Part 8

Meanwhile he was conducted into the villa. It was a handsome stone building of two stories, with many large rooms filled with ancient furniture, tapestries, and ornaments. And this house, which could easily contain two large families, was occupied for only six weeks in the year by the owner during his holidays; the rest of the time it stood empty. This suggested wealth, and gave the son-in-law the impression that here, at any rate, one need not discuss poverty--its causes and its cure.

The day passed in conversation with his mother-in-law, who was unwearied in showing him attention and kindness. She was inclined on every occasion to lead the conversation to high subjects; as a religious mystic she was disposed to see the guiding hand of Providence everywhere. That led her to look at things in general from a tolerant point of view, since she regards people's actions as predestined.

In order to make himself agreeable in the most usual way he placed himself at her point of view and searched in his past for some premonitions of coming events.

"Yes," answered the old lady, "I said already that I had expected you; one of those wild Northmen was to come and take my daughter. But as you can guess, my husband was not delighted at the prospect; he has a very violent temper but is good at heart. You will have a hard tussle with him at first, but it will soon be over, if only you do not answer him. It is certainly fortunate that your wife has not come, for he has a bone to pick with her also."

"Also?"

"I don't mean anything bad; don't misunderstand me. It will be all right when his angry fit is over."

"He will be angry then, anyhow, but I don't understand why. I have acted in good faith, but every man may sometimes fairly plead unmerited misfortune."

"Oh, it will be all right!"

At last the evening ended and he went up to his room. It had windows on three sides; there were no outer blinds and the curtains could not be drawn together. He felt himself under observation, like a patient in quarantine.

When he lay in bed he had his father-in-law's bust to contemplate; the face did not look friendly but quite the reverse, and being lit from below, it assumed all manner of unpleasing expressions.

"And to-morrow I am to be lectured by this stranger who I have never seen; scolded like a schoolboy because I have had misfortunes. Well, I must put up with it, as with everything else."

The next morning he woke up with a distinct impression that he found himself in a pit of snakes, into which Satan had enticed him. Therefore it was impossible to flee, so he went out to botanise and survey the landscape. He screwed himself up into a frivolous, poetic mood and thought what a thrilling situation it was; a dramatic scene which no one had hitherto passed through. "It is my own," he said to himself, "even though it should scorch my skin."

Lunch-time came; it was not exactly cheerful at table and his father-in-law's empty place seemed to threaten him. After lunch he went up to his room to quiet his nerves and immediately afterwards the Councillor's arrival was announced.

The Norwegian went down smiling, while a chill ran through him at intervals. In the veranda stood a man who looked about forty, dressed like a young man, with laughing and youthful eyes. What the Norwegian's own demeanour was, he himself could not see, but it must have made a favourable impression, for his new relative greeted him respectfully, apologised for the lateness of his arrival, said kind things about his books, and asked him to sit down.

However, he always addressed him with "you" instead of the more intimate "thou." Then he talked of politics; he had just come from Fredensborg. He spoke at length of this and that person, apparently with the object of observing his son-in-law, who sat mute and attentive. Then he turned to his wife, asked if she had anything to entertain their guest with, and finally came back to him, asking if he wished for anything. Without hesitating he stood up, went near his father-in-law and said: "I have only one wish, that my wife's father should call me 'thou.'"[1]

There was a sudden gleam in the other's eyes, he opened his arms and now the doubter felt the same as he had when meeting his mother-in-law. The invisible family-tie had been knit; he was genuinely moved, and stood there transformed into a child.

"You are a good fellow," said his father-in-law, "I have looked into your eyes." Then he kissed him on both cheeks. "But," he continued, "you have got Maria, and you know what you have got, as I hear. Be good enough never to come and complain to me. If you cannot tame her, you must let yourself be drawn along by her. You have had your way; much good may it do you!"

Then they drank coffee and talked like relatives and old acquaintances. Then the Councillor went to change his clothes in order to go fishing. He returned in a summer suit of white cashmere which made him look still younger than before. The trousers had certainly belonged to his Court uniform, and traces of gold thread were still visible upon them, but that made an impression on the Bohemian. Moreover, his father-in-law offered him cigars which he had been presented with by princes.

The Councillor had dined at Court and was now going fishing with the anarchist. The latter felt his conscience slightly uneasy as he had not long previously admired the cleverness of some anarchists in forcing open money-safes. It was strange! But the Councillor spoke sympathetically of modern movements and of Scandinavian literature in general. He was also thoroughly acquainted with the terrible activity of his son-in-law, so that the latter had no need to feel embarrassed. He especially approved of his views on the woman question and expressed his opinion thus, "You have written all that I wished to write."

He was perhaps not quite serious, but he said it at any rate.

