A barnlike room with blue walls and sliding windows, a sort of drying-loft with a stove in the middle, and with stovepipes hanging in wires along the ceiling. The walls are decorated with a number of sketches, painted fans, and palettes; several framed pictures lean against the wainscoting. Smell of paints and tobacco smoke; brushes, tubes, overcoats which the guests had thrown aside; an old rubber shoe filled with nails and junk; on the easel in the corner a large, half-finished portrait of Paulsberg.
This was Milde's studio.
When Ole Henriksen entered about nine o'clock all the guests were assembled, also Tidemand and his wife. There were altogether ten or twelve people. The three lamps were covered with opaque shades, and the heavy tobacco smoke did not make the room any lighter. This obscurity was evidently Mrs. Hanka's idea. A couple of very young gentlemen, beardless students with bachelor degrees, were of the party; they were poets who had put aside their studies last year. Their heads were so closely cropped as to be almost entirely naked. One of them carried a small compass on his watch-chain. They were Ojen's comrades, his admirers and pupils; both wrote verses.
Besides these, one noticed a man from the Gazette, Journalist Gregersen, the literary member of the staff. He was a man who did his friends many a favour and published in his paper many an item concerning them. Paulsberg showed him the greatest deference, and conversed with him about his series, "New Literature," which he found admirable; and the Journalist was happy and proud because of this approbation. He had a peculiar habit of twisting words so that they sounded odd and absurd, and nobody could turn this trick as smartly as he.
"It is rather difficult to write such a series within reasonable limits," he says. "There are so many authors that have to be included—a veritable choas!"
He makes Paulsberg smile over this "choas," and they talk on in the best of harmony.
Attorney Grande and his wife were absent.
"So the Attorney is not coming," says Mrs. Hanka Tidemand, without referring to his wife. Mrs. Liberia never came, anyway.
"He sulks," said Milde, and drank with Norem, the Actor. "He did not want to come because Norem was invited."
Nobody felt the least constraint; they chatted about everything, drank, and made plenty of noise. It was a splendid place, Milde's studio; as soon as one got inside the door one felt free to do or say anything one's inclination prompted.
Mrs. Hanka is seated on the sofa; Ojen sits beside her. On the other side of the table sits Irgens; the light falls across his narrow chest. Mrs. Hanka hardly glances at him.
She is in her red velvet gown; her eyes have a greenish sheen. Her upper lip is slightly raised. One glimpses her teeth and marvels at their whiteness. The face is fresh and the complexion clear. Her beautiful forehead is not hidden beneath her hair; she carries it sweetly and candidly, like a nun. A couple of rings flash on her fingers. She breathes deeply and says to Irgens, across the table:
"How hot it is here, Irgens!"
Irgens gets up and goes over to open a window, but a voice is raised in protest; it is Mrs. Paulsberg's. "For Heaven's sake, no open windows. Come away from the sofa; it is cooler further back!"
And Mrs. Hanka gets up. Her movements are undulating. When she stands up she is like a young girl, with bold shoulders. She does not glance into the large, cracked mirror as she passes; she exhales no odours of perfumes; she takes, accidentally, her husband's arm and walks up and down with him while the conversation and the refreshments keep the other guests at the table.
Tidemand is talking, with somewhat forced liveliness, about a cargo of grain, a certain FÜrst in Riga, a raise in customs duties somewhere. Suddenly he says, bending toward her:
"Yes; I am very happy to-day. But, pardon me, you are hardly interested in these things—Did you see Ida before you left? Wasn't she sweet in her white dress? We'll get her a carriage when spring comes!"
"Yes; in the country! I am beginning to long for it already!" Mrs. Hanka herself is animated. "You must get the garden and the grove fixed up. It will be fine."
And Tidemand, who already has arranged to have the country-house put in order, although it is not April yet, is delighted because of his wife's sudden interest. His sombre eyes brighten and he presses her arm.
"I want you to know, Hanka, I am very happy to-day," he exclaims. "Everything will be all right soon, I am sure."
"Are you—What will be all right, by the way?"
"Oh, nothing," he says quickly. He turns the subject, looks down, and continues: "Business is booming; I have given FÜrst orders to buy!"
Fool that he was! There he had once more made a mistake and bothered his wife with his shop talk. But Mrs. Hanka was good enough to overlook it; nobody could have answered more patiently and sweetly than did she:
"I am very glad to hear it!"
