They were deeply interested in the situation. It had come to this that Parliament had been dissolved without having said the deciding word, without having said anything, in fact. The Gazette had advised against radical action at the last moment. The paper had talked about the seriousness of assuming responsibilities, about the unwisdom of a straightforward challenge.
"What the devil can we do—with our army and navy?" said Gregersen with deep conviction. "We shall simply have to wait."
They went into the Grand. Ojen was there with his two close-cropped poets. He was speaking about his latest prose poems: "A Sleeping City," "Poppies," "The Tower of Babel." Imagine the Tower of Babel—its architecture! And with a nervous gesture he drew a spiral in the air.
Paulsberg and his wife arrived; they moved the tables together and formed a circle. Milde stood treat; he still had money left from the first half of the subsidy. Paulsberg attacked Gregersen at once because of the Gazette's change of front. Hadn't he himself, a short time ago, written a rather pointed article in the paper? Had they entirely forgotten that? How could he reconcile this with their present attitude? It would soon be a disgrace for an honest man to see his name in that sheet. Paulsberg was indignant and said so without mincing words.
Gregersen had no defence. He simply answered that the Gazette had fully explained its position, had given reasons….
"What kind of reasons?" Paulsberg would show them how shallow they were. "Waiter, the Gazette for to-day!"
While they waited for the paper even Milde ventured to say that the reasons were anything but convincing. They consisted of vague vapourings about the easterly boundary, the unpreparedness of the army, even mentioning foreign intervention….
"And fifteen minutes ago you yourself agreed with the Gazette unqualifiedly," said Gregersen.
Paulsberg commenced reading from the Gazette, paragraph after paragraph. He laughed maliciously. Wasn't it great to hear a paper like the Gazette mention the word responsibility? And Paulsberg threw the paper aside in disgust. No; there ought to be at least a trace of honesty in our national life! This sacrifice of principle for the sake of expediency was degrading, to say the least.
Grande and Norem entered, with Coldevin between them. Coldevin was talking. He nodded to the others and finished what he was saying before he paused. The Attorney, this peculiar nonentity, who neither said nor did anything himself, took a wicked pleasure in listening to this uncouth person from the backwoods. He had happened upon Coldevin far up in Thranes Road; he had spoken to him, and Coldevin had said that he was going away soon, perhaps to-morrow. He was going back to Torahus; he was mainly going in order to resign his position; he had accepted a situation farther north. But in that case Grande had insisted that they empty a glass together, and Coldevin had finally come along. They had met Norem outside.
Coldevin, too, spoke about the situation; he accused the young because they had remained silent and accepted this last indignity without a protest. God help us, what kind of a youth was that? Was our youth, then, entirely decadent?
"It looks bad for us again," said Milde in a stage whisper.
Paulsberg smiled.
"You will have to grin and bear it—Let us get toward home, Nikoline. I am not equal to this."
And Paulsberg and his wife left.
II
Coldevin looked very shabby indeed. He was in the same suit he wore when he came to town; his hair and beard were shaggy and unkempt.
The Journalist brought him over to the table. What did he want? Only a glass of beer?
Coldevin glanced around him indifferently. It would seem that he had had a hard time. He was thin to emaciation and his eyes shone through dark, shadowy rings. He drank his beer greedily. He even said it was a long time since a glass of beer had tasted better. Perhaps he was hungry, too.
"To return to the matter under discussion," said the Attorney. "One cannot affirm offhand that we are floating on the battered hull. One must not forget to take the young Norway into consideration."
"No," answered Coldevin, "one should never affirm anything offhand. One must try to reach the basic reason for every condition. And this basic reason might just be—as I have said—our superstitious faith in a power which we do not possess. We have grown so terribly modest in our demands; why is it? Might this not lie at the very root of our predicament? Our power is theoretical; we talk, we intoxicate ourselves in words, but we do not act. The fancy of our youth turns to literature and clothes; its ambition goes no further, and it is not interested in other things. It might, for instance, profitably take an interest in our business life."
"Dear me, how you know everything!" sneered the Journalist.
But Milde nudged him secretly and whispered: "Leave him alone! Let him talk. He, he! He really believes what he says; he trembles with eagerness and conviction. He is a sight in our day and generation!"
The Attorney asked him:
"Have you read Irgens's latest book?"
"Yes, I have read it. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, simply because I am at a loss to understand how you can have such a poor opinion of our youth when you know its production. We have writers of rank—"
"Yes—but, on the other hand, there is in your circle a young man who has lost heavily in rye," answered Coldevin. "I am more interested in him. Do you know what this man is doing? He is not crushed or broken by his loss. He is just now creating a new article of export; he has undertaken to supply a foreign enterprise with tar, Norwegian tar. But you do not mention his name."
"No; I must confess that my knowledge of Norwegian tar is limited, but—"
"There may be nothing lacking in your knowledge, Mr. Attorney, but you have possibly too little sympathy for commerce and the creation of values. On the other hand, you are thoroughly up to date as far as the aesthetic occurrences are concerned; you have heard the latest prose poem. We have so many young writers; we have Ojen, and we have Irgens, and we have Paulsberg, and we have many more. That is the young Norway. I see them on the streets occasionally. They stalk past me as poets should stalk past ordinary people. They are brimful of new intentions, new fashions. They are fragrant with perfume—in brief, there is nothing lacking. When they show up everybody else is mute: 'Silence! The poet speaks.' The papers are able to inform their readers that Paulsberg is on a trip to Honefos. In a word—"
But this was too much for Gregersen. He himself had written the news notes about Paulsberg's trip to Honefos. He shouted:
"But you have the most infernal way of saying insolent things! You look as if you were saying nothing of consequence—"
"I simply cannot understand why you lose your temper," said Milde tranquilly, "when Paulsberg himself told us to grin and bear it!"
Pause.
"In a word," resumed Coldevin, "the people do their duty, the papers do their duty. Our authors are not ordinary, readable talents; no, they are flaming pillars of fire; they are being translated into German! They assume dimensions. This, of course, can be repeated so often that people at last believe it; but such a self-delusion is very harmful. It makes us complacent, it perpetuates our insignificance."
Gregersen plays a trump card:
"But tell me, you—I don't remember your name:—do you know the story of Vinje and the potato? I always think of that when I hear you speak. You are so immensely unsophisticated;