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Новый перевод(Гамсун).

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,
office-boys 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 agonising 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, vitalising 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 humour."

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

They spoke with practised 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 labouring 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 favoured; 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
colouring 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
colouring 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 favour--"

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 any more." 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 to-day,' 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 realise 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 some time--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.