These gentle words embolden him; he is grateful and wants to show it as best he can; he smiles with dewy eyes and says in a low voice:
"I should like to give you a little present if you care—a sort of souvenir of this occasion. If there is anything you would like—"
Mrs. Hanka glances at him.
"No, my dear. What are you thinking of? Though, perhaps—you might let me have a couple of hundred crowns. Thanks, very much!" Suddenly she spies the old rubber shoe with nails and junk, and she cries, full of curiosity: "Whatever is this?" She lets go her husband's arm and brings the rubber over to the table. "Whatever have you got here, Milde?" She rummages in the rubbish with her white fingers, calls Irgens over, finds one strange thing after another, and asks questions concerning them. "Will somebody please tell me what this is good for?"
She has fished out an umbrella-handle which she throws aside at once; then a lock of hair enclosed in paper. "Look—a lock of somebody's hair! Come and see!"
Milde joined her.
"Leave that alone!" he said and took his cigar out of his mouth. "However did that get in there? Did you ever—hair from my last love, so to speak!"
This was sufficient to make everybody laugh. The Journalist shouted:
"But have you seen Milde's collection of corsets? Out with the corsets, Milde!"
And Milde did not refuse; he went into one of the side rooms and brought forth his package. There were both white and brown ones; the white ones were a little grey, and Mrs. Paulsberg asked in surprise:
"But—have they been used?"
"Of course; why do you think Milde collects them? Where would be their sentimental value otherwise?" And the Journalist laughed heartily, happy to be able to twist even this word around.
But the corpulent Milde wrapped his corsets together and said:
"This is a little specialty of mine, a talent—But what the dickens are you all gaping at? It is my own corsets; I have used them myself—don't you understand? I used them when I began to grow stout; I laced and thought it would help. But it helped like fun!"
Paulsberg shook his head and said to Norem:
"Your health, Norem! What nonsense is this I hear, that Grande objects to your company?"
"God only knows," says Norem, already half drunk. "Can you imagine why? I have never offended him in my life!"
"No; he is beginning to get a little chesty lately."
Norem shouted happily:
"You hear that? Paulsberg himself says that Grande is getting chesty lately."
They all agreed. Paulsberg very seldom said that much; usually he sat, distant and unfathomable, and listened without speaking; he was respected by all. Only Irgens thought he could defy him; he was always ready with his objections.
"I cannot see that this is something Paulsberg can decide," he said.
They looked at him in surprise. Was that so? So Paulsberg could not decide that? He! he! so that was beyond him? But who, then, could decide it?
"Irgens," answered Paulsberg caustically.
Irgens looked at him; they gazed fixedly at each other. Mrs. Hanka stepped between them, sat down on a chair, and began to speak to Ojen.
"Listen a moment!" she called after a while. "Ojen wants to read his latest—a prose poem."
And they settled down to listen.
Ojen brought forth his prose poem from an inside pocket; his hands trembled.
"I must ask your indulgence," said he.
But at this the two young students, the close-cropped poets, laughed loudly, and the one with the compass in his fob said admiringly:
"And you ask for our indulgence? What about us, then?"
"Quiet!"
"The title of this is 'Sentenced to Death,'" said Ojen, and began:
For a long time I have wondered: What if my secret guilt were known?…
Sh….
Yes, sh….
For then I should be sentenced to death.
And I would sit in my prison and know that I should be calm and indifferent when the supreme moment should arrive.
I would ascend the steps of the scaffold, I would smile and humbly beg permission to say a word.
And then I would speak. I would implore everybody to learn something good from my death. A speech from my inmost heart, and my last farewell should be like a breath of flame….
Now my secret guilt is known.
Yes!
And I am sentenced to death. And I have languished in prison so long that my spirit is broken.
I ascend the steps to the scaffold; but to-day the sun is shining and my eyes fill with tears.
For I have languished so long in prison that I am weak. And then the sun is shining so—I haven't seen it for nine months, and I haven't heard the birds sing for nine months—until to-day.
I smile in order to hide my tears and I ask humbly if my guards will permit me to speak a word.
But they will not permit me.
Still I want to speak—not to show my courage, but really I want to say a few words from my heart so as not to die mutely—innocent words that will harm nobody, a couple of hurried sentences before they clap their hands across my lips: Friends, see how God's sun is shining….
And I open my lips, but I cannot speak.
Am I afraid? Does my courage fail? Alas, no, I am not afraid. But I am weak, that I am, and I cannot speak because I look upon God's sun and the trees for the last time….