Then they reached the stream.

"Have you ever fished for perch?" asked his father-in-law.

"No," he replied.

"Then you had better help me."

The help consisted in placing the fish in a basket and clearing the hook without injuring the artificial fly.

Since everything requires practice, the son-in-law showed himself somewhat clumsy and got scolded. But he had become so accustomed to his new position that he found it quite natural, just as natural as when he used to go fishing formerly with his children.

At sunset the sport ceased, and the son-in-law had the honour of carrying the fishing-rods, basket, and fish home.

The evening was cheerful, and the Councillor sent a telegram to London with travelling expenses, telling the young wife to come at once.

"That is for your sake," he said to his son-in-law. In other words she had not been sent for before, and he had therefore been enticed, as one captures singing-birds.

"I have got well over it," he said to his mother-in-law as he bade her good night.

"The worst is over, but it is not finished yet."

"Do you think we shall both get a whipping?"

It was not the end yet by a long way. The next morning he received a letter from London in which she said farewell to him for ever (Lord Byron!) because in the choice between her and her parents, he had preferred the latter. Since there was no choice in question, this was a piece of nonsense which concealed something. Another letter, addressed to her mother, was to the same effect but expressed more violently and concluded by wishing her "good luck." Her mother explained it thus. "She is jealous, fears that you tell tales against her and find support here; she is so self-willed that she cannot bear even her parents over her. If you become good friends with her father and mother, she feels herself in a child's position with regard to you also!"

This was possible but not quite natural, for she ought to have rejoiced that he had made a conquest of her parents, and thus brought about a reconciliation between her and them.

Her father became angry and serious; he telegraphed an ultimatum and demanded an answer. Now the sky was clouded and there were no more smiles. The Norwegian feared a collision if he remained here, and telegraphed to his wife: "I am going to Copenhagen; if you do not come, I will seek for a divorce." But he had to wait for an answer, and therefore he remained. That night he could not sleep, for the situation was grotesque enough to drive one to despair. Suppose she agreed to a divorce, how could the family-tie which had just been formed be broken in a moment? What would he be then, who had just entered into the family and received their confidence? What would the old people think? Such a hasty breach could not take place without some reason.

The next morning a telegram came from his young wife who was in Holland. Since everything was fated to go crazily this telegram was so badly worded that it might mean "I am coming to you," or "I am going to Copenhagen to meet you there."

This telegram became a bone of contention, and for three whole days the old pair and their son-in-law disputed over its interpretation. But the young wife did not come. They listened to the whistles of the steamboats, went down to meet the trains, came back and discussed the telegram again. They had no more quiet, and could not carry on a conversation without turning their heads and listening.

The next day the father's patience was exhausted, for a collateral circumstance came in view, of great importance in his eyes--the unavoidable scandal. The whole village knew that the son-in-law was there, but that his wife had been lost and was sought for by telegram. Her father therefore shut himself up all day, and when he emerged began a ruthless discussion of the economic problem.

"Have you a sure income?" he asked.

"As sure as authors generally have," was the answer.

"Very well, then you must do like others, and write for the papers."

"No paper will print my articles."

"Then write them so that they can be printed."

That was more than a sceptic and quietist ought to have borne, but he bore it and kept silence, firmly resolved rather to take a guitar on his arm and go about as a wretched streetsinger rather than sell his soul.

The old man had himself been a novelist and poet in his youth, but had been obliged to give up the struggle in order to provide for his family. He, therefore, had the right to say: "Do as I have had to do." But on the other side he knew by experience how hard such a sacrifice is. He immediately felt sympathy with his son-in-law and spoke friendly, encouraging words. The next moment, however, his justified suspicions awoke, and the memory of the sacrifice he had once made made him bitter; he felt he must trample on an unfortunate who had fallen under his feet. When he saw how the other kept silent and took everything quietly, an evil spirit probably whispered to him that this man could only bear everything so patiently because he hoped some day to be heir in this house. Then he spoke of King Lear and his ungrateful daughters who left the old man alone, waited for his death, and robbed him of honour. So the day passed, and when the son-in-law withdrew, he was sent for to be whipped again. Since he could put himself in other's places, and understood how to suffer with them, he made no attempt to defend himself. He could easily imagine himself old and set aside, despised and neglected by his children. "You are right," he said, "but still I feel myself innocent."

On the evening of the third day after the dispatch of the London telegram his mother-in-law came to him. "You must go early to-morrow morning," she said, "for he cannot bear to see you any more!"

"Very well, I will go."

"And if Maria comes now, she will not be received."

"Have you ever seen a man in such a position as mine?"

