 INTRODUCTION TO THE POWER OF A LIE by Johan Boyer, translated from the Norwegian by Jesse Muir. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lee Smalley. This is a great book. I can have no hesitation whatever in saying that. Rarely, in reading a modern novel, have I felt so strong a sense of reality, and so deep an impression of motive. It would be difficult to praise too highly the power and reticence of this story. When I compare it with other Norwegian novels, even the best and by the best known writers, I feel that it transcends them in high seriousness, and in the almost relentless strength with which its dominant idea is carried through. Its atmosphere is often wonderful, sometimes startling, and its structure is without any fault that has betrayed itself to me. Of isolated scenes of beauty and pathos, it has not a view, and its closeness to nature and little things fills its pages with surprises. All its characters bear the stamp of truth, and some of them are deeply impressive, especially perhaps that of Frøv Vangen, the tragic figure of a woman never to be forgotten as long as memory lasts. Its theme is a noble one, that an evil act is irrevocable, that no retraction and no penitence can wipe it out, that its consequences, and the consequences of its consequences, must go on and on forever. This may not be a new thing to say, but it is a fine thing to have finally said. I might easily dwell on the passages, and they are many, which have moved me to the highest admiration, the passages with the old pensioners, the passages, especially the last of them, at night and in bed, between the accused man and his great-hearted wife. But this would be a long task, and I am compelled to address myself to a part of my duty which may appear to be less gracious. When I ask myself what is the effect of this book, its net result, its ultimate teaching, I am confronted by a number of questions which I find it hard to answer with enthusiasm. This is the story of a man who signs his name as Bond for a friend, and then, when the friend becomes bankrupt, denies that he has done so, and accuses the friend of forgery. In the end, the innocent man is committed to prison, and the guilty one is banqueted by his fellow townsmen. So far the subject of the book cannot antagonize anybody, that the right may be worsted in the battle of life, and the wrong may triumph, is a fact of tremendous significance, capable of treatment as great, as helpful, and as stimulating as that of the Book of Job. It is against the moral drawn by the author from this fact of life that some of us may find reason to rebel. If I read this wonderful book aright, it says as its final word, that a life of deception does not always weather up and harden the human heart, but sometimes expands and softens it, that a man may pass from lie to lie until he is convinced that he is as white as an angel, and, having betrayed himself into a belief in his innocence, that he may become generous, unselfish, and noble. On the other hand, this book says, if I do not misunderstand it, that the sense of innocence in an innocent man may be corrupting and debasing, that to prove himself guiltless, a man may make himself guilty, and that nearly every good and true impulse of the heart may be whittled away by the suspicion and abuse of the world. I confess, though I am here to introduce this book to English readers, and do so with gladness and pride, that this is teaching of which I utterly disapprove. It conflicts with all my experience of life to think that a man may commit forgery, as Vangan does, to prove himself innocent of forgery, and that a man may become unselfish, as Norby becomes unselfish, by practicing the most selfish duplicity. If I had to believe this, I should also have to believe that there is no knowledge of right and wrong in the heart of man. No sense of sin, that conscience is only a juggling fiend, and that the presiding power in the world not only is not God, but the devil. I hold it to be entirely within the right of the artist, to show by what machinations of the demon of circumstance the bad man may be raised up to honour, and the good man brought down to shame. But I also hold it to be the first and highest duty of the artist, to show that victory may be worse than defeat, success more to be feared than failure, and that it is better to lie with the just man on his dung hill, than to sit with the evil one on his throne. That is, in my view, what great art is for, to lift us above and beyond the transient fact, the mere semblance and form of things, and show the essence of truth which life so often hides. Without it I find no function for art except that of the photographer, however faithful, the reproducer and transcriber of just what the eye can see. All the same I recognise the plausibility of quite other views, and I know that the opinions both on art and life of the author of this book, so far as they have revealed themselves to me, are such as receive the warm support of some of the wisest and best minds of our time. It does not surprise me to hear that the Academy of France has lately crowned the power of a lie, for both its morality and its excelling power are of the kind which at the present moment appeal most strongly to the French mind. That they will also appeal to a certain side of the Anglo-Saxon mind I confidently believe, and I am no less sure that however a reader may revolt against certain aspects of the teaching of this fine book, he will find that it stirs and touches him, and makes him think. Hall Kane, Isle of Man, July 1908. End of introduction. Part 1, Chapter 1 of The Power of a Lie by Johann Boyer, translated by Jesse Muir. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The night was falling as Knut Norby drove homewards in his sledge from a meeting of the school committee. The ice on Lake Muzen had not been safe for some little time, and he had promised his wife to go round by the high road. But various annoyances in the course of the day had irritated the old man, and down by the craggy promontory he suddenly tightened the reins and turned off onto the ice. It has borne others already to-day, he thought, and there is no reason why it shouldn't bear me. The horse pricked up its ears, and stepped timidly over the rough ice, but Knut roused it with a smart touch of the whip, and the sledge bounded from hummock to hummock until it reached the smooth shining surface of the lake. When one annoyance follows close upon another, the feeling induced is like that of a blow falling upon a place where there is a wound already. First of all, today, the old man had been outvoted in a school committee matter. It was against that wretched parish schoolmaster. When, in the midst of this annoyance, his son-in-law came and asked for a fresh advance upon his inheritance, it seemed to the old man like downright extortion. But when, an hour later, he heard that Von Gyn, the merchant, had failed, the couple of thousand cronas for which he himself was liable, assumed the proportions of an overwhelming calamity. I shall soon be keeping half the parish, he thought. People really seem to be doing their very best to rob me of my last chilling. The horse was a long black stallion, with a red-brown wavy mane and easy motion. The old man himself was almost hidden in a great bearskin coat, with the collar turned up. The darkness was beginning to fall out on the ice, and one by one lights appeared in the farms upon the snow-covered country surrounding the bay. And how, when my wife gets to know of this, he thought, as the sledge-bells jingled, and the ice flew from the horse's hoofs. He had put his name to Von Gyn's paper without her knowledge. It must have been about three or four years ago, and the guarantee was to help Von Gyn to obtain larger credit with a merchant in the capital. And even earlier than that he had promised his wife not to stand shorty for any one at all, for they had lost quite enough. And now, how in the world did he manage to fool me that time, thought Knut, but even the wisest men have their weak moments when they are good and kind. They were both in town, and Von Gyn had stood a good dinner at the Carl Johann Hotel. And afterwards this happened. That had been an expensive dinner. And now, with the feeling of dread at the prospect of having to stand shame-faced before his wife, and confess that he had broken his word, Norby felt a rising dislike to Von Gyn, who was, of course, to blame for it all. He knew what he was about, that fellow with his dinner. And involuntarily the old man began to recall a number of bad things about Von Gyn. There was a kind of self-defense in feeling enraged with him. The shadows of the fir trees grew black, and the stars came out, while a fiery streak in the west glowed through the darkness and threw a glare upon the ice. It shone upon the plating of the harness and sledge, and cast long shadows of man and horse that steadily kept pace with their owners. Scarcely a living being was to be seen on the desolate expanse. A solitary fisherman was visible at his hole far out, where the red reflection met the pointed shadows of the mountains, and out at the promontory might be seen a little dot of a man moving out from the land, dragging a sledge after him. And Hurliff's son of Rood, won't he be delighted? Norby, being himself of a combative disposition and hard in his dealings with others, imagined that a number of persons were always on the watch to pick a quarrel with him. If he did a good stroke of business in timber, his first feeling was one of satisfaction as he thought, how they will envy me. And in unfortunate transactions he did not care a wrap about the money he lost. He was only troubled at the thought that it was now the turn of other people to exalt. He was now out in the middle of the ice, and had passed from the fiery reflection into the dark shadows. The horse heard sledge-bells near the shore, and without slackening its pace, raised its head and nade. Suppose the ice were to give way, thought the old man with a cold shiver of apprehension. His father, a wealthy old peasant, was once driving a heavy load of polished granite blocks across the lake. When the ice began to give loud reports and to bend under the weight, the old man, unwilling to throw off any of the valuable blocks in order to lighten the load, knelt down and prayed, If only thou wilt let me get safely to land, I'll send ten bushels of my best barley to the pastor. He got to the land, but when he stood on the shore, he looked back across the ice with a chuckle, saying, I had him there, and the pastor got no barley. The sledge-bells rang out their clear, bright, silvery tones, but all the time the old man sat thinking the ice was giving way. If I go through, it will probably be because I didn't want to go to the sacrament next Sunday, he thought, for when he left home he had half-promised his wife to call at the clerks and give in their names for the sacrament. But at the last moment the old pagan had come to life within him, and he had driven past the clerk's house. It's against my conscience, he had said to himself, I don't believe in the sacrament, scarcely in the redemption even. There were two different men in Knut Norby. One of these had acquired ideals at school at the parsonage, in his travels, and from all kinds of books. But when, on the death of his father, Knut had had to take over the farm, he had little by little developed some traits of his father's character. The old man still seemed present among the farm-hands, in the bank-books, in the great forest, in unsettled bargains, and above all, in the Norby family's standing in the countryside. It