The Best of Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun

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