 Part III. CHAPTER I. OF THE POWER OF A LIE. by Johann Boya. TRANSLATED BY Jesse Muir. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. On the morning after the inquiry, Fru Vangen rose at six, as she was now without a servant, and had to do the washing that day. She had scarcely dressed herself, however, before she was obliged to sit down. She felt so tired and worn out, for she had been wakened not only by the children, but also by Vangen several times in the night, and even when at last he fell asleep he kept crying out in his sleep. At length she rose to go down, but stood a little while with the lamp in her hand, and let the light fall upon him. He lay curled up, his face buried in the pillow. Perhaps he was dreaming something horrible, even now. She stole quietly out, so as not to wake any of them. In the rooms downstairs the windows were thick with ice, and while she knelt and lighted the fires she often had to stop to breathe upon her fingers. At a little past date she went upstairs to surprise him with a cup of coffee before he got up, but while she was on the stairs she heard him calling her, although he might have known he would wake the children. What are you thinking of? She said as she entered. Do you want to have them wake up? He sat up in bed. Do you know, Karen? He said. There is no doubt that that soren Kikne, who came and offered to give evidence, was sent. What do you mean? She said, standing still with a tray in her hand. Can you tell me what interest that poor man could have in going and giving false evidence that was so easy to disprove? No, no! She still stood there, and hardly dared to offer him the coffee. No, Karen, he said. The fact is that Norby had brought him. Her lucin of rude, who once pretended he was on my side, is in the ring too, as I might have known beforehand. And he lent this man of his in order to set this trap for me. Upon my word it was well calculated. It made me ridiculous, and increased people's suspicion. It was as diabolical as it could be. Are you quite sure now, Henry? Sure. He became still more angry. Sure! Good heavens! Well, because I can't imagine how people can be so wicked. No, you can't imagine, although you have to see it every blessed day. I begin to think you'd rather it were I that was wicked. Will you have some coffee?" she asked, handing him the tray. While he sat with the tray in front of him on the counter-pane, Frugvangen drew up the blinds to let in the wealth of snow-light from the bright winter's morning. Shortly after she turned to him, saying, I got such a fright this morning! You got a fright? he said, as he gulped down his coffee. Yes, there was a man sitting on the steps when I opened the door, and I couldn't help being frightened, for it was the tailor. What! he cried, putting down the cup. He must be mad. He's still sitting there. He said he would wait until you came down. Can't you get rid of the fellow? he said angrily. No! He said he'd sit there until you came. I'm at my wit's end! It was the old tailor who had lost by the bankruptcy all his savings, upon which Vangen had promised him such good interest. He came almost every day and wanted to speak to Vangen, but the latter was afraid of him, because his eyes had latterly acquired such a wild expression. It was not this tailor only who was constantly reminding him of the sad consequences of his failure. He received despairing letters begging him for only a third of the money that had been entrusted to him, and letters that threatened and cursed him. People were continually coming to the house with tears and threats. It was enough to make one mad. These people still believed that he and no other was to blame for the disaster. And that was not the worst, for in Vangen's inner consciousness dark arms were extended, and he had to hasten to think of something else. Here, he said, holding out the tray to her. But you haven't drunk your coffee, she said in surprise. He lay down again with his hands under his head. No, he said, you take one's appetite away, Karen. I do? Well, yes, to tell the truth. I can't think what pleasure you can have in telling me this about the tailor. I think you ought rather to ask him to go to Norby. And he breathed hard as if something exceedingly painful were working in him. Well, I'm sorry, she said, sighing, and taking the tray, she left the room. Since the inquiry, Vangen had lived as if in a fever. His tactics for asserting his innocence, namely, trying to prove that the forgery was only a link in a chain of conspiracies against his business, had turned out miserably. It had only increased people's suspicion of him. It did not, however, on that account occur to him that he had chosen a wrong method of procedure, but only worked his suspicion up to greater certainty. The belief in this conspiracy was just what had given him a good conscience in the midst of the troubles after his failure. The trial, which was either to condemn or acquit him, was approaching inexorably. It was not the fear of being found guilty of forgery that made Vangen ill with anxiety as to the result, for of that he could acquit himself. But the dread he felt was of having his illusion concerning the conspiracy torn to pieces, and thus being obliged to condemn himself. Moreover, because this belief in the malice of his enemies made him feel good, it seemed like treachery in his wife when she defended him. He grew angry, and felt inclined to fly at her. She wanted to take away from him the plank with which he kept himself up. He also had a feeling that it was only on the basis of this conspiracy that he had any right to make the working men his brothers in misfortune. So her slightest word in defense of Norby seemed an attempt to rob himself of a virtue, a strength which the homage of the working men gave him. When at last he came downstairs that morning, the rooms felt very warm and comfortable. Was the tailor gone? He asked almost anxiously. Yes, she answered, she was standing in the kitchen, rinsing clothes. I managed to get rid of him at last. When he had finished breakfast he sat down to the only work he did at that time, namely writing articles for a labour paper. The title to-day was, The Experiences of a Factory Owner with regard to the Eight Hours Working Day. His recollections on this subject acquired a wonderful golden radiance from the very fact of his clinging to the belief that the cause of his ruin lay neither in himself nor in any thoughtless reform. It was an ideal that he felt an affection for, and he found a comfort in glorifying