Читать книгу Shallow Soil - Knut Hamsun - Страница 7

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A barnlike room with blue walls and sliding windows, a sort of drying-loft with a stove in the middle, and with stovepipes hanging in wires along the ceiling. The walls are decorated with a number of sketches, painted fans, and palettes; several framed pictures lean against the wainscoting. Smell of paints and tobacco smoke; brushes, tubes, overcoats which the guests had thrown aside; an old rubber shoe filled with nails and junk; on the easel in the corner a large, half-finished portrait of Paulsberg.

This was Milde's studio.

When Ole Henriksen entered about nine o'clock all the guests were assembled, also Tidemand and his wife. There were altogether ten or twelve people. The three lamps were covered with opaque shades, and the heavy tobacco smoke did not make the room any lighter. This obscurity was evidently Mrs. Hanka's idea. A couple of very young gentlemen, beardless students with bachelor degrees, were of the party; they were poets who had put aside their studies last year. Their heads were so closely cropped as to be almost entirely naked. One of them carried a small compass on his watch-chain. They were Ojen's comrades, his admirers and pupils; both wrote verses.

Besides these, one noticed a man from the Gazette, Journalist Gregersen, the literary member of the staff. He was a man who did his friends many a favour and published in his paper many an item concerning them. Paulsberg showed him the greatest deference, and conversed with him about his series, "New Literature," which he found admirable; and the Journalist was happy and proud because of this approbation. He had a peculiar habit of twisting words so that they sounded odd and absurd, and nobody could turn this trick as smartly as he.

"It is rather difficult to write such a series within reasonable limits," he says. "There are so many authors that have to be included—a veritable choas!"

He makes Paulsberg smile over this "choas," and they talk on in the best of harmony.

Attorney Grande and his wife were absent.

"So the Attorney is not coming," says Mrs. Hanka Tidemand, without referring to his wife. Mrs. Liberia never came, anyway.

"He sulks," said Milde, and drank with Norem, the Actor. "He did not want to come because Norem was invited."

Nobody felt the least constraint; they chatted about everything, drank, and made plenty of noise. It was a splendid place, Milde's studio; as soon as one got inside the door one felt free to do or say anything one's inclination prompted.

Mrs. Hanka is seated on the sofa; Ojen sits beside her. On the other side of the table sits Irgens; the light falls across his narrow chest. Mrs. Hanka hardly glances at him.

She is in her red velvet gown; her eyes have a greenish sheen. Her upper lip is slightly raised. One glimpses her teeth and marvels at their whiteness. The face is fresh and the complexion clear. Her beautiful forehead is not hidden beneath her hair; she carries it sweetly and candidly, like a nun. A couple of rings flash on her fingers. She breathes deeply and says to Irgens, across the table:

"How hot it is here, Irgens!"

Irgens gets up and goes over to open a window, but a voice is raised in protest; it is Mrs. Paulsberg's. "For Heaven's sake, no open windows. Come away from the sofa; it is cooler further back!"

And Mrs. Hanka gets up. Her movements are undulating. When she stands up she is like a young girl, with bold shoulders. She does not glance into the large, cracked mirror as she passes; she exhales no odours of perfumes; she takes, accidentally, her husband's arm and walks up and down with him while the conversation and the refreshments keep the other guests at the table.

Tidemand is talking, with somewhat forced liveliness, about a cargo of grain, a certain Fürst in Riga, a raise in customs duties somewhere. Suddenly he says, bending toward her:

"Yes; I am very happy to-day. But, pardon me, you are hardly interested in these things—Did you see Ida before you left? Wasn't she sweet in her white dress? We'll get her a carriage when spring comes!"

"Yes; in the country! I am beginning to long for it already!" Mrs. Hanka herself is animated. "You must get the garden and the grove fixed up. It will be fine."

And Tidemand, who already has arranged to have the country-house put in order, although it is not April yet, is delighted because of his wife's sudden interest. His sombre eyes brighten and he presses her arm.

"I want you to know, Hanka, I am very happy to-day," he exclaims.

"Everything will be all right soon, I am sure."

"Are you—What will be all right, by the way?"

"Oh, nothing," he says quickly. He turns the subject, looks down, and continues: "Business is booming; I have given Fürst orders to buy!"

Fool that he was! There he had once more made a mistake and bothered his wife with his shop talk. But Mrs. Hanka was good enough to overlook it; nobody could have answered more patiently and sweetly than did she:

"I am very glad to hear it!"

These gentle words embolden him; he is grateful and wants to show it as best he can; he smiles with dewy eyes and says in a low voice:

"I should like to give you a little present if you care—a sort of souvenir of this occasion. If there is anything you would like—"

Mrs. Hanka glances at him.

"No, my dear. What are you thinking of? Though, perhaps—you might let me have a couple of hundred crowns. Thanks, very much!" Suddenly she spies the old rubber shoe with nails and junk, and she cries, full of curiosity: "Whatever is this?" She lets go her husband's arm and brings the rubber over to the table. "Whatever have you got here, Milde?" She rummages in the rubbish with her white fingers, calls Irgens over, finds one strange thing after another, and asks questions concerning them. "Will somebody please tell me what this is good for?"