seemed natural to Knut to continue to be a part of his father, and often, when he was about to settle some new timber transaction, he would suddenly feel as if he actually were that father, and would involuntarily see with his father's eyes, use his father's artifices, and have his father's conscience. The other Knut Norby busied himself with books, and with political and religious questions, whenever the first had nothing to do. I ought to have given in our names for that sacrament all the same, he said to himself, when he saw that he was still a long way from the shore. It's all very well with ideas and that sort of thing, but it's not at all certain there'll be enough when we come before the judgment seat. However, there would still be time to send word to the clerk, if only he got safely to land. At last he reached the firm frosty high-road, and breathed freely once more. He let the horse walk, as it was in a perspiration, but had wanted to get home to its stable, and soon broke into a trot again. In the wood the sledge-bells sounded loud and clear. The fir trees stretched their snow-laden branches overhead, leaving here and there a glimpse of the starry sky above. Norby was now passing farms with lights in the windows. The largest of them, standing up on the hill, was Rudd, which Norby's enemies maintained, was larger than Norby's place. It was here that his great rival lived, the wealthy Maud's Herlufsen of Rudd. Norby could see this farm from his own sitting-room window, and as time went on it became impossible for him to think of Herlufsen, without seeing in his mind's eye his farm-buildings, the woods around, the hill behind, the whole thing like a troll with its head towards the sky. And it was all Maud's Herlufsen sitting there and keeping watch upon Norby. And now, when he hears this, how he will exult! His worries, which had vanished in the possibility of danger out on the ice, now returned, and he recollected having seen Vangan intoxicated on several occasions in town. And that's the man I've helped! At last he turned up an avenue, at the end of which could be seen the dark mass of the Norby buildings against the fur-clad slope. In the large dwelling-house there were lights in only two or three of the windows. A large black dog came bounding towards Knut with delighted barks, leaping up in front of the horse which snapped at it. The stable man came with a lantern, and held the horse while Norby, stiff with sitting so long, got slowly out of the sledge. Beams of light flickered across the snow, from lanterns passing in and out of the doors, of the cowsheds and stables that surrounded the large farmyard on three sides, to the left of the barn a separate little dwelling-house, in which lived as pensioners, old, disabled servants, whom Norby would not allow to become a burden upon the parish. Put a cloth over the horse, then don't give him water just yet, said he to the stable man, as, whip in hand, he tramped up the steps to the house, followed by the dog. Norby was proud, with the peasant women, because she looked down upon them, and with the wives of the local authorities, because she was afraid they might look down upon her. Oh, of course, she would say with her own peculiar smile, we who live in the country know nothing at all. You are late, she said, when Knut came in. She was sitting with her knitting in the little room between the kitchen and the large sitting-rooms. She wore a little cap upon her silvery hair, like the pastor's wife, and her face was refined and handsome, with a firm mouth and a prominent chin. The school meeting was a lengthy one, said Knut, as he stood rubbing his hands in front of the stove. How did it go? she asked, meaning the matter that she knew Knut had wanted to carry in the school committee that day. It went, of course, as badly as it could go, said Knut, turning his back to the stove. He thought he saw a sarcastic gleam in his wife's eye when he faced her, and his anger rose. Was it not enough to have had strangers worrying him today, without having his own people begin to? Of course, she thought him a poor creature. And what would she say when she heard about Vangan? It seems to me you always lose Knut, she said, sticking a knitting needle into her hair. Always? No, indeed I do not. She knew that tone and added adroitly, as she took the knitting needle out again and went on knitting. Yes, you are always so much too good, while those who don't possess a penny and don't pay a farthing in taxes govern us and order us about, and we have just to say thank you and pay. This was a healing balm, as she gave expression to the very sentiment that Norby himself was accustomed to propound. I suppose you've heard what has happened to Vangan, she said, smiling grimly at her knitting. She knows it, then, confound it, thought the old man. He was standing in front of the stove with his hands behind him, black-bearded, bald, with his blue-surge coat buttoned tightly across his broad chest. His large head drooped wearily upon his breast, and he glanced at his wife from behind his eyebrows. He did not feel equal to any explanations this evening. He had been out in the cold for several hours, and the warmth of the house made him feel increasingly heavy and sleepy. Yes, indeed, he said with a yawn, who would have thought of such a thing happening? She gave a little scornful laugh. It seems to me you have prophesied it often enough of late, she said, but you may be glad you've had nothing to do with him. She doesn't know, thought Norby, with a feeling of relief. Yes, he growled, in an uncertain tone of voice, his eyes dropping once more. He was not equal to either the sacrament matter or Vangan this evening. Hearing at that moment a well-known laugh in the adjoining room, he took the opportunity of slipping out. When he entered the next room, his daughter-in-law was sitting by a steaming bath in the middle of the floor, occupied in undressing her two-year-old son, preparatory to giving him his bath. The old man paused at the door, and his tired face suddenly lit up. Who is that? asked the fair-haired young mother, looking at the child. The boy looked at his grandfather with large round eyes, and laughed a little shyly. But no sooner was his vest drawn over his head than he wriggled down to the floor to run to Norby. Ungaining his liberty, however, he discovered the fact that he was naked, and this was even more interesting than his grandfather. He began to run backwards and forwards upon the floor, slapping his little body and laughing. Then he caught sight of his small breasts, and touched them with his forefinger. Then evaded once more the grasp of his mother, who tried to catch him, and laughed in triumph as he escaped. The old man was obliged to sit down and laugh too. Well, I shall go and get something good from grandfather, said his mother, and in a twinkling the boy had climbed upon the old man's knee, and began an investigation of all his pockets, until a packet of sweets was brought to light. The boy's name was Knut, of course. His father, Norby's eldest son, had been thrown from his sledge and killed when driving home from Lilyhammer Fair before the boy was born, and ever since the old man had had a horror of strong drink. A secret worry very quickly assumes the dimensions of an actual misfortune. Just because the old man was tired and wanted to be left in peace, he felt the explanation he must have with his wife to be doubly painful. With his grandchild, he always became a child himself. But this evening he could see nothing but Vangan all the time, and this irritated him. While he sat and smiled at the boy, he suddenly glanced aside, as much as to say, Can not you leave me in peace even here? Vangan penetrated, as it were, into the old man's holy of holies, and Norby wanted to turn him out. He began to look upon Vangan as his enemy, because he had brought dissension into his house, and because Norby had been guilty of a little deception towards his wife, which would now have to be unveiled. Now it's time for the bath, said the mother, taking up her boy, and while he splashed and screamed in the water, the old man stood as he always did, and laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. But all the time he had a dim vision of Vangan's brick fields, and remembered how last autumn Vangan had instituted an eight hours working day. It was just like the fool. It would be a nice thing to be a farmer if such mad ideas spread and made labor conditions even worse than they were. Was it to be wondered at if such men went bankrupt? But it wasn't his fault if Vangan said more than he meant on that subject, when it was a question of inducing people to stand surety for him. And the old man began to pace the floor. Won't grandfather say good night to us? said his daughter-in-law, as the old man went to the door, as if to rush out in a rage. Norby woke up. The boy was ready for bed, and was stretching out his arms towards him. The family had supper in the little room, between the kitchen and the large rooms. Since the new house had been built, they had been literally homeless, for none of them were at ease in the large, sparely furnished rooms, and they were too much cramped for space in the little room. The hanging lamp with its glass pendants shed its light upon the tea-things and the white cloth, and a large copper kettle shown upon the old sideboard. Five people sat down to dinner. There were the two daughters, Ingeborg and Laura, who sat one on each side of their father. Opposite him sat his wife, with a silver chain about her neck, and a reserved expression on her face, and her daughter-in-law by her side. They still had one son living, but he was in Christiania studying philology. I must get you to put out my forest clothes this evening, said Norby to Ingeborg. I must go and see to the timber-felling in the morning. Ingeborg was the good angel of the house. Her fiancee, a young doctor, had been found dead in his bed three days before their wedding, and since then she had never been the same. Although she was not much more than five and twenty, her hair was sprinkled with gray, her cheeks were hollow, and her eyes had a timid faraway look in them. She was worrying already as to what would become of her when her parents died, and in order to run no risk of being left with a bad conscience, she was constantly occupied in attending to their wants, was the first up in the morning, was always busy in the kitchen and larder, shed tears of despair when she had forgotten anything, and in spite of all this thought herself quite useless in the house. Do you eat as inelegantly when you are in town as you do here? said the mother to Laura, looking sternly at her. Laura looked a little embarrassed, and tried to throw an obstinate lock of hair off her rosy face, but she was not long in regaining her cheerfulness. She went to school in town, and now began to talk about her old teacher and her mincing ways, her snuff-box and her inky fingers. Dear children! she mimicked, making an exceedingly funny face, and pretending to take a pinch of snuff. Do sit still and don't give me so much trouble! Her sister-in-law laughed, showing as she did so the absence of a front tooth. Her mother could not help smiling, and even the old man glanced merrily at the lively girl. I will write to him to-morrow, he said to himself, as he emptied his cup. I am sure it was not more than two thousand, and if there is more When at last he got into bed in his room on the first floor, he put out the light on the table by his bedside, and yawned wearily. I'll pretend to be asleep when she comes up. He said to himself, and then I shall be spared both sacrament