce lot of rye you are storing, Tidemand?"

As Tidemand saw many eyes upon him, he could not entirely ignore the
Artist's question, and he answered:

"Yes, I have tried to strike a modest blow; I cannot deny it. It all depends now on how things turn out in Russia. If, in spite of everything that had been forecasted, the crops should prove even middling, it does not look any too bright for me and my rye. Rains in Russia now would mean—"

"Rains are falling now," said Gregersen. "The English papers have been informed of a sufficient rainfall in the larger provinces. Are you selling your rye already?"

Of course, Tidemand had bought to sell if he could get his price.

Milde had moved over to Paulsberg, and spoke to him in a low whisper. Ojen's prose poem had caused him some anxiety. Perhaps, after all, there was something to this fellow, this competitor in the matter of the subsidy. What was Paulsberg's opinion?

"You know I don't care to speak for or against in such a matter," said Paulsberg. "But I have called at the ministry a few times and expressed my preference. I hope it may carry some weight."

"Of course, of course, I didn't mean—Well, the Exhibition closes to-morrow. We ought to get busy and finish that picture of yours. Can you sit tomorrow?"

Paulsberg nodded and turned away.

Irgens had gradually lost his good spirits; it irritated him that no one had mentioned his book. It was the latest event; why wasn't it even referred to? Everybody was only too familiar with Ojen's filigree fancies. Irgens shrugged his shoulders. Paulsberg had not indicated approval of his book by a single word. Perhaps he was waiting to be asked? But Irgens could get along without Paulsberg's opinion.

Irgens rose.

"Are you going?" asked Mrs. Hanka.

Irgens said good night to her and to Miss Aagot, nodded to the others, and left Sara's.

He had only gone a few steps when he heard somebody call him. Mrs. Hanka was hurrying after him; she had left her wraps in the cafe and had followed in order to say good night properly. Wasn't that nice of her? She smiled and was very happy.

"I have hardly seen you since I got your book. How I have enjoyed every word!" she exclaimed, and put her hand in his coat pocket in order to be close to him. He felt that she left an envelope in his pocket. "Oh, your verses, your verses!" she said again and again.

He could not remain impassive in the presence of this warm admiration. He wanted to return it, to show her how fond he was of her, and while in this mood he confided to her that he, too, had applied for the subsidy. What did she think of that? He had really applied, briefly and without enclosing any recommendations, simply sending his book. That ought to be sufficient.

Mrs. Hanka did not answer at once.

"You have suffered, then," she said; "you have lacked—I mean, you have had to apply like the others—"

"Well, good Lord," he answered, and laughed, "what are the subsidies for, anyway? I have not suffered want; but why not apply when one can do it without loss of prestige? And I did not humble myself; be sure of that. 'I hereby apply for the subsidy and enclose my last book'—that was all. There was no kowtowing whatever. And when I survey my fellow applicants I hardly think I shall be entirely eclipsed. What is your opinion?"

She smiled and said:

"No, you will not be eclipsed."

He put his arm around her and said:

"Now, Hanka, you must go back—I can endure it all as long as you are in town, but when you go away it will look very dark for me! I shan't know what to do with myself then."

"I am only going to the country," she said.

"Isn't that enough? We shall be separated just the same, for you know I cannot leave the city. When are you going?"

"I imagine in about a week."

"I wish you wouldn't go away, Hanka!" he exclaimed, and stood still.

Mrs. Hanka reflected.

"Would it really please you so much if I stayed?" she asked. "All right; then I'll stay. Yes, I will. It will be hard on the children, but—Anyway, it is enough for me that I make you glad."

They had reached Sara's once more.

"Good night," he said happily. "Thank you, Hanka! When shall I see you again? I am longing—"