What now? A horseman with a white flag?
Peace, my heart, do not tremble so!
No, it is a woman with a white veil, a handsome woman of my own age. Her neck is bare like my own.
And I do not understand it, but I weep because of this white veil, too, because I am weak and the white veil flutters beautifully against the green background of the forest. But in a little while I shall see it no more….
Perhaps, though, after my head has fallen I may still be able to see the blessed sky for a few moments with my eyes. It is not impossible, if I only open my eyes widely when the axe falls. Then the sky will be the last I see.
But don't they tie a bandage across my eyes? Or won't they blindfold me because I am so weak and tearful? But then everything will be dark, and I shall lie blindly, unable even to count the threads in the cloth before my eyes.
How stupidly mistaken I was when I hoped to be able to turn my eyes upward and behold the blessed vault of heaven. They will turn me over, on my stomach, with my neck in a clamp. And I shall be able to see nothing because of my bandaged eyes.
Probably there will be a small box suspended below me; and I cannot even see the little box which I know will catch my severed head.
Only night—a seething darkness around me. I blink my eyes and believe myself still alive—I have life in my fingers, even—I cling stubbornly to life. If they would only take off the bandage so I could see something—I might enjoy looking at the dust grains in the bottom of the box and see how tiny they were….
Silence and Darkness. Mute exhalations from the crowds….
Merciful God! Grant me one supplication—take off the bandage! Merciful God! I am Thy creature—take off the bandage!
Everybody was silent when he was through. Ojen drank; Milde was busy with a spot on his vest, and did not understand a word of what he had heard; he lifted his glass to the Journalist and whispered:
"Your health!"
Mrs. Hanka spoke first; she smiled to Ojen and said, out of the goodness of her heart:
"Oh, you Ojen, you Ojen! How everything you write seems evanescent, ethereal! 'Mute exhalations from the crowds'—I can hear it; I can feel it! It is thrilling!"
Everybody thought so, too, and Ojen was happy. Happiness was very becoming to his girlish face.
"Oh, it is only a little thing, a mood," he said. He would have liked to hear Paulsberg's opinion, but Paulsberg remained sphinxlike and silent.
"How do you think of such things? These prose poems are really exquisite!"
"It is my temperament, I suppose. I have no taste for fiction. In me everything turns to poetry, with or without rhymes; but verses always. I have entirely ceased to use rhymes lately."
"But tell me—in what manner does your nervousness really affect you?" asked Mrs. Hanka in her gentle voice. "It is so very sad; you must really try to get well again."
"Yes, I'll try. It is hard to explain; at times I will suddenly become excited without the slightest reason. I shudder; I simply tear myself to pieces. Then I cannot bear to walk on carpets; if I should lose anything I should never find it again. I should not hear it drop, and consequently I should never think of looking for it. Can you imagine anything more distracting than to have something you have lost lying there without your knowing it? It tortures me, therefore, to walk on carpets; I am in constant fear and I keep my hands over my pockets; I look at my vest buttons to be sure of them. I turn around again and again to make sure that I haven't by chance lost something or other—And there are other annoyances: I have the strangest ideas, the most peculiar hallucinations. I place a glass on the very edge of the table and imagine I have made a bet with some one—a bet involving enormous amounts. Then I blow on the glass; if it falls I lose—lose an amount large enough to ruin me for life; if it remains I have won and can build myself a castle on the Mediterranean. It is the same whenever I go up a strange stairway: should there be sixteen steps I win, but if there are eighteen I lose. Into this, though, there enter other intricate possibilities: Suppose there should be twenty steps, have I lost or won? I do not yield; I insist on my rights in the matter; I go to law and lose my case—Well, you mustn't laugh; it is really annoying. Of course these are only minor matters. I can give other examples: Let somebody sit in a room next to yours and sing a single verse of a certain song, sing it endlessly, without ceasing, sing it through and begin again; tell me—would this not drive you crazy? Where I live there is such a person, a tailor; he sits and sings and sews, and his singing is unceasing. You cannot stand it; you get up in a fury and go out. Then you run into another torture. You meet a man, an acquaintance, with whom you enter into a conversation. But during this conversation you suddenly happen to think of something pleasant, something good that is in store for you, perhaps—something you wish to return to later and thoroughly enjoy. But while you stand there talking you forget that pleasant thought, forget it cleanly and cannot recall it at any cost! Then comes the pain, the suffering; you are racked on the wheel because you have lost this exquisite, secret enjoyment to which you could have treated yourself at no cost or trouble."
