CHAPTER VFRUWANGENhad been impatient for the demonstration to take place. The means that she had despised in her husband, she herself now felt a sudden desire to resort to, like a person in despair, who gropes about for anything he can lay hands on.But after the day when the consul had secretly made the demonstrators drunk, so that they frightened the whole district with their behaviour, both Wangen and his wife saw that these allies of theirs had once more injured their cause; for the whole district was quite sure that Wangen was at the back of it all, and even Norby’s worst enemies began to feel sympathy for him and to turn from Wangen.As the trial approached, Wangen’s fear of being left to stand alone became greater and greater. It was witnesses that he must have, and now he no longer relied upon witnesses, for he had a suspicion that every one hated him.At night, when he lay and polished up his innocence, he saw more and more vividly that sceneat the Grand, when the document was signed. At first he had not been quite sure that it was there; but as he had said it once, it was most probable; and the oftener he said it, the more certain he became that it was there and nowhere else. He now even remembered the corner they had sat in. There were Norby, Haarstad and himself, and they were drinking coffee after dinner. But was there no one else? Suppose there had been some one else who had seen it all!He conjured up this scene more and more vividly, as if it had some hidden power that might suddenly make its appearance and be his salvation. He seemed to sit there, and even to feel the taste of the strong coffee. He saw people at the neighbouring tables, while Norby signed. The cigar-smoke lay in layers in the air, the waiters ran about with napkins under their arms, counted money, and drew corks. Glasses jingled, people laughed and made a noise, and conversation filled the café. And here sat the three, and signed their names. But was there actually no fourth man?He began to have a suspicion that there had been one more, just because he so earnestly wished it. But perhaps they had bought him too. This thought angered him. It should be brought to light. He went on seeing the hands writing, and the people round looking on. He even saw it when he slept; he saw it when he fixed his eyes upon any one he was speaking to. This was the scene that had tobe proved and it therefore appeared in a feverish light, the more helpless he felt himself. At last he really began to have a consciousness that there had actually been a fourth man close by. At first it was only like a shadow on the wall; but the shadow acquired eyes that looked on while Norby signed. It acquired a voice that said: “Yes, I saw it; but I will not interfere in the matter now.” Indeed? But he would have to. He should be brought to light, no matter how well he had been paid for not interfering. Wangen became more and more eager to produce him, as the trial pressed closer upon him.One day he had again met the tailor with the mad eyes, and lay awake at night. He then saw this unknown form more vividly than ever; it resisted and would not advance, but it would have to, by Jove it would! And although Wangen again and again felt impelled to cuff himself and say that he was mad, he could not but wish, hope and cling to this new possibility, which would perhaps save him at the last moment.One day he told his wife about it, and she became excited and encouraged him almost fiercely. As she questioned him more closely, and he had to answer with probable reasons, it came to be some one whom he did not yet quite recollect: it was several years ago. But to sit and talk about this person became a strengthening draught to them both. At last one evening, when they had oncemore been sitting and talking about it, and Wangen had been burrowing for some time in his memory, he suddenly sprang up, crying: “I have him!”“Henry!” exclaimed his wife with a little cry, also rising.“It was Rasmus Brodersen.”“Oh, thank God!” she panted, with her hands upon her breast. But Rasmus Brodersen was in America. Wangen believed, however, that one of the letters from him was on this subject.He got out his packets of letters, and began to read through all letters from this old school-friend of his. He did not find it that evening. It was possible it might have been lost.The excitement and tension of these hours made Fru Wangen quite ill. She wanted to sit up at night, but he wanted to wait until the following day; and as he seated himself with fresh packets of letters the next morning, he thought: “She’ll be beside herself if I don’t find anything to-day.”At about dinner-time she came in to him in the bedroom where he was sitting, and asked for the twentieth time! “Well?”“There should still be another packet somewhere or other,” he said, scratching his head; and he began to rummage every receptacle to find it.