"No; my husband grants that too; it makes him suffer to see such a worthy man as you in such a position; he suffers on your account, and he does not want to suffer. You know my thoughts about it; it is no one's fault and not the fault of circumstances; but you are fighting against another who pursues and pursues you till you are so weary that you will be compelled to seek rest in the only place where rest is to be found. In me you will always have a friend, even if you are divorced from my daughter, and I shall follow the course of your destiny with my good wishes and my prayers."

When alone in his room, he felt a certain relief to think that to-morrow there would be an end of this wretchedness which was among the worst things he had experienced. In order to think of something else, he took up a paper which proved to be the official Court news. His eye flew over the first page down to the feuilleton, where a literary essay attracted his attention. He read it, thinking that his father-in-law had written it. At the first glance the article showed great familiarity with literature, but it contained over-confident judgments and was written in too artificial a style. Moreover, it surprised him by displaying hostility to all modern literature (including Scandinavian), while German literature was pointed to with special emphasis as that which set the tone to, and stood highest in the civilised world. Germany always at the head!

When he reached the end of the article, he saw that it was signed by his wife! Now he had promised her never to read her articles and he had kept this promise in order to avoid literary discussions in his married life. The only reason that her written sentiments were different from those which she expressed in daily conversation must be that she had to write so "in order to be printed." What a double life this woman must lead, appearing in Radical circles as an anarchist, and in the Court paper as an old-fashioned Conservative! How one could so change about he did not understand, and he was too tired to try to understand it. But that explained why she could not understand his being without occupation while there were plenty of pens and paper.

This worldly wisdom, this old-fashioned style seemed to suggest a bald head and spectacles rather than a young, beautiful, laughing girl who could lie on a sofa and eat sweetmeats like an odalisque.

"To think that people should be so complicated!" he said to himself. "It is interesting at any rate! I shall remember it next time!" And he fell asleep, thinking himself considerably wiser after these experiences.

At seven o'clock he got up, called by a man who was to take his things to the station. As his mother-in-law had told him the train did not start till nearly eight, he made no hurry, but dressed quietly and went down into the garden where he met her. They were standing and talking of what lay before him when a rough, thundering voice was heard from a window of the first story. It was his father-in-law.

"Haven't you gone yet?"

"No; the train doesn't go till quarter to eight!"

"What idiot told you that?"

That he could not say, as it was his mother-in-law.

"Well, hurry on to the station and see when the next train goes."

As the Norwegian hesitated, there came a sharp "Now!" like the crack of a whip over a horse. It was quite clear to him what he had to do now; he pressed his mother-in-law's hand and went. His firm steps must have shown that they were the opposite to those leading to the lion's cave,[2] going out and away but never returning, for he heard immediately the old man's voice in a caressing, lamenting tone: "Axel!"

It felt like a stab in the departer's breast, but he had begun to move, and went on without looking round.

He went down to the station, looked ostensibly at the railway guide, asked about the next train without listening to the answer, saw by the position of the sun which direction was north-east, and struck into the nearest highway. He did this all so quietly, as though he had long considered the plan. Soon he found himself out in the country, alone without a home, without baggage, without an overcoat, and nothing but a walking-stick in his hand. He felt angry with no one; his father-in-law was right, and his last call sounded like an appeal for forgiveness for his bad temper. Yes, he only felt guilty with regard to this man, on whom he had brought shame and sorrow. But in himself he felt innocent, for he had only acted according to his obligations and possibilities.

Meanwhile he was free and had left the worst hell behind him; the sun shone, the landscape lay green and open, he had the whole world before him. He shook off the child's clothes which he had worn for eight days, felt himself a man again, and marched on. His plan was to reach a certain place on foot; there to take a steamer, to telegraph for his baggage and so to travel to Copenhagen.

"The affair is really ludicrous," he said to himself; "if it were not tragic for the old people. It looks bad, but I have survived worse things. I am a tramp! Very good! Then all claims to honour and respect have ceased. It is soothing at all events to have nothing more to lose. Hurrah!"

He marched into the next village like an old soldier and ordered wine and tobacco. He felt hilarious, and chatted with the innkeeper. Then he went on again. But at intervals he became sentimental; thought of his mother-in-law's words about the wild chase; had to admit that there was something uncanny about it, for he had never yet experienced such a misfortune; and if other people noticed it, it could not be mere imagination. But that was nothing strange, for he had had bad luck ever since he was a child. But fancy placing a man in such a position! He would not even have treated an enemy with such hellish cruelty.

Meanwhile he reached Odense, came to Korsör and soon afterwards to Copenhagen. It was evening and he sent a messenger to the family where his wife generally stayed. Since she had not come to the Arreskov Lake, she must be in Copenhagen. On the visiting-card which he sent he only wrote: "A somewhat strange question: where is my wife?"