"It must be strange! But you are going to the country, to the pine woods now; you will get well again," says Mrs. Hanka, and feels like a mother.
Milde chimes in:
"Of course you will. And think of us when you are in your kingdom."
Ole Henriksen had remained quietly in his chair; he said little and smoked his cigar. He knew Torahus; he gave Ojen a hint about visiting the house of the county judge, which was a mile away. He had only to row across a lake; pine woods all around—the house looked like a little white marble palace in the green surroundings.
"How do you know all this?" asked Irgens, quite surprised to hear Ole speak.
"I went through there on a walking trip," answered Ole, embarrassed. "We were a couple of boys from the college. We stopped at the house and had a glass of milk."
"Your health, Mr. College Man!" called the Journalist sarcastically.
"Be sure and row over," said Ole. "County Judge Lynum's family is charming. There is even a young girl in the house if you care to fall in love," he added smilingly.
"He, he! No; whatever else one can accuse Ojen of, the ladies he leaves severely alone!" said Norem, good-natured and tipsy.
"Your health, Mr. College Man!" shouted Gregersen again.
Ole Henriksen looked at him.
"Do you mean me?" he asked.
"Of course, I mean you, certainly I do! Haven't you attended college? Well, aren't you a college man, then?"
The Journalist, too, was a little tipsy.
"It was only a business college," said Ole quietly.
"Of course, you are a peddler, yes. But there is no reason why you should be ashamed of that. Is there, Tidemand? I say there is no reason whatever! Does anybody feel called upon to object?"
Tidemand did not answer. The Journalist kept obstinately to the question; he frowned and thought of nothing else, afraid to forget what he had asked about. He began to lose his temper; he demanded a reply in a loud voice.
Mrs. Hanka said suddenly:
"Silence, now. Ojen is going to read another poem."
Both Paulsberg and Irgens made secretly a wry face, but they said nothing; on the contrary, Paulsberg nodded encouragingly. When the noise had subsided a little Ojen got up, stepped back, and said:
"I know this by heart. It is called 'The Power of Love.'"
We rode in a railway carriage through a strange landscape—strange to me, strange to her. We were also strangers to each other; we had never met before. Why is she sitting so quietly? I wondered. And I bent toward her and said, while my heart hammered:
"Are you grieving for somebody, madam? Have you left a friend where you come from—a very dear friend?"
"Yes," she answered, "a very dear friend."
"And now you sit here unable to forget this friend?" I asked.
And she answered and shook her head sadly:
"No, no—I can never forget him."
She was silent. She had not looked at me while she spoke.
"May I lift your braid?" I asked her. "What a lovely braid—how very beautiful it is!"
"My friend has kissed it," she said, and pushed back my hand.
"Forgive me," I said then, and my heart pounded more and more. "May I not look at your ring—it shines so golden and is also so very beautiful. I should like to look at it and admire it for your sake."
But to this she also said no and added:
"My friend has given it to me."
Then she moved still further away from me.
"Please forgive me," I said….
Time passes, the train rolls on, the journey is so long, so long and wearisome, there is nothing we can do except listen to the rumbling of the wheels. An engine flares past, it sounds like iron striking iron, and I start, but she does not; she is probably entirely absorbed in thoughts about her friend. And the train rolls on.
Then, for the first time, she glances at me, and her eyes are strangely blue.
"It grows darker?" she says.
"We are approaching a tunnel," I answer.
And we rode through the tunnel.
Some time passes. She glances at me, a trifle impatiently, and says:
"It seems to me it grows dark again?"
"We are drawing near the second tunnel, there are three altogether," I answer. "Here is a map—do you want to see?"
"It frightens me," she says and moves closer to me. I say nothing. She asks me smilingly:
"Did you say three tunnels? Is there one more besides this one?"
"Yes—one more."
We enter the tunnel; I feel that she is very close to me, her hand touches mine. Then it grows light again and we are once more in the open.
We ride for a quarter of an hour. She is now so close to me that I feel the warmth from her.
"You are welcome to lift my braid if you wish to," she says, "and if you care to look at my ring—why, here it is!"
I held her braid and did not take her ring because her friend had given it to her. She smiled and did not offer it to me again.
"Your eyes are so bright, and how white your teeth!" she said and grew confused. "I am afraid of that last tunnel—please hold my hand when we get to it. No—don't hold my hand; I didn't mean that, I was jesting; but talk to me."