and guarantee for this evening. As he lay looking at the red glow from the half-closed draft of the stove, the door opened, and Laura crept softly in. She seated herself on the edge of her father's bed, stroked his beard two or three times, and then confided to him in a whisper that her monthly account was in terrible disorder. Her mother had not gone over it yet, but she might ask for it any day now. And you think you can cheat me as much as you like, do you? said the old man from his pillows. The child withdrew her hand from his beard in some confusion, but he caught it, and as he felt how small and soft it was, he said in a sleepy voice, You must come into my office to-morrow, and we shall see. The girl stroked his beard once more, and laid her cheek against his, for she knew now that her deficit would be made good. She had scarcely gone when the door opened again. The old man hastily closed his eyes, but it was Ingeborg with the clothes he had asked for upon her arm. Isn't someone crossing the yard with a lantern? asked her father, seeing a light upon the blind. Yes, it's the dairymaid, said Ingeborg. She's expecting a calf to-night. And now Ingeborg, too, came and sat upon his bed. There's something I must tell you, Father. She began softly. When I was at the post office today, I heard that lawyer Basting had been declaring that you would suffer too by this failure. I didn't dare to tell Mother until I had spoken to you about it. The old man had made up his mind to be left in peace for this evening, so he said, Poor Basting, he's always got something or other to chatter about. I was sure it was untrue, said Ingeborg, rising, and after drawing the blind farther down she quietly left the room again. The next morning, before Norby rose, his wife asked him whether he had remembered to call at the clerks. Upon his saying that he had not, a scene ensued, and Marit left the room, slamming the door behind her, and threatening to go to the sacrament alone. Norby lay in bed longer than usual, for when Marit was thoroughly roused, as she was today, she would sometimes not utter a word for a week at a time, and then neither of them was willing to stoop low enough to be the first to bridge the gulf that separated them and break the silence. When at last he came down and went out into the yard, one of the men came up to him and asked with a knowing smile whether it was really true that Vangan had forged somebody's signature. It would be very like him if he had, said Norby, looking up at the sky to see if it were weather for tree-felling. The man who was busyed in shoveling the snow from the road leaned upon his spade, and looking a scance at the old man continued, We've heard that it's your name. He's been boasting that it's Norby himself that is surety for him, but now we hear from the house servants that it's a lie. It's no business of that idiot's anyhow, thought the old man, and passed on without answering. But on going round by the barn, where threshing was in progress, he had the same question of Vangan's forgery put to him. He still made no answer, but plunged his hand into the grain at the back of the machine, whereupon an old laborer said, as he scratched his head, Well, well, haven't I always said that man would see the inside of a prison some day? This, however, made Norby a little uneasy. If it comes out that I have circulated a report like that, he thought, he can make it unpleasant for me, and give people enough to talk about. He was on the point of nipping the report in the bud by explaining matters, when he caught sight through the barn door of the smith going along the road with a sack upon his back. Has the smith been in here? He asked. Yes, was the answer, from several voices amidst the rustling of straw in the half-darkness. Then he knows it too, thought Norby, and by the evening it will be all over the parish. I must stop the smith. Why, he was to have come and done the new sledges, he said aloud, as a pretext for rushing out and hastening down the road after the smith. The snow plow had not been driven along the road since the fall during the night, and it was heavy walking and still heavier running. The farther the old man ran, the angrier he became. Here am I running like a madman, he thought, and all because I've helped that rogue. Ola! Ola! he shouted, waving his hand. But the sack on the smith's back could neither see nor hear, and the old man had to go on running. The tail must be stopped, or he might have to pay dearly for it. At last the smith stopped, because he met a man on ski. But before Norby came up to them, the man had gone on down the hill. What's this I hear? said the smith, advancing a few steps towards Norby. That bungen is a nice fellow, he is. He's fleeced me, too. I've just got a bill from him for a sack of rye flour that I paid for down. It's a lie, cried Norby, thinking of the forgery, and breathless after his run. A lie? No, indeed it's not. It's as true as I'm standing here, said the smith, thinking of his flour. But now the old man recollected the man on ski. Did you tell that man about Vangen? he asked. Yes, indeed I did, said the smith. Ah, there are bad times these. Norby wiped the perspiration from his face, removing his cap and wiping the crown of his head, as he turned and gazed after the man on ski, who was now gaily scutting down towards the fjord, raising a cloud of snow as he went. And that story was flying down with him. Knut Norby stood there utterly helpless, gazing after him. It's no use now making a fool of myself either to the smith or the man, he said to himself, for the devil himself's gone off with the report, and I'm in a pretty fix. You were calling to me, weren't you? said the smith. Was there anything you wanted? Yes, there was, cried the old man, turning upon him angrily. Confound you, you've promised for a month's past to come and fix up my sledges. But you're a rascal, that's what you are. You owe me money and you won't pay. I'll set the bailiff upon you this very day. And Norby set off homewards, leaving the smith standing with his sack on his back, staring after him. This forgery must have made him daft, he thought, as he turned and went slowly on his way. End of part one, chapter two Part one, chapter three, of The Power of a Lie by Johann Boyer, translated by Jesse Muir. This Lieberbach's recording is in the public domain. As Knut plotted homewards, he felt like a man whose hat has been blown off his head and who cannot find out which way it has gone. He could not conceive how this rumor about Vangan's forgery had arisen, but at the same time he felt that in reality he himself was responsible for it. It was, of course, the womenfolk who had misunderstood him yesterday evening when he was tired and wanted to be quiet, and then it had gone by way of the kitchen to the farmhands. And by the evening the whole parish would be full of the story, for it would be quite a tidbit to carry about. And Vangan? Of course he would take the opportunity to bring an action against Norby. He almost wished he had had a rifle in his hand so that he could have shot the man on ski who was flying along with that confounded story. If he had not existed Norby would have had the hard task of going to his men and saying, This is a misunderstanding about Vangan. I am actually surety for him. He has not forged my signature. But now there would be the whole parish to go to and the thought of it made him furious. He first turned his steps towards the kitchen entrance to give the maid-servants a scolding, but stopped halfway across the yard. If there's going to be any unpleasantness over this, he thought, I shall have to bear the brunt of it after all, and I suppose I'm master in my house. Nothing came of his projected forest excursion that day. He went instead to the stables and threatened to discharge the stable man because a young horse was badly curried. Then he suddenly made his appearance in the barn just when the men were taking a rest and gave them a talking to. Finally he went into his office and began to write dunning letters to a number of his debtors. I shall be fined, of course, and shall perhaps have to make a retraction in the newspaper, was his thought all the time he was writing. This is all one gets for helping such good for nothings, domestic scenes, loss of money, and, in addition to that, you make a fool of yourself and lose your good name. The door opened and, to his great astonishment, Marit entered. If she was going to break the silence already, something unusual must be at the bottom of it. She had better not come to and worry him about this. She stood erect, with both hands hanging down, and her chin thrust forward, and began in a vibrating voice. I can see you intend to keep this from me, but I just want to ask you whether you are going to report him to the bailiff. Knut sprang up, and stood with legs apart, and his hands behind his back. To the bailiff, he asked, eyeing her over the spectacles he used for writing. No indeed, I'm not quite crazy. But Marit was already incensed at his having failed her in the matter of the sacrament, and she now suspected that something else was being kept from her. She came a step nearer. You won't! she cried, her voice trembling still more. The old man began to breathe hard. Now that he was angry, her self-importance seemed both ridiculous and irritating. He would never think of confessing his misdeeds to this impertinent creature. What are you doing here? he cried, throwing back his head and glaring at her through his spectacles. I want you to go to the bailiff. Leave the room, I will be left in peace. But she laughed scornfully. Oh, I see you would rather pay, than pay even if your children hadn't a rag to their backs. And after this any rogue can make use of your name, and you'll pay, or—and she laughed again and looked sharply at him. Perhaps you have backed his bill? Yes, I shouldn't wonder if you're guilty. The word guilty sounded as if she suspected him of murder or theft. He became purple with anger, but could find no words to express his indignation. Then he caught his breath, raised his arm as if to strike, and pushed her out of the room. Some time had elapsed when he heard sledge-bells in the yard, and, looking out, he saw that it was Marit driving off. Oh, indeed, they were beginning to take the horses out of the stable without asking his leave, were they? The next thing she'll take will be my britches," he said to himself, beginning to pace the floor as his habit was when angry. A little later he heard the bells returning. He did not look out, but lay down upon the leather sofa and closed his eyes. Soon after he heard the well-known steps in the passage, the door opened, and Marit entered. But the old man lay still with his eyes closed. She began at once while she untied the strings of her bonnet. I know quite well you're man enough to order me to leave the room once more, but as you're not man enough to look after your own affairs, I shall have to do it for you, and as sure as I mistress in this house, this shall not pass, so now I've been to the bailiff. Knut rose slowly, pushing the rug aside. He gazed at her, opened his mouth, and gazed. At last he passed his hand through his beard, and then over his bald head, and said in an uncomfortably ordinary tone of voice, Oh, have you been to the bailiff, Marit? Yes, when there are no men on the farm, the women have to go out to work, she said. I didn't come quite empty-handed when I became mistress of Norby, and I didn't mean to let you give my share to tramps and beggars. Knut turned pale, but once more passed his hand over his bald crown and through his beard, and tried to laugh. She could