“It must be in this last packet!” she thought; and she determined to leave him in peace, and let him come himself and tell her. And while she waited for this salvation for them both, she suddenlyregained her pride and peace of mind. She went on her errands up to the farm, tall, with slow steps, bare-headed in the sun, her hair like a crown above the pale, beautiful face. Perhaps after all her husband’s enemies would be disappointed.That day was the first on which she had not thought: “I wonder how little Bias is now!” And as regarded her father—it was a great trouble and sorrow, but it no longer caused a bad conscience.At dinner-time she went and listened at his door. She heard the rustling of paper, but she dared not disturb him to say that dinner was ready, although she had got some unusually good meat to-day, that she knew he would like.At last he came out, quite pleased and satisfied. He had not found it yet, but he was so sure that he would have it before the evening. The decided promise nearly turned her head with joy. Sleepless nights and emotion had unhinged her, and while they dined she was childishly gay. Oh no, he should be let off having to tell her, if only it came to light that evening; and she drank to his health in water, and put her finger in his glass to change his water into wine for him; and while she laughed over this, the tears stood in her eyes.She was on thorns all the afternoon; but he had asked to be left alone, and he should be.At last he opened the door, and said, smiling: “Here it is, Karen!”Once more she started up with the cry of “Henry!”Then she ran to him, seized the paper from him, and began to run through it. Ah, yes! It was written a couple of years ago, and mentioned a good dinner, and further on—yes, there it was! There it was!She hung upon his neck, took his head between her hands and held it from her while she murmured: “Why don’t you kiss me? Why don’t you fly up to the ceiling? Oh, I shall faint!” She had to take the paper to read it once more. But—but—a cold shiver suddenly ran through her. This handwriting—it—it was so suspiciously like Wangen’s own. She looked quickly up at him, but she dared not say anything.“When I produce this in court,” he said, smiling, “I think it will be enough.”“Yes, of course, Henry.” She still laughed with delight, but was obliged to sit down. “What has he done?” she thought, sitting and gazing straight before her. “God help me!” Everything seemed to crumble to pieces, and she gazed into his guilt in everything, in everything! But this could not be! It must not, must not be! She might have made a mistake. She would not look at the letter any more, and she gave it back to him with a smile, and begged him to take good care of it. It might perhaps help him a little, only a little; for he must be let off.That evening, when they were in bed, she said: “You don’t write any more in the papers now, Henry, but I think it might very well come to theknowledge of the public how the pastor and Thora have behaved to us.”“Yes,” he said; “and it might be a good thing if it were read by the jurymen, too, before they went to pass verdict on me.”And they tried to sleep, with hands interclasped.
FRUWANGENhad been impatient for the demonstration to take place. The means that she had despised in her husband, she herself now felt a sudden desire to resort to, like a person in despair, who gropes about for anything he can lay hands on.
But after the day when the consul had secretly made the demonstrators drunk, so that they frightened the whole district with their behaviour, both Wangen and his wife saw that these allies of theirs had once more injured their cause; for the whole district was quite sure that Wangen was at the back of it all, and even Norby’s worst enemies began to feel sympathy for him and to turn from Wangen.
As the trial approached, Wangen’s fear of being left to stand alone became greater and greater. It was witnesses that he must have, and now he no longer relied upon witnesses, for he had a suspicion that every one hated him.
At night, when he lay and polished up his innocence, he saw more and more vividly that sceneat the Grand, when the document was signed. At first he had not been quite sure that it was there; but as he had said it once, it was most probable; and the oftener he said it, the more certain he became that it was there and nowhere else. He now even remembered the corner they had sat in. There were Norby, Haarstad and himself, and they were drinking coffee after dinner. But was there no one else? Suppose there had been some one else who had seen it all!
He conjured up this scene more and more vividly, as if it had some hidden power that might suddenly make its appearance and be his salvation. He seemed to sit there, and even to feel the taste of the strong coffee. He saw people at the neighbouring tables, while Norby signed. The cigar-smoke lay in layers in the air, the waiters ran about with napkins under their arms, counted money, and drew corks. Glasses jingled, people laughed and made a noise, and conversation filled the café. And here sat the three, and signed their names. But was there actually no fourth man?
He began to have a suspicion that there had been one more, just because he so earnestly wished it. But perhaps they had bought him too. This thought angered him. It should be brought to light. He went on seeing the hands writing, and the people round looking on. He even saw it when he slept; he saw it when he fixed his eyes upon any one he was speaking to. This was the scene that had tobe proved and it therefore appeared in a feverish light, the more helpless he felt himself. At last he really began to have a consciousness that there had actually been a fourth man close by. At first it was only like a shadow on the wall; but the shadow acquired eyes that looked on while Norby signed. It acquired a voice that said: “Yes, I saw it; but I will not interfere in the matter now.” Indeed? But he would have to. He should be brought to light, no matter how well he had been paid for not interfering. Wangen became more and more eager to produce him, as the trial pressed closer upon him.