She has fished out an umbrella-handle which she throws aside at once; then a lock of hair enclosed in paper. "Look—a lock of somebody's hair! Come and see!"

Milde joined her.

"Leave that alone!" he said and took his cigar out of his mouth. "However did that get in there? Did you ever—hair from my last love, so to speak!"

This was sufficient to make everybody laugh. The Journalist shouted:

"But have you seen Milde's collection of corsets? Out with the corsets,

Milde!"

And Milde did not refuse; he went into one of the side rooms and brought forth his package. There were both white and brown ones; the white ones were a little grey, and Mrs. Paulsberg asked in surprise:

"But—have they been used?"

"Of course; why do you think Milde collects them? Where would be their sentimental value otherwise?" And the Journalist laughed heartily, happy to be able to twist even this word around.

But the corpulent Milde wrapped his corsets together and said:

"This is a little specialty of mine, a talent—But what the dickens are you all gaping at? It is my own corsets; I have used them myself—don't you understand? I used them when I began to grow stout; I laced and thought it would help. But it helped like fun!"

Paulsberg shook his head and said to Norem:

"Your health, Norem! What nonsense is this I hear, that Grande objects to your company?"

"God only knows," says Norem, already half drunk. "Can you imagine why? I have never offended him in my life!"

"No; he is beginning to get a little chesty lately."

Norem shouted happily:

"You hear that? Paulsberg himself says that Grande is getting chesty lately."

They all agreed. Paulsberg very seldom said that much; usually he sat, distant and unfathomable, and listened without speaking; he was respected by all. Only Irgens thought he could defy him; he was always ready with his objections.

"I cannot see that this is something Paulsberg can decide," he said.

They looked at him in surprise. Was that so? So Paulsberg could not decide that? He! he! so that was beyond him? But who, then, could decide it?

"Irgens," answered Paulsberg caustically.

Irgens looked at him; they gazed fixedly at each other. Mrs. Hanka stepped between them, sat down on a chair, and began to speak to Ojen.

"Listen a moment!" she called after a while. "Ojen wants to read his latest—a prose poem."

And they settled down to listen.

Ojen brought forth his prose poem from an inside pocket; his hands trembled.

"I must ask your indulgence," said he.

But at this the two young students, the close-cropped poets, laughed loudly, and the one with the compass in his fob said admiringly:

"And you ask for our indulgence? What about us, then?"

"Quiet!"

"The title of this is 'Sentenced to Death,'" said Ojen, and began:

For a long time I have wondered: What if my secret guilt were known?…

Sh….

Yes, sh….

For then I should be sentenced to death.

And I would sit in my prison and know that I should be calm and

indifferent when the supreme moment should arrive.

I would ascend the steps of the scaffold, I would smile and humbly beg

permission to say a word.

And then I would speak. I would implore everybody to learn something good from my death. A speech from my inmost heart, and my last farewell should be like a breath of flame….

Now my secret guilt is known.

Yes!

And I am sentenced to death. And I have languished in prison so long

that my spirit is broken.

I ascend the steps to the scaffold; but to-day the sun is shining and

my eyes fill with tears.

For I have languished so long in prison that I am weak. And then the sun is shining so—I haven't seen it for nine months, and I haven't heard the birds sing for nine months—until to-day.

I smile in order to hide my tears and I ask humbly if my guards will permit me to speak a word.

But they will not permit me.

Still I want to speak—not to show my courage, but really I want to say a few words from my heart so as not to die mutely—innocent words that will harm nobody, a couple of hurried sentences before they clap their hands across my lips: Friends, see how God's sun is shining….

And I open my lips, but I cannot speak.

Am I afraid? Does my courage fail? Alas, no, I am not afraid. But I am weak, that I am, and I cannot speak because I look upon God's sun and the trees for the last time….

What now? A horseman with a white flag?

Peace, my heart, do not tremble so!

No, it is a woman with a white veil, a handsome woman of my own age.

Her neck is bare like my own.

And I do not understand it, but I weep because of this white veil, too, because I am weak and the white veil flutters beautifully against the green background of the forest. But in a little while I shall see it no more….

Perhaps, though, after my head has fallen I may still be able to see

the blessed sky for a few moments with my eyes. It is not impossible,

if I only open my eyes widely when the axe falls. Then the sky will be

the last I see.

But don't they tie a bandage across my eyes? Or won't they blindfold

me because I am so weak and tearful? But then everything will be dark,

and I shall lie blindly, unable even to count the threads in the cloth

before my eyes.

How stupidly mistaken I was when I hoped to be able to turn my eyes upward and behold the blessed vault of heaven. They will turn me over, on my stomach, with my neck in a clamp. And I shall be able to see nothing because of my bandaged eyes.

Probably there will be a small box suspended below me; and I cannot even see the little box which I know will catch my severed head.

Only night—a seething darkness around me. I blink my eyes and believe myself still alive—I have life in my fingers, even—I cling stubbornly to life. If they would only take off the bandage so I could see something—I might enjoy looking at the dust grains in the bottom of the box and see how tiny they were….