Irgens was sitting in his room, Thranes Road, No. 5. He was in fine spirits. The elegant man whom nobody suspected of doing anything sat there in all secret and corrected proofs and slaved like a farmer. Who would have believed it? He was the one in the clique who talked least about his work; nobody could understand how he managed to live. It was more than two years since his drama had been published, and he had apparently not done a stroke of work since. Of course, he might be working quietly, but nobody knew anything about it, nothing definitely. He owed a lot of money.
Irgens had locked his door so as not to be disturbed; he was very secretive. When he had finished his proof-reading he got up and looked out of the window. The weather was bright and sunny, a glorious day. He was going to take Miss Lynum to the Art Exhibition at three. He looked forward to this pleasure; it was really enjoyable to listen to this unsophisticated girl's chatter. She had burst upon him like a revelation; she reminded him of the first bird notes in spring.
There was a knock at the door. His first thought was to throw the proofs beneath the table-cloth, but he refrained. He opened. He knew this knock; it was Mrs. Hanka's finger which knocked twice so resolutely. She entered, closed the door, and glided over to him. She smiled, bent toward him, and looked into his eyes.
"It isn't me at all!" she said, and laughed quietly. "I want you to know that!" She could not hide her embarrassment entirely and flushed deeply.
She wore a grey woollen gown, and looked very young with her low lace collar and her bare neck.
He said:
"So it isn't you? Well, it doesn't matter who you are—you are equally lovely! And what glorious weather you are bringing!"
They sat down. He placed before her the proof-sheet, and she clapped her hands and cried: "Didn't I tell you? I knew it! No; but you are wonderful!" And she did not get tired of marvelling at him—that he was that far already! Oh, but wouldn't it come like a thunderclap; not a soul suspected anything! They all went around thinking that he did not work any more. Oh, Heavens! but nobody in the wide world was half as happy as she. She smuggled an envelope with something in it under the proof-sheet and pulled him away from the table. She talked all the time.
They sat down on the sofa. Her happiness, her violent joy, communicated itself to him, carried him away, and made him tender with gratitude. How she loved him, how she sacrificed herself for him and did for him what she could! He embraced her passionately, kissed her time and again, and held her close to his breast.
"I am so happy," she whispered. "I knew something was going to make me glad; as I walked upstairs it seemed as if I were going into an embrace! Dearest boy, no—the door—!"
The sun rose higher, the thrushes twittered passionately outside. The first bird notes of spring, he thought again, how unsophisticated these little creatures were in their chatter!
"How bright it is here!" she said; "it is much brighter here than elsewhere."
"Do you think so?" he answered smilingly. He walked over to the window and began to pluck from his clothes the fine, grey woolly fuzz her dress had left there. She sat still on the sofa, her eyes on the floor, blushing, arranging her hair a little. A ring flashed on each of her hands.
He could not remain there at the window so indifferently. She was beginning to notice it; she looked up; and besides, she was remarkably beautiful as she sat there fixing her hair. He stepped over to her and kissed her as warmly as he could.
"Don't kiss me, darling," she said; "be careful! Look here—it is the spring air."
She showed him a little red spot on her under lip. He asked her if it hurt, and she answered that it was not that, but she was afraid he might catch it from her. Suddenly she asked:
"Listen, can you come to Tivoli to-night? There is an operatic performance. Couldn't we meet there? Otherwise I'll die of loneliness."
He remembered that he was going to the Art Exhibition. What might happen afterward was hard to tell; he had better not promise anything. No, he said, he was afraid it would be impossible; he had made certain arrangements with Ole Henriksen.
"Oh, please—do come! I would be so proud and grateful!"
"But why in the world do you want to go to Tivoli?"
"But there is opera to-night!"
"Well, what of it? That means nothing to me. Well, if you like—"
"No, not if I like," she said sadly. "You seem so indifferent, Irgens! Yes, I admit I should like to go to the opera, but—Where are you going this evening? I am just like a compass-needle now: I oscillate, I may even swing all the way round, but I hark constantly back to one point—I point continually in one direction. It is you I am thinking of always."
Her little bewildered heart trembled. He looked at her. He knew it only too well—there was nothing he could reproach her with; she had been more than good to him. However, all he could promise was that he would come if at all possible.
* * * * *
Mrs. Hanka had left. Irgens was ready to go out; he put his proof-sheets in his pocket and took his hat. Had he forgotten anything? He had the proofs; that was the most important thing at present—the beginning of a book which was to startle the community with the suddenness of an explosion. He was going to see if his quiet industry would be denied appreciation. He, too, was going to send in an application for the government subsidy; he would delay until the very last day in order to avoid having his name paraded in the daily press alongside all those nonentities who already were licking their chops in anticipation of this modest emolument. His application should be brief and to the point, without recommendations, simply accompanied by his book. He would tell nobody, not even Mrs. Hanka. They should not be able to say that he had moved heaven and earth in order to secure this well-earned encouragement. But he was curious to see if they would ignore him. He knew all his fellow applicants, from Milde to Ojen; he did not fear any of them. He would have preferred to stand back and yield his right to this charity, but he could not afford it; he was obliged to accept it.
He brushed his clothes carefully all the way down the street; a little of the grey wool still clung to him—what a provoking dress! He dropped into a printing-office with his proofs. The foreman called his attention to a letter, an envelope with something enclosed, which he found between the sheets. Irgens turned in the door. A letter? Oh, yes; he had forgotten it. He knew this envelope and he opened it at once. When he had seen what was in it he lifted his brows, greatly pleased. The envelope he put in his pocket without further ado.
Ole and Aagot were in the warehouse. She was sewing on some red plush cushions for the cabin of the Aagot—doll cushions, one would almost think, they were so small. Irgens put his cheek to one of them, closed his eyes, and said, "Good night, good night."
"So you are going to the Art Exhibition!" said Ole smilingly. "Aagot has hardly spoken about anything else all day."
"Couldn't you come, too?" she asked.
But Ole had no time; just now he was very busy. "Be off—don't disturb me any more; out with you! Have a good time!"
It was the promenade-hour. Irgens proposed that they take the way through the park; they could then hear a little music at the same time. Did she like music?
Aagot was in a dark suit and wore a cape with red silk lining. The snug-fitting garment clung to her body without a wrinkle; around her neck she simply wore a bit of lace. The cape fluttered at times with scarlet silken flashes. She was sorry to say that she was not very musical. She liked to hear music, of course, but she lacked a thorough understanding of it.
"Exactly like myself," answered Irgens. "That is funny; are you like that, too? To tell the truth, I understand music unpardonably poorly, but I show up in the park every day; it would never do to stay away." Much depended upon that; if one did not show oneself and keep abreast of the procession, one would soon be lost, submerged, forgotten.
"Can one be forgotten so easily?" she asked. "But that does not apply to you,