The Best of Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun

from the corner. I suppose you will say that 'that is all right,' too; for your heart must be petrified—Well, perhaps I shouldn't say that your heart is exactly petrified," added Ole repentantly when at last he noticed Tidemand's terrible face. "But you need not expect any apology from me, either. You are hardened; that's what you are! I tell you, Hanka wants to come back!"

      Pause.

      "I wish to God she wanted to come back—I mean—Back, you say? But how? Do you know what has happened? I do. I have wanted to go to Hanka and beg her to come back—beg her on my knees, if necessary; but how would she come back—how would she come back? She told me herself—Of course, it is nothing much; you mustn't think it is anything bad, anything very bad; don't think that of Hanka. But, anyway, I am not so sure that she wants to come back. From where have you got that idea?"

      "Well, perhaps I ought not to have tried to interfere," said Ole. "But think of it anyway, Andreas; and pardon my violence; I take it all back. I don't know how it is; I am getting to be so hot-tempered lately. But think it over. And let us be ready in an hour or so."

      "So she still asks for the children," said Tidemand. "Think of that!"

      VIII

      Ole Henriksen stood in his office a few days later. It was in the afternoon, about three; the weather was clear and calm; the docks were busy as ever.

      Ole walked over to the window and looked out. An enormous coal-steamer was gliding in from the fiord; masts and rigging pointed skyward everywhere; cargoes were being unloaded along the wharves. Suddenly he started; the yacht was gone! He opened his eyes wide. Among all the hundreds of mastheads none were golden.

      He wanted to go out and look into this, but paused at the door. He went back to his desk again, leaned his head on his hands, and reflected. In reality the yacht did not belong to him any more; it was hers, Miss Lynum's; he had given it to her, and the papers were in her keeping. She had not returned these papers together with the ring; she might have forgotten it—how could he know? Anyway, the yacht was hers; he had nothing to do with it. But if it had been stolen? Well, even that was no affair of his.

      Ole took up his pen again, but only for a few moments. Dear me, she used to sit there on the sofa and sew so busily on the little cushions! They had been so cute and tiny that it was almost absurd. There she used to sit; he could see her still….

      And Ole wrote again.

      Then he opened the door and called out to the clerks that the yacht had disappeared; what had happened?

      One of the clerks informed him that the yacht had been removed this morning by two men from a lawyer's office; she was anchored outside the Fortress now.

      "Which lawyer?" asked Ole.

      The clerk didn't know.

      Ole grew curious. The yacht was not his any more, of course; but Miss Lynum had no business with a lawyer either; there must be a misunderstanding somewhere. And straightway he went down to the Fortress landing and made inquiries for a couple of hours. Finally he learned the name of the lawyer and went to his office.

      He saw a man of his own age and asked a few guarded questions.

      Yes, it was quite true; he had orders to sell the yacht; as a matter of fact, he had already advanced a thousand crowns on it. Here were the papers; Irgens had left them with him, the poet Irgens. He hoped there were no objections?

      None at all.

      The lawyer grew more and more polite and cordial; he probably knew everything about the whole matter, but he did not betray his knowledge. How much was the yacht worth, did Mr. Henriksen think? Irgens had come to him with a request that he take charge of this transaction; he had said that he needed some money at once, and of course one had to stretch a point where a man like Irgens was concerned. Unfortunately, our men of talent were not rewarded any too liberally, as a rule; but if there was the least objection to this sale he would try his best to arrange everything satisfactorily.

      And Ole said again that there was none; he had simply missed the yacht and wondered what had become of it. And he left.

      Now it had become clear why Irgens suddenly had blossomed forth in gay plumage, rejuvenated from top to toe! The whole town was talking about it; however, nobody knew the real source of his affluence. That she should do such a thing! Didn't she understand that this was dishonourable, disgraceful? On the other hand, why was it so disgraceful? Her possessions were his; they shared lovingly; there was nothing to say to that. In God's name, let her act as she thought right and proper. She was in town now; she was going to take a course in the School of Industries. It was quite natural that she should realise on that bit of a yacht. Could anybody blame her because she helped her fiancé? On the contrary, it reflected credit on her…. But she might not even know that the yacht had been put on the market. Perhaps she had forgotten both yacht and documents and did not care what became of them. At any rate, she had not wanted to sell the yacht simply to raise money on her own account—never; he knew her too well. She had done it for somebody else's sake; that was she. And that was the important point.

      He remembered her so distinctly: her fair curls, her nose, her dimple; she would be nineteen on the seventh of December. Never mind the yacht; that didn't matter. He might have wished to save the cushions, but it would probably be too late for that.

      He returned to his office, but could only concentrate his attention on what was absolutely necessary. He paused frequently and gazed straight ahead, lost in reflection. What if he should buy back the yacht? Would she mind, perhaps? God knows; she might think it was done spitefully, with malice aforethought. It might be better to remain neutral. Yes, that would be best; what was the use of making a fool of himself?—Miss Lynum and he were through with each other for ever. Nobody should say that he collected souvenirs of her.

      He closed the office as usual and went out. The street lamps were burning brightly; the evening was calm. He saw a light in Tidemand's office and started to go in; but he paused on the stairs and reflected. Tidemand might be busy; he had better go on.

      Hour after hour passed by; he wandered around as in a stupor. How tired and weary he was! His eyes were half-closed. He found himself in the vicinity of the park. He turned and strode toward the hills behind the city. He sat down on a stoop to rest. By and by he looked at his watch; it was half past eleven. And he sauntered down toward the city again. His mind was almost a blank.

      He turned aside and passed by Tivoli and Sara. What a walk this had been! To-night he was going to sleep—at last! Outside Sara he stopped abruptly. He drew back in the shadows slowly, four, six steps; his eyes were staring fixedly toward the entrance to the cafe. A cab was standing outside.

      He had heard Aagot's voice; she came out with Irgens. Irgens appeared first. Aagot had been delayed by something on the stairs.

      "Hurry up, now!" called Irgens.

      "Just a moment, Mr. Irgens," said the driver; "the lady is not quite ready."

      "Do you know me?" asked Irgens in surprise.

      "I certainly do," said the cabman.

      "He knows you! he knows you!" cried Aagot as she stumbled down the steps. She had not put on her wrap yet; it was dragging after her and she tripped in it. Her eyes were expressionless and staring. Suddenly she laughed. "That nasty fellow, Gregersen; he was kicking me on the leg all the time! I am sure I am black and blue! Imagine, Irgens, the cabby knows you!"

      "You are drunk," said Irgens brutally, and helped her into the carriage.

      Her hat was awry, she tried to get into her coat and she babbled incoherently.

      "No, I am not drunk; I am only a little cheerful—Won't you see if my leg is bruised? I am sure I am dripping blood! It hurts, too; but that doesn't matter; nothing matters now. Drunk, you say? What if I am? It is your fault. I do everything for your sake—do it gladly—Ha, ha, ha! I have to laugh when I think of that wretched Gregersen. He told me he would write the most beautiful article about me if I would only let him see