Shallow Soil Part 23

Mrs. Hanka reflected.

"Would it really please you so much if I stayed?" she asked. "All right; then I'll stay. Yes, I will. It will be hard on the children, but--Anyway, it is enough for me that I make you glad."

They had reached Sara's once more.

"Good night," he said happily. "Thank you, Hanka! When shall I see you again? I am longing--"

III

Three days later Irgens received a note from Mrs. Hanka.

He was down-town; he had met a few acquaintances; he did not say much, but was in a satisfied frame of mind. He had taken a look at Paulsberg's great portrait which was now exhibited in the Arrow, in the large window which everybody had to pa.s.s; people crowded in front of it continually. The painting was elegant and obtrusive; Paulsberg's well-groomed form looked very distinguished in the plain cane-bottomed chair, and people wondered if that was the chair in which he had written his books. All the newspapers had mentioned the picture in flattering terms.

Irgens had a gla.s.s of wine in front of him and listened abstractedly to the conversation. Tidemand was still optimistic; that bit of rain in Russia had not depressed his hopes. The prices were not soaring as yet, but they surely would. Suddenly Irgens p.r.i.c.ked up his ears: Tidemand was talking about their summer plans.

"We are not going to the country after all," he said; "Hanka thought--In fact, I told her plainly that if she wanted to go she would have to go alone; I was too busy to think of getting off. Hanka was very nice about it; she agreed to stay in the city."

The door opened and Milde entered. The corpulent chap beamed happily and shouted, full of the great sensation he was going to spring:

"Congratulate me, good people, I have won the prize! Imagine, in its inscrutable wisdom the ministry has chosen to bestow the subsidy upon me!"

"Have _you_ received the subsidy?" asked Irgens slowly.

"Yes, can you understand it? How it happened I am at a loss to know. I got it from under your very noses! I hear that you, too, applied, Irgens?"

Silence fell upon the crowd at the table. n.o.body had expected that, and they were all wondering what influence had been brought to bear. Milde had got the subsidy--what next?

"Well, I congratulate you!" said Tidemand, and gave Milde his hand.

"Thank you," Milde replied. "I want you to lend me some money now, so that I can celebrate properly; you'll get it back when I cash in."

Irgens looked at his watch as if he suddenly remembered something and got up.

"I, too, congratulate you," he said. "I am sorry to have to leave at once; I have to--No; my object in applying was an entirely different one; I'll tell you about it later," he added in order to hide his disappointment.

Irgens went home. So Milde had been chosen! That was the way Norway rewarded her talents. Here he had hurled his inspired lyric in their faces, and they did not even know what it was! _Whom_ had they preferred? None other than oil-painter Milde, collector of ladies'

corsets!

Of course, he knew how it had happened; Paulsberg was behind it. Paulsberg had supported Milde's application, and Milde had painted Paulsberg's picture. A simon-pure advertising conspiracy! And when Irgens pa.s.sed the Arrow and saw the painting he spat contemptuously on the pavement. He had seen through this hypocritical scurviness. However, he would find means to make himself felt.

But why in the world should Lars Paulsberg be allowed to dispose of these subsidies? True, he had never let slip an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the newspapers; he had his press-agents; he took good care that his name shouldn't be forgotten. But apart from that? Alas, a few novels in the style of the seventies, a popular and amateurish criticism of such a moss-grown dogma as the Atonement! What did it amount to when one looked at it critically? But the fact that he had the press behind him made his words carry weight. Yes, he was certainly a shrewd and thrifty soul, a real backwoods bargain-hunter. He knew what he was doing when he even allowed his wife to accept Journalist Gregersen's beer-perfumed attentions! Faugh, what a sordid mess!

Well, he was not going to gain success by employing such methods; he hoped he would manage to get along without unfairness. He had one weapon--his pen. That was the kind of man _he_ was.

He went home and locked his door. There would still be time to regain his composure before Mrs. Hanka's arrival. He tried to write, but found it impossible. He paced back and forth furiously, pale with anger, bitter and vindictive because of this defeat. He would, by Heaven, avenge this wrong; no gentle words were to flow from his pen henceforth!

At last Mrs. Hanka arrived.

No matter how often she had entered this apartment, she always felt a certain embarra.s.sment at first, and she usually said in order to hide it: "Does Mr. Irgens live here?"

But she noticed at once that Irgens was not in a playful mood to-day, and she asked what was the matter. When he had told her of the great calamity she, too, was indignant: "How unjust! What a scandal! Had Milde been selected?"

"In payment for Paulsberg's portrait," said Irgens. "Well, it cannot be helped; don't let it irritate you; I am reconciled."

"You take it beautifully; I don't see how you can."

"The only effect it has on me is to make me a little bitter; it does not break my spirit."

"I simply cannot understand it; no, I can't. Did you send your book with your application?"

"Certainly--Oh, my book! I might as well not have written it; so far n.o.body seems to have noticed it. There has been no review of it so far in any of the papers." And, angry because of this newspaper neglect of his work, he gritted his teeth and walked up and down.

She looked sadly at him.

"Now, don't allow this to embitter you," she said. "You have great provocation, but all the same--You can live without that miserable subsidy. You know that n.o.body is your equal!"

"And what good does that do me? Judge for yourself; my book has not been mentioned in a single newspaper!"

Mrs. Hanka had for the first time--yes, for the very first time--a feeling that her hero was not the superior being she had imagined. A shuddering thought pierced her heart: he did not carry his disappointment with more than ordinary pride. She looked at him a little closer. His eyes were not so clear, his mouth was drawn and his nostrils dilated. But it was only a shuddering thought.

Then he added: "You might do me the favour to try to interest Gregersen in my book, and see if he won't review it in the _Gazette_." And as he noticed that she grew more and more thoughtful, that she even looked interrogatingly straight into his eyes, he added: "Of course, you need not ask him directly--only give him a little hint, a reminder."

Could this be Irgens? But she remembered at once his painful position, alone as he was, fighting a conspiracy single-handed; and she excused him.

She ought to have thought of giving Gregersen a little hint herself and spared her Poet this humiliation. Yes, she certainly would speak to Gregersen at once.

And Irgens thanked her; his bitterness vanished slowly. They sat silently on the sofa some time; then she said:

"Listen! An awful thing happened with that red tie of yours--you remember the one I took from you once? He saw it!"

"How could you be so careless? What did he say?"

"Nothing; he never says anything. It fell out as I opened my dress. Well, don't let that worry you; it doesn't matter. When can I see you again?"

Ever, _ever_ her tenderness was the same! Irgens took her hand and caressed it. How fortunate he was to have her! She was the only one in all the world who understood him, who was good to him--How about that stay in the country? Had she given it up?

Yes; she was not going. She told him frankly that she had had no trouble changing her husband's mind; he had given in at once. But she was sorry for the children.

"Yes," answered Irgens sympathetically. And suddenly he asked in a whisper:

"Did you lock the door as you came in?"

She glanced at him, lowered her eyes and whispered: "Yes."