Pause.
"No, I am not offended in the least," said Coldevin. "But if I understand you correctly, then we agree. I am only saying what you already know?"
But Gregersen shook his head in despair and turned to Milde.
"He is impossible," he said. He emptied his glass and spoke again to Coldevin, spoke in a louder voice than necessary; he bent toward him and shouted: "For Heaven's sake, man, don't you understand that your opinions are too absurd—the opinions of the self-taught man? You think that what you say is news to us. We have heard it for ages; we know it, and we think it ridiculous. Isch! I don't want to talk to you!"
And Gregersen got up and walked unsteadily away. It was six o'clock. The three men who remained at the table sat silently a few moments. At last Coldevin said:
"There goes Journalist Gregersen. That man has my unqualified pity and sympathy."
"He would hardly accept it," said Milde with a laugh.
"But he cannot avoid it. I think often of these writers for the daily press, these faithful workers who accomplish more in a month than the poets wring from themselves during a year. They are often married men in poor circumstances; their fate is not too pleasant at best. They have probably dreamed about a freer and richer life than this slavery in an office where their best efforts are swallowed up in anonymity, and where they often have to repress themselves and their convictions in order to keep their jobs. It might be well if these men were given the approbation they deserved; it might even be profitable; it might bear fruit in a free and honest newspaper literature. What have we at present? An irresponsible press, lacking convictions and clearly defined principles, its policy dictated by personal preferences—by even worse motives. No; a truly great journalist ranks far higher than a poet."
Just then the door opened and Irgens and Miss Aagot entered. They stopped by the door and looked around; Aagot showed no sign of embarrassment, but when she caught sight of Coldevin, she stepped forward quickly, with a smile on lips that were already opened as if to speak. Suddenly she stopped. Coldevin stared at her and fumbled mechanically at his buttons.
This lasted a few moments. Irgens and Aagot went over to the table, shook hands, and sat down. Aagot gave Coldevin her hand. Milde wanted to know what they would have. He happened to be flush. "Order anything you like—"
"You come too late," he said smilingly. "Coldevin has entertained us splendidly."
Irgens looked up. He shot a swift glance at Coldevin and said, while he lit a cigar:
"I have enjoyed Mr. Coldevin's entertainment once before in Tivoli, I believe. This will have to satisfy me for the present."
It was only with difficulty that Irgens succeeded in hiding his displeasure. This was the second time to-day he had seen Coldevin; he had observed him outside his lodgings in Thranes Road No. 5. He had not been able to get Aagot out until this infernal fellow had disappeared. By a happy chance Grande had passed by; otherwise he would probably have been there still. And how had he acted? He had stood like a guard, immovable; Irgens had been furious. He had had the greatest difficulty in keeping Aagot from the windows. If she had happened to glance out she must have discovered him. He had made no effort to conceal himself. One would think he had stood there with the avowed intention of being seen, in order to keep the couple in a state of siege.
Now he appeared slightly embarrassed. He fingered his glass nervously and looked down. But suddenly it seemed as if Irgens's insolence had roused him; he said bluntly and without connection with what had been discussed before:
"Tell me one thing—Or, let me rather say it myself: These poets are turning everything upside down; nobody dares to grumble. An author might owe in unsecured debts his twenty thousand—what of it? He is unable to pay, that is all. What if a business man should act in this manner? What if he were to obtain wine or clothes on false promises of payment? He would simply be arrested for fraud and declared bankrupt. But the authors, the artists, these talented superbeings who suck the country's blood like vampires to the nation's acclaim—who would dare take such measures with them? People simply discuss the scandal privately and laugh and think it infernally smart that a man can owe his twenty thousand—"
Milde put his glass down hard and said:
"My good man, this has gone far enough!"
That splendid fellow Milde seemed all at once to have lost his patience. While he was sitting alone with the Attorney and the Actor he had found the miserable Tutor's bitter sarcasms amusing, but no sooner had one of the Authors appeared than he felt outraged and struck his fist on the table. It was Milde's excellent habit always to await reinforcements.
Coldevin looked at him.
"Do you think so?" he said.
"I'll be damned if I don't."
Coldevin had undoubtedly spoken intentionally. He had even addressed his remarks very plainly. Irgens bit his moustache occasionally.
But now Norem woke up. He understood that something was happening before his dull eyes, and he began to mix in, to declaim about business morals. It was the rottenest morality on earth, usury—a morality for Jews! Was it right to demand usurious interest? Don't argue with him. He knew what he was talking about. Ho! business morals! The rottenest morals on earth….
Meanwhile the Attorney was talking across the table to Irgens and Miss Aagot. He told them how he had come across Coldevin.
"I ran across him a moment ago up your way, Irgens, in Thranes Road, right below your windows. I brought him along. I couldn't let the fellow stand there alone—"
Aagot asked quickly, with big, bewildered eyes:
"Thranes Road, did you say? Irgens, he was standing below your windows!"
Her heart was fluttering with fear. Coldevin observed her fixedly; he made sure that she should notice he was staring straight at her.
Meanwhile Norem continued his impossible tirade. So it was charged that the people as a whole was corrupt, that its men and women were debased because they honoured literature and art. "Ho! you leave art alone, my good man, and don't you bother about that! Men and women corrupt!—"
Coldevin seized this chance remark by the hair and replied. He did not address Norem; he looked away from him. He spoke about something that evidently was vitally important in his eyes. He addressed himself to nobody in particular, and yet his words were meant for some one. It was hardly correct to say that men and women were corrupt; they had simply reached a certain degree of hollowness; they had degenerated and grown small. Shallow soil, anaemic soil, without growth, without fertility! The women carried on their surface existence. They were not tired of life, but they did not venture much either. How could they put up any stakes? They had none to put up. They darted around like blue, heatless flames; they nibbled at everything, joys and sorrows, and they did not realise that they had grown insignificant. Their ambitions did not soar; their hearts did not suffer greatly; they beat quite regularly, but they did not swell more for one thing than for another, more for one person than for another. What had our young women done with their proud eyes? Nowadays they looked on mediocrity as willingly as on superiority. They lost themselves in admiration over rather every-day poetry, over common fiction. Some time ago greater and prouder things were needed to conquer them. There was a page here and there in Norway's history to prove that. Our young women had modified their