The Best of Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun

a little steadfastness. People should not be so unconcerned; now is the time for the young to step forward. Perhaps, if the youth of the country had shown up occasionally and met together and hurrahed at times, Parliament might have settled a few things differently lately. And, if you had cared to take a walk along the docks to-day and witnessed the nation's life throb so mightily, then, by Heaven, you would have felt that the country is worth our cheers—"

      The Attorney spied Ojen on the sidewalk; he excused himself and stepped out of the procession. He looked back a moment later and saw that Coldevin had changed places again; he was marching under the business-men's banner, erect, grey-bearded, and shabby, with the glint of the Norwegian colours on his lapel.

      V

      Aagot was dressed for the excursion; she pulled on her gloves and was ready.

      It had not been at all difficult to arrange this little trip; Ole had only requested that she be careful and dress warmly; it was only May.

      And they started.

      It was calm, warm, and bright; not a cloud in the skies. Irgens had the boat ready; they had only to go aboard. He spoke intentionally about indifferent matters; he wanted to make her forget that she had originally agreed to this island trip with a whispered yes, a sudden submission right before Ole's very eyes. She was reassured. Irgens had not invested her sudden consent with a deeper significance than she had intended; he walked along as unconcernedly as possible and talked about the weather and almost had to be hurried along. Just as they were on the verge of starting she caught a glimpse of Coldevin, who stood on the dock half hidden behind a pile of boxes. She jumped out of the boat and called:

      "Coldevin! I want to see you!"

      It was impossible to avoid her; he stepped forward and took off his hat.

      She gave him her hand. Where in the world had he kept himself all this time? Dear me, why was he never to be seen? It began to look a little strange—really it did.

      He stammered an excuse, spoke about library work, a translation from a book, an absolutely necessary bit of work….

      But she interrupted and asked where he lived now. She had looked for him at the hotel but was told that he had left; nobody knew where he had gone. She had also had a glimpse of him on the seventeenth; she was in the Grand and saw him march by in the parade.

      He repeated his excuses and trotted out the old joke about the impropriety of disturbing sweethearts too much. He smiled good-naturedly as he spoke.

      She observed him carefully. His clothes were threadbare, his face had become thinner, and she wondered suddenly if he were in want. Why had he left the hotel, and where did he live? He said something about a friend, a college chum—honest, a teacher, a splendid fellow.

      Aagot asked when he was going back to Torahus, but he did not know exactly; he was unable to say. As long as he had this library work and was so busy….

      Well, he simply must promise to come before he went away; she insisted. And she asked suddenly: "When I saw you on the seventeenth, didn't you have a bow in your buttonhole?"

      Certainly, he had a bow; one had to show the colours on such a day! Didn't she remember that she had given it to him herself? She had wanted him to be decorated last year, when he was going to speak to the peasants at Torahus, and she had given him the bow. Didn't she remember?

      Aagot recalled it. She asked:

      "Was it really the same bow?"

      "Yes; isn't it strange? I happened to come across it; I must have brought it along with some clothes; I found it by accident."

      "Imagine! I thought at once it was my bow. It made me glad; I don't know why," she said and bowed her head.

      Irgens shouted and asked her if she were coming.

      "No!" she called bluntly and without thinking. She did not even turn her head. But when she realised how she had answered she grew confused and cried to Irgens: "Pardon me just a moment!" And she turned to Coldevin again: "I would have loved to stay and talk with you, but I have no time; I am going to the island." She offered Coldevin her hand and said: "Anyway, I hope everything will turn out for the best; don't you think it will, too? I am sorry to have to hurry off. So long; be sure and come up soon!"

      She skipped down the steps and into the boat. Again she apologised for keeping Irgens waiting.

      And Irgens rowed out. They talked about the sea, the far journeys, the strange countries; he had been abroad only in his dreams, and he supposed that would be the extent of his travellings. He looked sad and listless. Suddenly he said:

      "I hear you are not going to the country after all."

      "No. The Tidemands have changed their plans."

      "So I am told. It is a pity; I am sorry for your sake, in a way." And, resting on his oars, he added bluntly: "But I am glad for my own sake; I admit it frankly."

      Aagot skipped up the stone jetty when they landed. The trees delighted her; it was ages since she had seen a real forest—such great big trees, just like home. She sniffed the pungent, pine-laden air, she looked at stones and flowers with a feeling of recognition; memories from home surged through her, and she was for an instant on the verge of tears.

      "But here are other people!" she exclaimed suddenly.

      Irgens laughed: "What did you expect? This is not a jungle, exactly."

      They explored the island thoroughly, saw the changing views, and had refreshments. Aagot beamed. The walk in the bracing air had flushed her cheeks, her lips, her ears, even her nose; her eyes were sparkling gaily. She suddenly remembered that she had almost pouted in disappointment when she saw other people; what must Irgens have thought?

      "I was at first a little surprised to find so many people here," she said. "The reason was that you told me you had written some of your poems here, and I did not think you could have done that unless you had been entirely undisturbed."

      How she remembered! He gazed at her exultantly and answered that he had his own restful nook where nobody ever came. It was on the other side; should they go over?

      They went. It was certainly a restful place, a regular wilderness of rocks and heather and junipers, enclosed on two sides. Far in the distance could be seen a little glade. They sat down.

      "So this is where you sit and write!" she exclaimed. "It is strange to think of. Were you sitting here?"

      "About here. Do you know, it is refreshing to meet such a spontaneous interest as yours?"

      "Tell me, how do you write your things? Do the thoughts come to you without conscious effort?"

      "Yes, in a way. Things affect one pleasantly or otherwise, and the mood is there. But the trouble then is to make the words reflect the love or hate one's heart feels at the moment. Often it is useless even to try; one can never find words adequately to express that languid gesture of your hand, to define that evanescent thrill your laughter sends through one—"

      Slowly the sun sank; a tremor quivered through the trees, and all was still.

      "Listen," he said, "do you hear the noise boiling away yonder in the city?"

      He noted how her dress tightened across her knee; he followed the curving outline of her figure, saw how her bosom rose and sank, observed her face with the darling dimple and the somewhat irregular nose; his blood stirred and he moved closer to her. He spoke in fumbling, broken sentences:

      "This is now the Isle of the Blest, and its name is Evenrest. The sun is sinking; we are here—the world far off; it is exactly my dream of dreams. Tell me, does my voice disturb you? You seem so far away—Miss Lynum, it is useless to continue the struggle; I surrender to you. I lie at your feet and tell you this, although I have not moved—"

      The swift change in his expression, the low, vibrant, fervent voice, his nearness—for a moment she was completely, stupidly