hardly have wounded the capable Knut Norby more deeply, for he had about doubled their fortune. Marit now deemed it wisest to withdraw, but she closed the door slowly behind her, and walked with slow firm step. Knut remained sitting, and again passed his hand over his head two or three times. For the first time in his life Norby thought of going after his wife and thrashing her, for domestic peace was at an end anyhow. He rose and began to wander about with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. Now and again he stood still, as if to make quite certain whether this was not a dream from which he might awake. But there stood the outhouses right enough, painted red, and a magpie let itself slip down the sloping roof, and left a farrow in the snow, and there hung Johann Sverderup over the writing-table, and he himself stood there and still had his forest clothes on. No, it must be true, after all, that his wife had been to the bailiff with this. The floor seemed to become insecure beneath his feet. The office became too small, and he had to go into the large corner room, where he began to walk about with his hands in his pockets. Here there was mahogany furniture, and there were large gilt-framed mirrors and other splendors, but now it seemed to Norby, as if they were his no longer. He stood still again and again to wonder, Is it you Norby, or is it not? He stood at the window in the white light reflected from the snow, and looked out at the half-buried garden. But it was not the trees he saw. He saw himself being driven down the hill by the bailiff on his way to prison for having brought a false accusation. He turned suddenly round and went resolutely towards the door, but stopped with his hand on the handle. He felt that it was utterly impossible to go to his wife now and tell her the truth, in the first place because he felt more inclined to thrash her than in the second because he did not know how she would take such a communication. She would perhaps only faint with rage at having run like a fool to the village, but she might also do something worse. He mounted the stairs to his room in order to change his clothes. He must go to the bailiff, but when his trousers were off and he was about to pull on his blue surge ones, his hands dropped and he sighed heavily. Now isn't all this a sin and a shame, he thought. First I help the man out of kindness, then I have to pay up, and there's a row in the house, and then I run about and make a fool of myself. And now I was actually going off to hold up my wife to the ridicule of the whole parish. No, that is really going too far. He remained sitting with the new trousers in his hand. Yesterday's unpleasant picture of Vangan had become still more unpleasant now, for in reality he was to blame for all this today too, and for that man he was ready to. The old man suddenly threw down the surge trousers and drew on the old ones, for if he did withdraw his accusation from the bailiff, he would still have to answer for the report. And go to Vangan and eat humble pie? To ask pardon of that man? Never, never would he do it. No, there must be some back way out of this. He would think it over. Knut Norby suddenly found himself in a misfortune for which he himself was not exactly to blame, but for which he had to bear the responsibility. He did not therefore feel the responsibility to be quite so heavy as it otherwise would have been. All the misery that had come upon his house today was thanks to his kindness in helping that fellow. It was Vangan's fault altogether. When the old man was sitting in the little room at dusk, he heard little Knut laughing in the next room, and rose to go into him, but stopped at the door. He was not equal to seeing little Knut today. Perhaps he had a hand in bringing your father to such a bad end too, he said to himself, thinking of the child. At any rate, Vangan was at Lilahammer Fair that day. One day went by, and then another. The old man was on thorns, but every time he thought of changing his clothes and going to the bailiff, he half unconsciously began to conjure up a picture of Vangan, to remember bad things about him, to place him in a ridiculous or an odious light, to impute to him all kinds of repulsive failings. And this gave him fresh courage to put off going, and he felt it more and more impossible that he should humble himself to such a man. And suppose that Vangan was to blame for his son's death. Although this possibility made the old man sick with anger, he was still uneasy in his mind. The witness, Jorgen Barsta, was dead. It was true. But Knut Norby would not disown his signature. There must be some back way out of it. from Christiania, and with his bag in his hand, hurried homewards. He exchanged greetings with no one. His failure would ruin half the parish, and he knew that people stood and looked after him, as they would after a rogue they would like to thrash. He was a man of about five and thirty, tall and spare, with a reddish beard and a refined, youthful face. But he walked like an old man, his going humbly from one merchant to another in Christiania had been in vain, and he dreaded going home, because his wife must at last be told the truth. Henry Vangan was the son of a magistrate who had misappropriated the public funds. He had tried many occupations, but was an agriculturist when he married the daughter of a wealthy farmer. Her father, who had long opposed the marriage, made it a condition that she should have the control of her own property. But when Vangan started the Brickfields, he not only obtained his wife's confidence and money, but he was so eloquent and enthusiastic that he also induced her father and brother and many others to entrust him with their money. And now, when he came to the end of the bridge, where a number of cottages are dotted over the hill, he met a bent figure in a faded overcoat and fur cap, with a toothless mouth and a pair of gold spectacles upon a prominent red nose. Vangan stopped, opened his bag, and took out a bottle wrapped in paper. It was a commission he had had in town. The man with the spectacles smiled at the bottle, as at something very precious, and put it under his arm. I say, he said with a smile, I've got a little piece of news for you. But Vangan was gone. He was thinking of his wife, who was expecting their fourth child. Could she bear what he had to tell her? The other followed him, however, and took hold of his arm. Oh, but you must wait and hear the news, he said, and laughed a little spitefully. Come in a moment and taste the purchase. No, I can't just now, said Vangan, hurrying on. Vangan had unfortunately more than once allowed himself to be tempted by this inebriate consul from Christiania, whose relations boarded him here in the country. But now he was determined to be thoroughly sober when he got home. The elder man still hung upon his arm, however, and spoke so persuasively that he at length allowed himself to be drawn into his little house. At the window of the low room they entered, which smelt of whiskey and tobacco, sat a lean, tailor-like figure playing patience. This was the third member of the whiskey drinking trio, an old lawyer crippled with rheumatism and long since passed work. He went by the name of The Late Future Prime Minister. Sit down, said the consul, but Vangan remained standing with his bag in his hand. Shall we have a game at cards? said the man at the window, smiling in his white beard. Hold your tongue, said the consul, busying himself with the rinsing of two glasses. We're first going to have a glass of three stars. No, I won't have any, said Vangan, but what was it that I positively must hear? Just you sit down, my boy, said the consul, chuckling as he held up a glass to the light. Upon my word, the world is worse than I thought. This meant a good deal, for the consul was not accustomed to judge people leniently. What is it, said Vangan, has anything happened to my wife? The consul placed the glasses on the table and fixed his little venomous eyes upon Vangan while his red nose wrinkled in a smile. Oh, well, so many things happen, he said. Now, for instance, what is your opinion of the great man at Norby? Norby? I really don't know. I've got enough to do to look after myself. But I must go. Wait, said the consul, Norby must have a spite against you for, to tell the truth, he means to get you sent to prison because you have forged his signature. The Prime Minister looked up and tried to see by Vangan's face whether he should laugh or not. There was a short pause during which the consul enjoyed the situation and continued to gaze at Vangan through his spectacles. Vangan broke into a laugh and involuntarily stretched out his hand for the filled glass. Your health, he said, that's not a bad story. You don't believe it, perhaps? Upon my word it's true, old chap, ask the Prime Minister. The late future Prime Minister nodded. Vangan looked from the one to the other. What's all this nonsense you're talking? He said, he did not believe it yet. You may well say so, said the consul with a venomous smile. It's a delightful world we live in. Has anyone been to tell my wife? Vangan's voice trembled and he turned pale. He reached out his hand for his bag. Yes, she's had a visitor, said the consul with his most venomous glance. The bailiff? Yes. Because, because I've committed forgery? Exactly. The consul was enjoying the situation to such an extent that he forgot to empty his glass. Vangan had emptied his and now held it out for more. Your health, he said. If this is true, then by Joe it'll be Norby and not me to go to prison. And with that he buttoned up his coat and hurried to the door. End of Part 1, Chapter 4. Part 1, Chapter 5 of The Power of a Lie by Johann Boyer. Translated by Jesse Muir. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. It sometimes happens that in the even current of our lives we suddenly meet with an obstacle that compels us to pause and consider. To Henry Vangan, his failure was such an obstacle as this. As he sat in the train on his way home from town with unavoidable ruin staring him in the face, he was nearly passing sentence of death upon himself. He saw that this failure, which brought misfortune to so many, was due to his own incapacity and recklessness. It was terrible, but it was true. This is a consequence of never having taken the trouble to acquire thorough knowledge, he thought, and if I hadn't so often sat drinking far into the night at the consuls, I should have had more judgment in my business the next day. Every drowsy or lazy moment in which a determination was taken now seemed to him to have come to life in the form of a starving despair family. Enduring these moments of calm justice towards himself, he saw one thing that impressed him more than any other, namely, that his kindness of heart had really been a greater enemy to him than drink, for he had always contented himself with the knowledge that he meant well, and he did mean it all so well and sheltered by this good intention he had done the most thoughtless acts and always with a good conscience, for good faith was always ready to excuse the blackest lies and raise them into the light of truth. And now, reality had no use for good faith, it demanded more. While the train rolled on, he also saw how his pet idea for the improvement of the conditions of the working man, and eight hours working day, had also helped in the ruin. So it was not only necessary to have benevolent ideas in this world, they must be such as did not bring misfortune upon those they intended to help, as they had done in this case. He was filled with a dull rage against himself, and swore that he would not