The man who has not waited for an hour and a half on a pavement does not know how long this time can be. But this interval of waiting was abridged by the hope that after a silence-cure of eight days in Hamburg, five weeks of simple imprisonment at Rügen, and a week of the nethermost hell at Fünen, he would see his wife again. After an hour and a half the messenger returned with another visiting-card on which was written: "She left this morning for Fünen in order to meet you."

A miss again! "I begin to find this monotonous even when regarded as a plot," he said to himself.

If one had used it for the plan of a novel, the reader would throw the book away and exclaim: "No! that is too thick! And as a farce it isn't cheerful enough!"

Nevertheless, it was a fact! The next minute he thought: "My poor, unfortunate wife is going straight into the lion's den. Now she will get blows." For her father's anger was now unbounded, and his mother-in-law had said during the last days of his stay: "If she comes now, he will beat her." Therefore he telegraphed to the old lady to say that his wife was coming, and asked indulgence for her.

It would take four days for her to return. In order not to remain in Copenhagen where his wedding journey had been reported in the papers, he stayed in a village outside the town where an old friend of his lived with his family. In the boarding-house where he stayed the same hog's-wash regime prevailed as in Rügen. In two days he lost as much strength as though he had had an attack of typhus. One chewed till one's jaws were weary, went hungry to table, and rose again tired and hungry.

His friend was not the same as before. Rendered melancholy by disappointments he seemed to find this a favourable opportunity to display a visible satisfaction at seeing the well-known author in such a sorry plight. His sympathy took the heartiest, and at the same time the most insulting forms. When the Norwegian related his adventures on the wedding journey, his hearer stared at him in such a way that he made a hasty end of his narrative in order not to be stigmatised as a liar.

The village was on marshy ground, and over-shadowed by very old trees; one became melancholy there without knowing why. When he walked down one of the streets of the village he was astonished to see people at the windows regarding him furtively with wild, distracted looks, and immediately afterwards shyly hiding themselves behind the curtains. This disquieted him and he wondered whether a false report had been spread that he was mad. When he asked his friend about it, the latter answered: "Don't you know where you are?"

The question sounded strangely, and might mean: "Are you so confused that you have lost consciousness?"

"I am in X----" he answered, in order not to betray his suspicion.

"And don't you know what X---- is?"

"No!"

"It is simply a lunatic asylum; the inhabitants make a living by taking care of mad people." And he laughed.

The Norwegian inquired no further, but he asked himself: "Have they enticed me into a trap in order to watch me?"

He had grounds for such a suspicion, for such an occurrence had already happened in his life.

His whole existence now became a single effort to show himself so ordinary in his way of thinking and normal in his behaviour, that nothing "unusual" might be noticed in him. He did not dare to give vent to an original thought or to utter a paradox, and whenever the temptation came to narrate something of his wedding journey he pinched his knee.

This continual fear of being watched depressed him so much that he saw watching eyes everywhere, and thought he noticed traps laid for him in questions where there were none. Sensitive as he was, he believed that the whole village exhaled the contagious atmosphere of the lunatics; he became depressed and feared to go mad himself. But he did not attempt to go away, partly because he feared being arrested at the station, and partly because he had told his wife to meet him at this village.

He had received letters from Arreskov, in which his mother-in-law informed him what disquiet and anxiety his disappearance had caused them. His father-in-law, who well knew what he would have done in the unfortunate man's place, had immediately foreboded his suicide and wept aloud. They had searched for him by the banks of the lake and in the wood.... He stopped reading the letter and felt his conscience prick him. The good old man had wept! How terrible his lot must be, when the sight of it had that effect on others! The letter went on to say that Maria had arrived, and that they would soon meet again, if he only kept quiet, for she loved him. This was a ray of light and it gave him strength to endure this hell, where everyone looked askance at his neighbour to see whether he were in his senses.

But the two last days brought new tortures. The Swede whom he had met in the Copenhagen café had accepted an invitation to come to dinner. The Norwegian went gladly to the station to meet his best friend, who understood him better than anyone else, and who, though poor himself, had tried to make interest for him with rich people, and to procure the help for him which he himself could not obtain. But now he met a stranger who looked at him coldly and treated him as a stranger. There was no smile of recognition on his part, no inquiry after the Norwegian's health and especially no allusion to the past.

After dinner he took the host aside and asked: "Is the Swede angry with me?"

"Angry? No! But you understand he has now married Lais."

"Married?"

"Yes, and therefore he does not like to be reminded that she was your friend."

"I understand that, but it is not my fault that I was her friend before she knew that the Swede was in existence."

"No, certainly not; but you have gossiped about her."

"I only said what everyone else said, since it was no secret. She herself so boasted of her conquests that they were bound to become public."