One day he had again met the tailor with the mad eyes, and lay awake at night. He then saw this unknown form more vividly than ever; it resisted and would not advance, but it would have to, by Jove it would! And although Wangen again and again felt impelled to cuff himself and say that he was mad, he could not but wish, hope and cling to this new possibility, which would perhaps save him at the last moment.
One day he told his wife about it, and she became excited and encouraged him almost fiercely. As she questioned him more closely, and he had to answer with probable reasons, it came to be some one whom he did not yet quite recollect: it was several years ago. But to sit and talk about this person became a strengthening draught to them both. At last one evening, when they had oncemore been sitting and talking about it, and Wangen had been burrowing for some time in his memory, he suddenly sprang up, crying: “I have him!”
“Henry!” exclaimed his wife with a little cry, also rising.
“It was Rasmus Brodersen.”
“Oh, thank God!” she panted, with her hands upon her breast. But Rasmus Brodersen was in America. Wangen believed, however, that one of the letters from him was on this subject.
He got out his packets of letters, and began to read through all letters from this old school-friend of his. He did not find it that evening. It was possible it might have been lost.
The excitement and tension of these hours made Fru Wangen quite ill. She wanted to sit up at night, but he wanted to wait until the following day; and as he seated himself with fresh packets of letters the next morning, he thought: “She’ll be beside herself if I don’t find anything to-day.”
At about dinner-time she came in to him in the bedroom where he was sitting, and asked for the twentieth time! “Well?”
“There should still be another packet somewhere or other,” he said, scratching his head; and he began to rummage every receptacle to find it.
“It must be in this last packet!” she thought; and she determined to leave him in peace, and let him come himself and tell her. And while she waited for this salvation for them both, she suddenlyregained her pride and peace of mind. She went on her errands up to the farm, tall, with slow steps, bare-headed in the sun, her hair like a crown above the pale, beautiful face. Perhaps after all her husband’s enemies would be disappointed.
That day was the first on which she had not thought: “I wonder how little Bias is now!” And as regarded her father—it was a great trouble and sorrow, but it no longer caused a bad conscience.
At dinner-time she went and listened at his door. She heard the rustling of paper, but she dared not disturb him to say that dinner was ready, although she had got some unusually good meat to-day, that she knew he would like.
At last he came out, quite pleased and satisfied. He had not found it yet, but he was so sure that he would have it before the evening. The decided promise nearly turned her head with joy. Sleepless nights and emotion had unhinged her, and while they dined she was childishly gay. Oh no, he should be let off having to tell her, if only it came to light that evening; and she drank to his health in water, and put her finger in his glass to change his water into wine for him; and while she laughed over this, the tears stood in her eyes.
She was on thorns all the afternoon; but he had asked to be left alone, and he should be.
At last he opened the door, and said, smiling: “Here it is, Karen!”
Once more she started up with the cry of “Henry!”Then she ran to him, seized the paper from him, and began to run through it. Ah, yes! It was written a couple of years ago, and mentioned a good dinner, and further on—yes, there it was! There it was!
She hung upon his neck, took his head between her hands and held it from her while she murmured: “Why don’t you kiss me? Why don’t you fly up to the ceiling? Oh, I shall faint!” She had to take the paper to read it once more. But—but—a cold shiver suddenly ran through her. This handwriting—it—it was so suspiciously like Wangen’s own. She looked quickly up at him, but she dared not say anything.
“When I produce this in court,” he said, smiling, “I think it will be enough.”
“Yes, of course, Henry.” She still laughed with delight, but was obliged to sit down. “What has he done?” she thought, sitting and gazing straight before her. “God help me!” Everything seemed to crumble to pieces, and she gazed into his guilt in everything, in everything! But this could not be! It must not, must not be! She might have made a mistake. She would not look at the letter any more, and she gave it back to him with a smile, and begged him to take good care of it. It might perhaps help him a little, only a little; for he must be let off.
That evening, when they were in bed, she said: “You don’t write any more in the papers now, Henry, but I think it might very well come to theknowledge of the public how the pastor and Thora have behaved to us.”
“Yes,” he said; “and it might be a good thing if it were read by the jurymen, too, before they went to pass verdict on me.”
And they tried to sleep, with hands interclasped.