rest until he had paid back to them all that he had weedled out of them. He swore not to touch strong drink again. He was fully aware that this was not enough. He would never, never be able to make up for the suffering he had brought upon so many. And his wife, who had put such confidence in him, he felt as if he could have taken himself by the throat and called himself a scoundrel. He was now on his way home from the consuls after having heard the news. Strange to say, his mind had become more composed. He did not hang his head any longer. He walked more easily. He did not know himself how it came about, but he was not quite so afraid of going home to his wife and confessing the truth. When he came inside of the house, which lay a little to the left of the dark mass of the brick kilns, he saw a light in a single window. He remembered his wife's condition and the bailiff's visit. Poor Karen, he thought, perhaps she was at home alone, too. And a flood of anger filled his heart, anger this time, not against himself, but against Norby. Is he quite mad? What does he mean by this? It was a relief to be able to turn his indignation against others than himself. When he entered the dining-room where he had seen the light, he found his young wife sitting by a small lamp. She rose mechanically. He saw at once that the children were in bed, and the supper was laid and waiting for him. How cozy and peaceful it was! But in the middle of this peace she stood pale and frightened, gazing at him as if she would say, Tell me quickly, is it true? She was a tall, stately woman, not yet thirty years of age. She was dressed in a loose-fitting grey dress, and her wealth of fair hair was set like a crown upon her head. Her long eyelashes gave a depth and brightness to her eyes. Her face was in the shadow of the lampshade, as she stood leaning upon the back of a chair, motionless, impatient, and anxious. I know all, he said abruptly, stooping to put down his bag, and even before he raised himself again, he heard her drop into a chair and burst into tears. I thought I should have gone out of my mind, she sobbed. He stood looking at her. She did not come up to him and throw her arms about his neck. Did she really suspect him? His indignation and pain at this again felt like a relief, for in this he was innocent at any rate. He could defend himself here with a good conscience. He went up to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder. Karen, he said, do you believe it? There was a pause, during which he grew more and more anxious. At last she raised her hand and placed it in his. He clasped it. It was so thin and helpless, and so warm, and it seemed to give him all her confidence. It is true that during the last few days she had often reproached him, and had mercilessly demanded from him the return of her money. But this was beyond ordinary limits, and made everything else seem small, and now she clung to him confidingly. In a little while she pointed to the supper table and whispered, won't you have supper? And she rose slowly and went to the stove for the teapot. Would you like me to light the big lamp? She asked gently. No, dear, he said, seating himself at the table, and beginning to eat, more for the purpose of removing the smell of whiskey than of satisfying any hunger. He noticed that there was a half bottle of beer upon the table, and this positively agitated him. They could not afford to drink beer now, but perhaps she had found this last bottle in some box, and in spite of her own troubles, had not forgotten to put it on the table when she expected him. Have you had supper? he asked, as she did not come to table. No, thank you. I don't think I can eat anything. Oh, yes, Karen, he said, Sorin will want his supper, you know. This little joke seemed so strange in their present gloomy mood, for Sorin was their secret pet name for the little one that was still unborn. And now, when the father said this, it was as though a little bridge of gold had been thrown between them, and she could not help looking brightly up at him and smiling. That smile seemed to light up the room. It relieved them both, and they were now able to talk quietly about this affair with Norby. Can you imagine what has made him do it? she said, as she poured herself out a cup of tea. He felt her eyes upon him, and this time he could raise his head and meet them. Well, it must come to light someday. It is either a misunderstanding or… or, she questioned. While he was seeking for probable reasons, he felt at the same time an ill-defined anxiety lest it should only be a misunderstanding. A star seemed to have risen in the firmament of his consciousness, then pointed to an inquiry, a quiddle, and reparation. Half unconsciously he felt that this would be salvation, not only as regarded this accusation, but also all others. Norby is one of those men of whom you never can make anything, he answered. It is quite possible that the couple of thousands now in question have quite robbed him of his wits. She raised her eyes, and her glance said, 2000? There, too! And she almost imperceptibly shook her head. With an involuntary anxiety lest she should attach too much importance to this side of the question, he continued, He's a great idiot anyhow, for he must surely understand that as there's a witness he can't get out of it. As they talked, and he was able to occupy himself with his innocence in the matter, his tranquility of mind increased, and things looked easier and brighter, and he carried her along with him. She had quite forgotten to ask how he had got on in town, and whether he could save her money. An event had taken place in the house which swept everything else into the background. How did you get on in town today? she asked at length. And he could answer frankly now. Karen, dear, the worst is about your money. He could get no further, his voice grew husky. Instead of being afraid and in despair, he now felt so certain of forgiveness that he could safely be distressed. He was quite right. She did not spring up. She did not call him to account for all his false representations. She bowed her head. She still had a vision of the bailiff before her eyes, and she answered with a sigh, Well, well, so long as you are innocent in this. Don't say that, Karen, he said with tears in his eyes. I feel that I have so much to answer for, both to you and— Oh, it may turn out all right in the end, she said, her face turning towards the lamp, so long as one doesn't lose one's honour. So that was over. He had not this confession to dread any longer, but he had never dreamt it would have been got through so easily. What is it, though, he thought, as he rose from the table? He felt as if it were his duty to be unhappy, and now he could not. He kept his eyes all the time fixed upon his innocence in this one matter, and this feeling of innocence was like a lamp that suddenly shone upon his darkness. It illuminated everything, softened everything, so that the remorse and despair he had felt in the train, all that had chafed and wounded him earlier in the day, melted away into far-off, shapeless mist. He had to go into the bedroom to look at the children, and he sat down on the edge of the bed in which the two little girls slept. In the train he had felt himself unworthy to bring children into the world, but now he was once more happy in being a father. How long do you think we shall be able to stay here? She asked when he came in again. Do you think we shall have to move before I am laid up? It sounded so unusually resigned. No, he said, certainly not. They walked through the rooms, he carrying the lamp. They seemed to have a mutual feeling that it would soon all be taken from them, and they be left homeless and empty-handed. They paused in front of various things, a mirror, a rug, a picture, and looked at them. His disengaged arm round her waist, as if to support her. Do you know, she said with a little sigh, when my confinement is over, I am going to try to do without a servant. Oh, said he, there will be no sense in that. Yes, but, Henry, have you considered what we're going to live upon? He recollected a vow he had made in the train to put his hand to any sort of work, if only she, to whom he owed so much, could live free from care. But he said nothing about it now. This feeling of innocence gave him an involuntary pride, and he contented himself with saying, Let's hope I shall yet be able to arrange a composition. He drew her closer to him, as if to have her with him in this faint hope. And she leaned against him, with her fair head resting upon his shoulder, now that she felt sure that he was innocent of this crime, before which everything else dwindled into easily surmountable trifles. The maid was out, they were alone in the house, and the stillness made them talk in undertones. She grew tired of standing, and sank down upon a sofa, and he seated himself beside her, when he had placed the lamp upon a table close by. They sat in silence, gazing vacantly at the piano. The little lamp threw a pale light about them, while the furniture in the rest of the room was lost in the darkness. Father came while the bailiff was here, she said at last, looking straight before her. How did he take it? Everyone will believe you're guilty, she said, and Norbey is powerful. Father is coming again tomorrow. You'd promised to bring him from town the last ten thousand cronies he got for you. Vangan's head drooped. The vision of her father, with his white hair and red watery eyes, came before him. What should he say to the old man tomorrow, now that everything was lost? And the widow from Thorstod has been here, she went on. You had promised her half as soon as you came from town. Vangan still stared into the shadow by the piano. He was afraid she would ask him if he had the money. It is worse for the working men, she continued, who are now quite destitute and cannot get credit anywhere, and in the middle of winter too. She was on the verge of tears. Perhaps they would be coming in the morning to ask about what he had promised them. In the half-darkness Vangan could see before him the old man with the red watery eyes, the widow whose fortune he had wasted, the work people, all of them. They would all come in the morning and call him to account. He turned cold at the thought, and the same dark accusation he had brought against himself in the train, appeared once more, while he felt his clear innocence of forgery to be valueless. It grew fainter, like a lantern on the point of going out, leaving him in a darkness where the crushing sense of responsibility brought him to despair, where remorse fastened upon him with innumerable hands, and where he must eternally and inexorably remain a prisoner and be tortured with the pains of hell. He rose suddenly. Let's go into the other room, he said, raising his shoulders. It's so cold here. In the dining-room he placed the lamp on the table, and stood a moment gazing at it. When I think about it, he said at last, I can, after all, understand why Norby wants to injure me. Can you? she said eagerly. He continued to stand motionless in the same position. Yes, he said. That man is both jealous of his honour and revengeful. He wasn't made chairman of the parish last time, either, and I expect he thinks it's my fault. Good heavens! she sighed. As he stood there, he could see in his mind's eye Norby with his cherished grudge, sitting in his house like a wicked ogre, ready to burst with a desire for revenge, and this distorted picture strengthened Vangan's feeling of innocence, which now seemed like a kind of thread upon which he hung, and which must not break. He heard his wife say good night, but