I promised to do what she asked me to.
A few moments later she laughed and said:
"I was not afraid of the other tunnels; only this one frightens me."
She glanced at my face to see how I might answer, and I said:
"This is the longest, too; it is exceedingly long."
Her confusion was now at its highest.
"But we are not near any tunnel," she cried. "You are deceiving me; there is no tunnel!"
"Yes, there is, the last one—look!"
And I pointed to my map. But she would see nothing and listen to nothing.
"No, no,—there is no tunnel, I tell you there is none! But speak to me if there be one!" she added.
She leaned back against the cushions, and smiled through half-closed lids.
The engine whistled; I looked out; we were approaching the black opening. I remembered that I had promised to speak to her; I bent towards her, and in the darkness I felt her arms around my neck.
"Speak to me, please do! I am so frightened!" she whispered with beating heart. "Why don't you speak to me?"
I felt plainly how her heart was beating, and I placed my lips close to her ears and whispered:
"But now you are forgetting your friend!"
She heard me, she trembled and let me go quickly; she pushed me away with both hands, and threw herself down in the seat. I sat there alone. I heard her sobs through the darkness.
"This was The Power of Love," Ojen said.
Everybody listened attentively; Milde sat with open mouth.
"Well—what more?" he asked, evidently thinking there must be a climax yet to come. "Is that all? But Heaven preserve us, man, what is it all about? No; the so-called poetry you young writers are dishing out nowadays—I call it arrant rot!"
They all laughed loudly. The effect was spoiled; the poet with the compass in his fob arose, pointed straight at Milde, and said furiously:
"This gentleman evidently lacks all understanding of modern poetry."
"Modern poetry! This sniffing at the moon and the sun, these filigree phrases and unintelligible fancies—There must, at least, be a point, a climax, to everything!"
Ojen was pale and furious.
"You have then not the slightest understanding of my new intentions," said the poor fellow, trembling with excitement. "But, then, you are a brute, Milde; one could not expect intelligent appreciation from you."
Only now did the fat painter realise how much he had offended; he had hardly expected this when he spoke.
"A brute?" he answered good-naturedly. "It seems we are beginning to express ourselves very plainly. I did not mean to insult you, anyway. Don't you think I enjoyed the poem? I did, I tell you; enjoyed it immensely. I only thought it a little disembodied, so to speak, somewhat ethereal. Understand me correctly: it is very beautiful, exceedingly artistic, one of the best things you have produced yet. Can't you take a joke any more?"
But it was of no avail that Milde tried to smooth things over; the seriousness of the moment had gone, they laughed and shouted more than ever, and cut loose in earnest. Norem opened one of the windows and sang to the street below.
To mend matters a little and make Ojen feel better, Mrs. Hanka placed her hand on his shoulder and promised to come and see him off when he started on his trip. Not she alone—they would all come. When was he going?
She turned to Ole Henriksen: "You'll come, won't you, and see Ojen off when he goes?"
Ole Henriksen then gave an unexpected reply which surprised even Mrs. Hanka: He would not only go with Ojen to the station, he would go with him all the way to Torahus. Yes, he had suddenly made up his mind, he would make this little trip; he had, in fact, a sort of reason for going—And he was so much in earnest that he buttonholed Ojen at once and arranged the day for the departure.
The Journalist drank with Mrs. Paulsberg, who held her glass in a peculiar masculine fashion. They moved over to the sofa on account of the draught, and told each other amusing anecdotes. Mrs. Paulsberg knew a story concerning Grande and one of Pastor B.'s daughters. She had reached the climax when she paused.
"Well—go on!" the Journalist exclaimed eagerly.
"Wait a moment!" answered Mrs. Paulsberg smilingly, "you must at least give me time to blush a little!"
And she recounted merrily the climax.
Norem had retired to a corner and was fast asleep.
"Does anybody know the time?" asked Mrs. Paulsberg.
"Don't ask me," said Gregersen, and fumbled at his vest pocket. "It is many a day since I carried a watch!"
It turned out that it was one o'clock.
About half-past one Mrs. Hanka and Irgens had disappeared. Irgens had asked Milde for roasted coffee, and since then had not been seen. Nobody seemed to think it strange that the two had sneaked away, and no questions were asked; Tidemand was talking to Ole Henriksen about his trip to Torahus.
"But have you time to run off like this?" he asked.
