The Best of Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun

opened the door. She stood still, her eyes dilated. From them shone the great question.

      "Why do you look at me like that? What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Come to your senses. Do not brood over the past. I will do all I can for the children. I think that is all you can reasonably ask."

      Then she gave up. She stretched her arms out after him as the door closed. She heard his steps down the stairs. He paused a moment as if uncertain which way to take. Hanka ran to the window, but she heard his office door open. Then all was quiet.

      Too late! How could she have expected otherwise? Good God, how could she have expected otherwise! How she had nourished that vain hope night and day for a whole month! He had gone; he said no, and he went away. Most likely he even objected to her staying with the children!

      Mrs. Hanka moved the following day. She took a room she saw advertised in the paper, the first room she came across; it was near the Fortress. She left home in the morning while Tidemand was out. She kissed the children and wept. She put her keys in an envelope and wrote a line to her husband. Tidemand found it upon his return; found the keys and this farewell, which was only a line or two.

      Tidemand went out again. He sauntered through the streets, down toward the harbour. He followed the docks far out. A couple of hours went by, then he returned the same way. He looked at his watch; it was one o'clock. Suddenly he ran across Coldevin.

      Coldevin stood immovable behind a corner and showed only his head. When he saw Tidemand coming straight toward him he stepped out in the street and bowed.

      Tidemand looked up abstractedly.

      And Coldevin asked:

      "Pardon me, isn't this Mr. Irgens I see down there—that gentleman in grey?"

      "Where? Oh, yes, it looks like him," answered Tidemand indifferently.

      "And the lady who is with him, isn't that Miss Lynum?"

      "Perhaps it is. Yes, I fancy that is she."

      "But wasn't she going away to-day? It seems to me I heard—Perhaps she has changed her mind?"

      "I suppose she has."

      Coldevin glanced swiftly at him. Tidemand looked as if he did not want to be disturbed. He excused himself politely and walked off, lost in thought.

      VI

      No, Aagot did not go away as had been arranged. It occurred to her that she ought to buy a few things for her smaller sisters and brothers. It was quite amusing to go around and look at the store windows all alone; she did that all the afternoon, and it was six when at last she was through and happened to meet Irgens on the street. He relieved her of her parcels and went with her. Finally they hailed a carriage and took a ride out in the country. It was a mild and quiet evening.

      No, she must not go away to-morrow. What good would that do? One day more or less didn't matter. And Irgens confessed frankly that he was not very flush at present, or he would have accompanied her…. If not in the same compartment, at least on the same train. He wanted to be near her to the very last. But he was too poor, alas!

      Wasn't it a crying shame that a man like him should be so hard up? Not that she would have allowed him to come, but…. How it impressed her that he so frankly told her of his poverty!

      "Besides, I am not sure that my life is safe here any more," he said smilingly. "Did you tell my friend Ole how I acted?"

      "It is never too late to do that," she said.

      They told the driver to stop. They walked ahead, talking gaily and happily. He asked her to forgive him his rashness—not that he wanted her to think that he had forgotten her, or could forget her.

      "I love you," he confessed, "but I know it is useless. I have now one thing left—my pen. I may write a verse or two to you; you must not be angry if I do. Well, time will tell. In a hundred years everything will be forgotten."

      "I am powerless to change anything," she said.

      "No, you are not. It depends, of course—At least, there is nobody else who can." And he added quickly: "You told me to give you a little time, you asked me to wait—what did you mean by that?"

      "Nothing," she answered.

      They walked on. They came into a field. Irgens spoke entertainingly about the far, blue, pine-clad ridges, about a tethered horse, a workingman who was making a fence. Aagot was grateful; she knew he did this in order to maintain his self-control; she appreciated it. He even said with a shy smile that if she would not think him affected he would like to jot down a couple of stanzas which just now occurred to him. And he jotted down the couple of stanzas.

      She wanted to see what he wrote. She bent toward him and asked him laughingly to let her see.

      If she really wanted to! It was nothing much, though.

      "Do you know," he said, "when you bent toward me and your head was so close to me, I prayed in my heart that you would remain like that! That is the reason I first refused to let you see what I had written."

      "Irgens," she said suddenly, in a tender voice, "what would happen if I said yes to you?"

      Pause. They looked at each other.

      "Then it would happen, of course, that—that you would say no to another."

      "Yes—but it is too late now, too late! It is not to be considered—But if it is any comfort to you to know it, then I can say that you are not the only one to grieve—"

      He took this beautifully. He seized her hand and pressed it silently, with a happy glance, and he let it go at once.

      They walked along the road. They had never been closer to each other. When they reached the new fence the workman took off his cap. They stopped before a gate; they looked at each other a moment and turned back. They did not speak.

      They came back to the carriage. During the drive Irgens held all Aagot's bundles in his arms. He did not move and was not in the least insistent.

      She was really touched by his tactful behaviour, and when he finally asked her to stay another day she consented.

      But when the carriage had to be paid for he searched his pockets in vain; at last he had to ask her to pay the driver herself. She was pleased to be able to do that; she only wished she had thought of it at once. He had looked quite crestfallen.

      They met each other early the next day. They walked along the docks, talking together in low voices, trembling with suppressed feeling. Their eyes were full of caresses; they walked close to each other. When, finally, Irgens caught sight of Coldevin standing half hidden behind a corner, he did not mention his discovery with a single syllable in order not to distress her. He said simply:

      "What a pity you and I are not ordinary working people now! We seem to attract attention; people are for ever staring at us. It would be preferable to be less prominent."

      They spoke about seeing each other at the Grand in the evening. It was quite a while since she had been there; she had really had few pleasures of late. Suddenly he said:

      "Come and go up to my place. There we can sit and talk in peace and quiet."

      "But would that do?"

      Why not? In broad daylight? There was absolutely no reason why she shouldn't. And he would always, always have the memory of her visit to treasure.

      And she went with him, timid, fearful, but happy.

      Finale

       Table of Contents

      I

      Milde and Gregersen walked down the street together. They talked