he still stood there. When at last he went into the bedroom, she was standing half undressed in front of the looking-glass, doing up her thick hair for the night in a long plate. And what's more, he said softly, gazing as if at a dawning salvation, I understand now why Norby managed to frustrate the intention of building the Church of Brick. The Brickfields, do you see, shouldn't make anything out of it, Norby wanted to provide the timber. He began to walk up and down, and then stopped again. And now I understand too, he went on, how it is that so many customers have left me lately. The Brickfields were to be removed out of the way of the large forest owners here. Do you really think so? she exclaimed, turning from the glass and looking at him, half in horror that people would be so wicked, half in gladness that the decline in the Brickfields business was not wholly his fault. The wind began to howl in the great factory chimneys. A door up in the loft opened and shut with a bang so that the house shook. Oh, would you mind? she said. That door has been banging ever since the girl went out, but I didn't venture on the stairs. Will you? He went, and on coming down again, he said, And this normal working day, it has frightened the rich bigwigs too. Yes, now I begin to understand. And each time he exhumed a fresh probability of a conspiracy against him, it lifted a fresh burden from his own shoulders. So he dug again and again, half in anxiety, that he should not be able to find enough. While Pruvangan stood in her nightdress by the bed, winding up her watch for the night, he came and laid his arm round her shoulders and said with some emotion, So now, Karen, it can be explained why they have begun to lose confidence in me in town, and I am hardly likely to be allowed to compound. The rumor of a crime will knock that on the head. Poor Henry, she said, and hanging her watch in its place, she turned and threw her arms about his neck. I'm afraid I've misjudged you, Henry. Can you forgive me? He was touched and folded her in a close embrace, feeling as he did so the warmth of her body through her nightdress. They stood thus silent, her head upon his shoulder, both seeing the same persecution and injustice, feeling themselves united in the same innocence, and finding warmth in their mutual need of standing together. And now, when he thought of her money, it no longer seemed to be his fault. The blame was transferred to those in whose way the brick kilns had lain, and he thought of her old, ruined father, and he no longer dreaded his coming in the morning. The widow, the workman's family's past before his mind's eye, but they no longer accused him. He felt sympathy for them, and indignation on their account. But now the indignation was turned against others, not against himself. Aren't you coming to bed? She asked. Oh, wait a little, he said, still standing as before. Yes, but I'm getting cold, Henry. He was actually afraid of letting her go, as if she were the happy conscience he had now built up, which felt like a deliverance from something terrible. I think I'll go out for a little, he said at last. I shan't be able to sleep anyhow. Don't be out too long, she said. Remember, I'm lying here alone. Of course he would not be long, but she was anxious nevertheless, for he was always only going out for a little, when it ended at the consuls, and he came home a little unsteady in his gait. Vangan set out with his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. The hard snow creaked beneath his feet, and above the snowy hills and dark ridges, was spread a wide, brilliant, starry sky. Thank goodness, thought Vangan, that eight hours working day probably has nothing to do with the failure, and he involuntarily felt as if a lost ideal had been regained, so that he had a beloved, bright idea for the future to believe in. From this his thoughts passed insensibly to Norby, and the other rich men, who sat brooding over their money bags, suspicious of everything new, fearful of everything, averse to all improvement of the condition of the lower classes. They managed to quash it this time, he thought, but there will be a next time. He walked on until he found himself outside the consul's house. A light was still burning in the sitting room. A good impulse took him by the buttonhole, and said, Remember your vow in the train. But there are times when we feel ourselves so morally well to do that we think nothing of flinging away a half-penny. Vangan must have someone to talk to now, and he would only stay a quarter of an hour. Why, dear me, aren't you arrested yet? said the consul, who was sitting in his dressing-gown, stirring a freshly made toddy. And they sat with the bottle between them, and discussed the matter very thoroughly. Vangan talked himself into more guesses, suspected more rich men, one after another, of being in the conspiracy, and was lavish in his use of forcible expressions about them all. The consul encouraged him with little spiteful remarks, and made numerous mental notes. Tomorrow he would go for a walk. They emptied the bottle between them, and when Vangan went home a little after midnight, he stumbled every now and then over his own boots. Poor consul, he thought, dreading going home. He has had a hard life, and needs a little sympathy and appreciation. When he staggered into the bedroom, his wife awoke with a cry of terror. His head was heavy next morning. He was ashamed to meet his wife, and again began to dread meeting those who were to come to him that day. By clinging, however, to his innocence in the one matter, he very soon succeeded in regaining his self-confidence, and when, later in the day, he had to go to the station, he was no longer afraid of meeting people. He began to entertain a dim idea of giving a lecture to the workmen, and explaining to them the true cause of their common ruin. As he went homewards, the sun was shining upon the wide snow-covered fields, and dazzled his eyes. There stood the dead factory buildings with their tall chimneys, seeming to cry to heaven. But it was not with him they had to do. Yesterday in the train, he had thought that his own house was too luxurious, and the factory buildings too large and expensive. But now he looked at everything with different eyes. He knew in his own heart that he had built these works in an honest belief in the future of this industry in the district, and a banner of innocence waved over both the works and the house. End of Part 1, Chapter 5 Part 1, Chapter 6 of The Power of a Lie, by Johann Boyer, translated by Jesse Muir. This Librebox recording is in the public domain. Day after day passed, and Norby had not yet recalled his declaration. The notice of the forgery had already appeared in the newspaper, and the more the story spread and grew, the more humiliating it seemed to Norby it would be to retract, and the longer he put it off, the more the dread of humiliation grew, and the more powerless did he feel to stoop and take the consequences. It would, in fact, be deliberately to make himself out a dishonorable man. Was that to be the thanks he got for having in his kindness of heart helped, Bongan? His enemies? They would rejoice as long as he lived, and the parish? An avalanche of ridicule would descend upon him, and he would always feel as if he were standing in the pillory to be the laughing stock of everyone. In Norby's eyes the parish was something of indefinite size, which only paid attention to what he did. It was his parish, and he saw it especially when he lay with closed eyes. The woods and farms and hills and rivers were the same, but the people were of two kinds, those who praised him and those who spoke evil of him. There lived no others in the parish. The first he looked upon as honorable, worthy people, the second as his enemies whom he should certainly not forget. And now? He was quite sure that now people did nothing but talk about this affair. Heads were put in at doors, voices called across backyards. Have you heard of it? He saw people bustling up paths, flying off on ski, writing letters to other villages and towns. Have you heard of it? And if he now gave his wife away to this same parish, there would be further excitement. It made him angry to think of it. But now people began to come to the old man and talk about the matter. What was he to say? He must say something. At first he tried to get away from the subject, but afterwards he was afraid that he might have betrayed himself. I am an idiot, he thought. It won't make it any worse than it is already if I say it until I can find a way out. And at last the day came when he said it in so many words, half in impatience to be left alone. When the stranger went away the old man stood at the window looking after him with a feeling similar to that with which he had looked after the man on ski that day. This man would tell it to others. He had said something that he could never recall. He felt now that the way to the bailiff was closed. He must keep it up for the present. And henceforward, every time he repeated the bitter falsehood, he felt bound to say it once more in order to make it consistent. But he always stood, as it were, and looked after this dangerous lie which branched out from his own tongue, wandered about the parish, and grew every day like a specter that would one day turn against him. And yet he was obliged to help the specter to grow still more, for, like the lion tamer who dares not turn his back on the lion, he must not waver, must not show fear, and there was nothing to be done but to stick to the story. During the dark, snow-laden winter days the old man tramped about the yard, went in at one out-house door, came out of another, scolded a little here and there, and imagined he was busy, which he was not. When he knew he was not observed, he would stand and stare at his boots, then shake his head and say, If it only hadn't been her Louvre son. But there sat the house like the troll with its head up to the sky, and called across the valley, jibing and mocking as it always did when Norby was in trouble. How are you, Norby? Do you feel bad? Poor Father, said Ingeborg to her mother in the kitchen. He begins to look so pale and wretched, he can't possibly be well. No, said her mother. I suppose it's this affair that is telling upon him. Of course it can't be very pleasant, but it isn't our fault. Vangan has himself to thank for it. Ingeborg became doubly zealous in her attentions to her father, the more depressed he seemed to be. How touched she was at his taking the matter so much to heart. People could see now how good her father was. She had always known that he was the best man in the world. But how frightened the poor girl was the day she heard that Vangan had said that it was Norby and not himself who would go to prison. Up to that time she had had a certain amount of sympathy with Vangan because he was guilty, but now he became a dreadful man in her eyes. And suppose he succeeded in bringing trouble upon her father. She dared not mention it to her mother, and as there was no one to whom she could confide her anxiety, it grew larger and larger and began to keep her awake at night. It was now, however, that she sought comfort of God, and every night prayed long, fervent prayers, but she knew that if her prayers were to be answered, she must make herself worthy to pray. She thought too that as she succeeded in overcoming the powers of evil in herself, she noticed that her prayers seemed to receive comforting answers, and little by little she began to see her father surrounded by the powers of goodness who would protect him. How happy she was! Vangan could not hurt him now. He might try