"I'll take time," answered Ole. "By the way, I want to tell you something by and by."
Around Paulsberg's table the political situation was being discussed. Milde once more threatened to banish himself to Australia. But, thank Heaven, it now looked as if Parliament would do something before it was dissolved, would refuse to yield.
"It is a matter of indifference to me what it does," said Gregersen of the Gazette. "As things have been going, Norway has assumed the character of a beaten country. We are decidedly poverty-stricken, in every respect; we lack power, both in politics and in our civic life. How sad to contemplate the general decline! What miserable remnants are left of the intellectual life that once flamed up so brightly, that called loudly to Heaven in the seventies! The aged go the way of the flesh; who is there to take their places? I am sick of this decadence; I cannot thrive in low intellectual altitudes!"
Everybody looked at the Journalist; what was the matter with the ever-merry chap? He was not so very drunk now; he spoke passably clearly, and did not twist any words. What did he mean? But when the witty dog reached the declaration that he could only thrive in a high spiritual altitude, then the guests broke into peals of merriment and understood that it was a capital hoax. The merry blade—hadn't he almost fooled them all! "Poor remnants of the intellectual life of the seventies!" Didn't we have Paulsberg and Irgens, and Ojen and Milde, and the two close-cropped poets, and an entire army of first-class, sprouting talents besides!
The Journalist himself laughed and wiped his forehead and laughed again. It was generally believed that this fellow was possessed of a literary talent which had not entirely stagnated in his newspaper. A book might be expected from him some day, a remarkable work.
Paulsberg forced a smile. In reality he was offended because nobody had alluded to his novels or to his work on the Atonement during the entire evening. When therefore the Journalist asked him his opinion concerning the intellectual life of the nation, his reply was brief:
"It seems to me I have had occasion to express an opinion somewhere in my works."
Of course, of course; when they came to think of it they certainly remembered it. It was true; a speech somewhere or other. Mrs. Paulsberg quoted from book and page.
But Paulsberg made up his mind to leave now.
"I'll come and sit for you to-morrow," he said to Milde, with a glance at the easel. He got up, emptied his glass, and found his overcoat. His wife pressed everybody's hand vigorously. They met Mrs. Hanka and Irgens in the door.
From now on the merriment knew no bounds; they drank like sponges; even the two young poets kept up as well as they could, and talked with bloodshot eyes about Baudelaire. Milde demanded to know why Irgens had asked him for coffee. Why did he need coffee? He hoped he had not been making preparations to kiss Mrs. Hanka? Damn him, he would hate to trust him…. Tidemand hears this and he laughs with the others, louder than the others, and he says: "You are right, he is not to be trusted, the sly dog!" Tidemand was sober as always.
They did not restrain themselves; the conversation was free and they swore liberally. When all was said and done, it was prudery that was Norway's curse and Norway's bane; people preferred to let their young girls go to the dogs in ignorance rather than enlighten them while there was time. Prudery was the nourishing vice of the moment. So help me, there ought to be public men appointed for the sole purpose of shouting obscenity on the streets just to make young girls acquainted with certain things while there was still time. What, do you object, Tidemand?
No, Tidemand did not object, and Ole Henriksen did not object. The idea was original, to say the least. Ha, ha!
Milde got Tidemand over in a corner.
"It is like this," he said, "I wonder if you have got a couple of crowns?"
Yes; Tidemand was not entirely stripped. How much? A ten-spot?
"Thanks, old man, I'll give it back to you shortly," said Milde in all seriousness. "Very soon, now. You are a brick! It is not more than a couple of days since I said that you hucksters were great fellows. That is exactly what I said. Here is my hand!"
Mrs. Hanka got up at last; she wanted to leave. It was beginning to grow light outside.
Her husband kept close by her.
"Yes, Hanka, that is right—let us be going," he said. He was on the point of offering her his arm.
"Thank you, my friend, but I have an escort," she said with an indifferent glance.
It took him a moment to recover himself.
"Oh, I see," he said with a forced smile. "It is all right; I only thought—"
He walked over to the window and remained standing there.
Mrs. Hanka said good night to everybody. When she came to Irgens she whispered eagerly, breathlessly: "To-morrow, then, at three." She kept Ojen's hand in hers and asked him when he was going. Had he remembered to make reservations at Torahus? No; she might have known it; these poets were always forgetting the most essential. He would have to telegraph at once. Good-bye! And get well soon…. She was maternal to the last.