if he liked, but it would be of no use. From that day the weary, sad girl began to go about with a brighter face and lighter step, as if she had a secret joy glowing within her. The disagreement between Norby and his wife was over, but it had never been so impossible to tell her the rights of the case as it was now. One day, about the middle of the week, the old man drove Laura in the double sledge to the station, as she was going back to town to continue school. It was a frosty day with cloudless sky and glittering stretches of snow. The sledge-runners creaked upon the hard snowy road. The old man sat in his fur coat and glanced now and then at his daughter. He had never seen her so pretty as she was today. The frost had put such a colour into her young cheeks and made her eyes so clear and blue. And the oftener she turned those eyes upon him while she talked and laughed, the more ashamed did he feel of no longer deserving this child's confidence. You must write to us a little oftener than you generally do, he said, looking straight before him at the horse. We should like to know if anything happens to you. When he said goodbye at the station, while the engine stood snorting preparatory to the departure of the train, he had a great desire to kiss her on the forehead. But caresses were not in Norby's line, and he contented himself with slipping some extra money into her hand. You must buy something with that, he said. That was the kiss. When he drove home again in the sledge, he felt as though he were alone in the world. And who could tell what evil he was now driving towards as he went home to Norby? When he arrived there, Merritt met him at the outer door. You've actually gone and forgotten that declaration again, she said, referring to a written declaration to the merchant with whom Vangan had deposited his guarantee document. Where's the hurry? murmured the old man as he took off his fur coat. It's been lying here for a week now, and yesterday he telephoned to ask what had become of it. Norby went slowly into his office where the declaration lay written out. But though he had now spoken about Vangan's forgery to all sorts of people, it was quite another thing to have to put his name to it. Merritt had followed him, and she stood waiting at the door. Must it be done now? said the old man, slowly raising his eyes to hers as he fumbled for his spectacle case. I am going to the post office, and I'll take it with me. Merritt felt herself the motive power in this affair. She feared that behind her back he might be prevailed upon to pull down what she had built up. He dipped his pen in the ink, but then paused and sat gazing at Johann Sferdrup's portrait. It's a bad business, this, he said, with his eyes upon the portrait. Yes, she said, shrugging her shoulders, you must protect yourself and your belongings while there's law and justice in the land. Yes, yes, sighed the old man, and again he saw the spectre that grew and grew that would fall down upon him on the day he turned round, and slowly he signed his name, Knut O. Norby. When his wife had left the house he was once more standing and looking after an action that was set in motion and could not be overtaken. The thing was done now. He had put his name to a false declaration. The name Knut O. Norby would henceforth not be so well esteemed as formerly. No, I must find some work to do. He thought, shaking himself, perhaps that'll cheer me up. But feeling rather tired, for he had not slept much the night before, he lay down upon the leather sofa and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling as though he should not be able to get up for ever so long. What made him uncomfortable was that he now always had a vision of Vangan before him. Ever since the day when he had set Vangan in an ugly light in order to have an excuse for not going to the bailiff, the man seemed burnt into his consciousness. He began to meet him everywhere and to see him in everyone he talked to. He saw him now, and sprang up and out, harnessed a horse, and drove to the forest to look at the timber driving. He heard the crash of the logs far in among the hills, and was not long in getting there. Some great trunks had been driven out to the road, and a load was just coming to the top of the steep hill, where a slide had been cut through the trees. But what was that? The horse sat down upon its haunches, and down the long steep incline went horse and load hidden in a cloud of snow. This was madness, and the old man's anger rose, but when the load reached the road the horse was unhurt, and Norby saw, to his great surprise, that the driver was Vangan. Norby went up with his whip, words failed him. Then Vangan, beginning to unload, said, You are trying to tax me with a forgery Norby, but how about your own affairs? Norby raised his whip, and would have struck him, but another load appeared at the top of the hill, and again the horse sat down upon its haunches, and away it went. And that was the way they used Norby's horses, was it? He'd give them a lesson, he would. But when the driver came out down at the pile of logs, it was Vangan again. How the devil! And now he unloaded, and said with a mocking smile, You're trying to tax me with forgery Norby, but what about yourself? Norby again raised his whip, and would have struck him, but suddenly caught sight of another horse at the top of the hill. It was the young brood-mare, and it would injure its feet in the slide. But it was Vangan again, and his lips were parted with the same smile. I say, Norby, have you a good conscience? It's true the witness is dead, but just you wait. And then another load came, and another. The hill was one cloud of snow enveloping a string of loads, and there were more coming. Then Vangan drove every load, always that cursed Vangan. The old man cried out, then sprang up from the sofa, rubbing his eyes. Thank goodness! I must get something to do, he said, and put on his things and went out. It was too late to look at the timber-felling that day. He sauntered along to the pig's dye, but the twelve fat yellow animals that had hitherto been his pride now seemed to him to be utter failures. Things are beginning to go wrong with me, he thought, and now in addition I'm to have this. That's the thanks I get from my kindness. He sighed and was passing on, but a pig put its snout between the palings and wanted to be scratched. The old man stretched out his hand, but suddenly drew back a step, for this pig, too, was— A shudder ran through him, and he hastened out, and from a kind of curiosity he also went through the cow shed. The cows turned in their stalls, and load gently one after another. And he gazed, half in curiosity, half in terror at each head, and saw that the first, the second, the third—what did it mean? He turned quickly and fled. He was beginning to see that hated face in innocent animals, too. He slammed the heavy cow shed door after him, and the lowing of two or three cows at the same moment added to his feeling of uncanniness. You great idiot! he said at last to himself, when he was fairly out. To go and imagine, things like that! He was going in the direction of the stables, but turned round suddenly. He did not dare. He began to think that his men had not the respect for him that they formerly had, and he was therefore unusually hot-tempered with them. When he was driving, he thought that the horses did not go so willingly, either, as if they had a suspicion, too. And he used the whip more than ever before, and drove recklessly. It was at any rate no mistake that his good dog Hector began to look timidly at him, as if he, too, suspected something. Don't be uneasy, he said to himself. You've risen in the esteem of your fellow-creatures at any rate. The fury of the countryside against Vangan only placed Norby in a better light. If one man took Vangan's part, it stirred up twenty to range themselves on Norby's side. And as the old man drove along in his single sledge, dressed in his fur coat, people bowed lower than before, and those who had hitherto never bowed did so now. And the old man would laugh silently to himself. The beast despised me for what I have done, he thought, but men respect me. Such is life. They surely can't be merely making fun of me, he thought one day. Suppose they're only showing me all this respect in mockery. The idea was unbearable, and he felt he must make sure whether it were so or not. One day the people at the parsonage were surprised to see Norby drive up to the door, and come tramping in in his great driving-boots. He was very cheerful, and as he sat leaning forward and stroking his knees, he told them that next Saturday he and his wife had determined to roast a pig whole, as he had seen it done in England, and if any one cared to come they might get a bone to gnaw. Both the pastor and his wife began to laugh, for Norby always gave an invitation in his own peculiar way, and the old man thought, they can't have any suspicion of me when they laugh so naturally, and when they both accepted his invitation he felt himself secure. He also dropped in at the doctors, and there things went just as smoothly, and he was at the bailiffs, the judges, and the sheriffs, and when he finally turned his face homewards he sat and chuckled. It was, as usual, a capital dinner at Norby. The old man took a special pleasure in being able to put such silver and wine on his table, as none of the other magnates could produce. Both the pork and the wine raised the spirits of the guests, and the old man's face shone, and grew redder and brighter the more he ate and drank and talked. No mention was made of the great matter itself, but as Norby sat at the head of the table, and drank with one after another down the rose, or with altogether, he noted in each glance and smile the very feeling he wished to see, namely, You're a jolly good fellow! When at last the company were scattered over the two large drawing-rooms with their coffee, the bailiff came, and drew him a little aside, and while they stood with their cups at the level of their chests, the bailiff told him in a whisper that the judge had received the guarantee document. The bailiff had seen it, and he must say that Norby's signature was well counterfeited. But you're again, hearstads! That was too foolish. Hearstad did not write like a copy-book, it is true, but his writing was not so crooked and illegible as all that, that the bailiff could testify. You fool! thought Norby, and drank liqueur with him, as if men like Hearstad didn't write their name in a dozen different ways. You are a genius! But aloud he said, Have you spoken to Vangan? The bailiff laughed. Indeed I have, he said. He declares that the signing took place in the café at the Grand. That's not true, thought Norby. It was at the hotel Carl Johann. The bailiff emptied his liqueur glass and continued, but it's awkward for him that his witness is dead, and that there's no one who saw you write your name. And it gives a bad impression, too, to hear that a number of people are now getting bills from his general store, which they have paid long ago. He's a shady character. When the sound of the last sledge-bells passed from the yard a little over midnight, Norby began to walk about the empty rooms, rubbing his hands, for he knew now, for certain, that people esteemed him as the old Knute Norby. But in the Grand Café? That's a downright lie. I've never in my life put my name to any paper there. What a confounded liar he is! The consciousness that at any rate a fraction of this matter was a lie, now felt like a relief. No one in the world could prove that he had ever signed anything at the Grand. But I shall win the whole thing. I can be quite easy about that. And then a little later. But shall I win? He sank down at the table in the little room leading off one of the drawing-rooms, on which stood a bottle of liqueur. When Marit came to get him to go to bed, she was very much astonished to find him intoxicated, and she could not get him to move. An hour later she went with a candle in her hand, through the dark rooms where the tobacco-smokes still hung in light clouds. There was a light behind the curtains in the doorway. She peeped cautiously in, and saw that the old man had sunk back onto the sofa, and was asleep with his glass in his hand. CHAPTER VII Down by the fjord lay a little one-storied house, half hidden by large trees within a garden. Here lived through Thora Skard, the widow of the Inspector of Forests. Upon the death of her husband she had withdrawn from the social life to which she was accustomed, and henceforth lived quietly behind her flowers in her pretty little rooms. On rare occasions she might be seen going out to some sick or poor person with a book and a basket. Although she was more than forty, she was still young in mind. It was she who had started the young people's club in the parish. Any young peasant girl who wished it was certain of obtaining from her free instruction in everything national. She had her little house, after her husband's death, renamed and registered as Lidorenda, and from that time forward she liked to be called Thora of Lidorenda. When she heard the news about Vangan, she thought, Poor wife, poor children! She knew Fru Vangan very well, and she was so upset about this that she could think of nothing else. Although she had only a small pension, and was trying more over to put something by for Gunnar, her kind heart said over and over again, I must go and help them, three children, the parents' destitute, and then this crime! It would be wrong of me not to go. There were such different opinions about Vangan's guilt and innocence. Fru Thora was sufficiently well acquainted with her fellow creatures to know that most of them believed Vangan to be guilty because he had already gone down in the world. She wanted to form her own opinion about the matter, uninfluenced by others, and therefore meditated deeply upon the matter, reasoning from her knowledge of the two men, for one of them must be in the wrong. It happened that Norbi realized in himself and his belongings some of the ideals that Fru Thora of Lidorende cherished. She had always thought there was something particularly Norwegian about Norbi. The broad, strongly built farmer, living in his large house and ruling over his laborers, was like a direct descendant of the old kings. In the storehouse at Norbi she knew there lay a quantity of old harness, drinking bowls, sledges, and carved household articles, and she had speculated as to how to get hold of them for a country museum. Without her noticing it or being able to prevent it, the impression from these things entered into her valuation of Norbi in this particular case. And Vangan? He was the son of that magistrate who was noted for his animosity towards the peasant, and yet was not to refined himself to misappropriate public money. And now, whenever Fru Thora thought of the son, it was as though the atmosphere of the father surrounded him. Norbi and Vangan opposing one another, could there be any doubt in such a case. It was thus that Thora of Lidorende's opinion on this matter was formed, and when once it was there she felt no doubt at all about the matter, omitting to inquire into the origin of the opinion. She did not, however, grow to dislike or scorn Vangan on account of this crime. On the contrary, she felt it was just now he was to be pitied. Just now he needed help. You must not shirk your duty, her kind heart said to her every day, and she had no peace until she had made up her mind to offer to take one of the children. She wanted, moreover, to set the parish an example in not condemning too severely one who was given way to temptation, and on the day when she fought her way in a snowstorm along the fjord to call on through Vangan, she felt light-hearted, notwithstanding the cold and wind, in the thought that even this sad affair could afford her an opportunity of doing good. When she reached the Vangan's house, she was told by the maid that her mistress had been confined, but as this was the fifth day, through Thora was allowed to go into her. Through Thora could scarcely restrain her tears at sight of this unfortunate woman who had thrown herself away upon such a man, and when she bent over the bed and through Vangan threw her arms about her neck, they both sobbed aloud. They talked together for a long time before through Thora broached the subject of her errand, but although she chose her words carefully, through Vangan seemed offended and curtly declined her offer, and when through Thora went away she had an unhappy feeling of having done something utterly wrong. When she was gone, Vangan went into his wife, and when he had heard of through Thora's errand, stood silent with a peculiar smile upon his face. Oh, indeed, he said at last, they're beginning to want to take our children from us too now, are they? But Henry, don't you really think she meant it kindly? He laughed. Yes, of course, why they mean everything kindly. A little while after, he said, I suppose they understand that as long as I have my family about me, I have a kind of backbone. But, he continued, going up to the window, that she too. He stood watching the energetic little woman struggling down the road against a wind that almost blew her away. He could really see now that her errand had been one of which she was ashamed. But she had come to the house, trying to coax his wife to give up the child when he was not there, and when the mother lay helpless in bed. He suddenly clenched his hands in fierce anger as he looked after her. How she struggled against the wind! How her shawl fluttered! A shiver ran down his back as it struck him that she resembled a bat, and he thought of witches. Henry came from the bed, and when he turned, his wife stretched out her arms towards him. He bent down, and when he felt her arms about his neck, sank upon his knees. Henry, she said, stroking the back of his head, Henry, you mustn't think that any of us will forsake you. He could not answer, but took her head between his hands and kissed her forehead. Poor Henry, she said again, I never thought people could be so unkind. When at last he rose, he said in a kind of exalted indignation, I'll pay them out for this. Part 1 Chapter 8 Maud's Herloofson, in the meantime, sat for hours together looking across at Norby. In his eyes Norby Farm was a kind of fox's den, away there under the fur-clad slope, upon which he must keep watch to see what Reynard was doing. At the approach of crises in the forest prices, and of political elections, it was always against Norby that Maud's Herloofson directed his moves. When he won, he slapped his thigh and was in good spirits for more than a week. If Norby were successful, he was as ashamed as if he had done something wrong himself. But although these two little kings thought of nothing but doing one another harm, at the same time they were good friends when they met. They warred upon one another, chiefly because there was no other worthy opponent within a wide area. Maud's Herloofson now sat, pursing up his mouth, looking across at Norby, and wondering, What does he mean by this, he thought, for he was always accustomed to think this when Norby did anything. It certainly isn't that he wants to quarrel with Vangan, nor is it for the sake of the money. There must be something behind. At last he discovered that Norby wanted to get Vangan punished in order to frustrate his competition and thus force the brick-fields under the hammer. It was the brick-fields that Reynard wanted to get hold of this time. For a little time Maud's Herloofson sat rubbing his nose in disappointment at not being able to think of a counter-move. He did not care in the least whether Vangan were guilty or not. His only care was for Norby. Do I want the brick-fields? Bless me, no! But why should Norby have them? At last a thought struck him. One of his farm-labors, Sorin Kikna, had once been in the employ of the deceased witness Jorgen Harstad. Vangan had no witnesses now that Harstad was dead. Suppose Sorin Kikna could be utilized. He remembered what an honest man Sorin Kikna had always been, so he took out a bottle of brandy and sent over to the men's quarters for him, for the men were in at dinner. It was not a customary thing for the men to be called into the sitting-room of the farm, and when Sorin Kikna went in he looked about cautiously to see where he should sit, and scarcely dared to seat himself upon the beautiful chair. But Herlufsson gave him a long pipe to smoke, and placed him on the sofa opposite himself, and after filling his glass two or three times said to him, Weren't you once in the employment of Harstad, Sorin? Sorin Kikna fingered his thin beard, and gazed in front of him with a melancholy stare. Oh, yes, he was, he answered. You can't remember, I suppose, whether Harstad ever mentioned anything about having signed his name as a witness for Vangan and Norby? Sorin Kikna shook his head. He could not remember it at all. Well, well, said Herlufsson, you must think a little, Sorin. Sorin thought a little, but no, no. For it's possible that the whole thing may depend upon you, said Herlufsson. The man looked to scance at his master, but Herlufsson was perfectly serious, and when he went away told him to remember that the whole matter now depended upon him. When Sorin Kikna went back to the men's room, he stood in the middle of the floor and asked in a loud voice whether any of the others had ever been in the farm parlor and drunk a dram and smoked a long pipe with the master. At this there was a roar of laughter whereupon Sorin grew angry, and let them know that the whole matter between Vangan and Norby now depended upon him. Upon you? exclaimed several voices, and some, who were reclining on the benches, sat up and looked curiously at him. Yes, upon me! said Sorin, nodding his head. But there was nothing more to be got out of him. He was not a man to let his tongue run away with him. From that day he had no peace either day or night. Whenever he met his master he was urged on with, haven't you considered that matter yet? It was quite true he had been in Harstad's service five years, and it was quite true that Harstad and he had often talked together alone. But, but! he scratched his ear a great many times a day. He talked to his wife about the matter, and his wife too said he must think a little. And Sorin did think a little. He thought both day and night, since the whole matter now depended upon him. It couldn't be that time Harstad and he—no, no, it wasn't then. No, if it was any time, then it must have been when they were painting the Carriole together. Harstad was painting the shafts, and he was doing the wheels and the body. They were standing in the sun behind the barn, and this scene, in which they painted the Carriole, fastened itself little by little in Sorin's mind, until he gradually became certain that if there positively was a time when Harstad confided the matter to him, it must have been then. And when he came to think of it, it certainly was on that occasion. When he told her Lufsen one day that he had thought the matter over, he could not understand why his master became so exceedingly affable. Her Lufsen told him he might take a holiday for the rest of the day. He might go down to Vangan and asked to be called as a witness.