it, because it acquitted him while at the same time it cast a shadow upon his enemies. As he sat with his pipe in his mouth, becoming warmer and warmer as he wrote, the kitchen door opened, and Frew Vangen entered with her sleeves rolled up. Henry, dear, she said, are you going to let another day go by without seeing about a house? I've told you, he said, a little irritated at the interruption, that it's no good looking for a house as long as I have this hanging over me. And he went on writing when she continued. But would you rather be turned out? Have you forgotten that the auction is to be here next week? He threw his pencil across the table. Laterally she seemed always to be having a suspicion that he was doing something wrong, and must therefore come and interfere. Can't you go then and look for one, instead of coming everlastingly and interrupting me? He said. I didn't know it was anything so important, Henry, and if you're writing something anonymous about Norby or others that you suspect, please don't go on with it. I'm sure you'll only lose by it. It seems as if you couldn't imagine my writing anything but what was mean. That's a nice thing to hear, Karen. She stood a few moments looking at him, and then went quietly out into the kitchen, and went on rinsing children's clothes in a tub. She found it painful to live in these luxurious surroundings when none of it was theirs any longer, and when they never knew for certain at dinner whether there would be anything for supper or not. But to go into the parish, she, and beg for a roof over their heads, was the very last humiliation she would take upon herself. For this was just what so many people had prophesied when she married him. But why did he not go, when he always had plenty of time? Why could he not save her a little? These were the thoughts that had of late made Fru Vangen so bitter. Vangen succeeded in recovering his happy mood, and had got on a long way with his article, when his wife came in once more and disturbed him. This time she had their two-year-old little girl with her. You must forgive me, Henry, she said, but you haven't chopped the wood I asked you for, and now you must take care of the child while I go out and do it myself. He looked straight before him for a moment. Then he sighed deeply. She saw that he had something to say, and stood waiting with anxious eyes. Oh, dear, he groaned, do I bother you so dreadfully, Henry? I thought you would help me a little just now, Karen, but I believe even if people came here and killed me you would go out and, just as calmly, cook and wash and think of house rent, and, above all, not forget to chop wood. It must be done, Henry, it's not my fault that I haven't a servant now. At this he rose to his feet in great excitement. Are you beginning with that again? As sure as I live I shall try to let you have back your money. She drew back as if she had been struck in the face, and then she too grew angry. No, really! she cried. I won't bear that. I shall soon begin to wish that you were guilty, Henry, for to tell the truth you become more and more unbearable because of this innocence. What do you say, Karen? He exclaimed, turning pale and biting his lip. You heard well enough, she said, taking the child in her arms and leaving the room. In a little while he heard the sound of wood chopping in the woodshed. It won't do her any harm to chop a few sticks of firewood, he thought, for she takes everything else quietly enough, goodness knows. I wonder if they won't succeed in enticing her away from me some day. While through Vangan chopped wood, she had to keep a watchful eye upon the child, to whom she had given some twigs to play with. It was such a shame that on account of this innocence he no longer bestowed a thought upon either her or the children. It was as if she were not allowed to think about anything but his innocence, not allowed to feel anything but pity for him. It was not five weeks since they had laid a little baby in the grave, but he never mentioned it and would hardly allow her to do so either. But it was his continual suspicion that began to weary her most of all. It made the whole world so exceedingly sad and ugly. And the worst of it was that she involuntarily began to be infected by it. Like a disease for which she felt disgust and which she would like to shake off. And while he was resorting to more and more ignoble means for defending this innocence, she thought he grew a worse man. He oftener came home drunk than he had ever done before. He was churlish and broke no contradiction. It was as if this innocence not only acquitted him of all the evil he had ever done, but it also gave him the right to do anything he liked, both now and in the future. When at last Fruvangen came in again, he was walking up and down the room. Karen, he said, can you blame me for expecting that you will devote yourself a little at any rate to me just now? But what is it you want me to do, Henry? I'm toiling from morning to night. Yes, you're toiling, but you might toil a little less. Couldn't you let my aunt have the children for a time? You know she would like to, and you could be sure… Do you really want me to send all three of them away, Henry? He stopped. Would that be such a dreadful thing? No, perhaps not for you, she said, and went into the kitchen again. It was near the middle of April, and the spring had begun to appear. One day the sun was shining warm upon the bare fields, when Fruvangen stood on the veranda looking out. The river was rushing by, yellow and foaming, often hidden by alder bushes that were beginning to show green buds. To the right lay the shining lake, reflecting soft bright clouds. Let me see, Mama! cried the two little girls, as they hung on to her skirts, both trying to climb up and see. At that moment she heard a well-known cough down by the garden gate. It was her father. It was always painful now when he came, and when he came on to the veranda breathing hard, she was sitting in the drawing-room with her sewing. He pretended not to see that she rose and held out her hand. The two little girls, who had run up to their grandfather, were also perplexed at his pushing them away as he made his way to a comfortable chair and sank into it. He was breathing hard, and placed his stick between his knees, resting his trembling hands upon the handle. Isn't he at home today, either? he asked at length. No, Father! He used always to be at home before! Ha-ha! The old man was over seventy, but was a very giant. His long white hair, thick yellowish beard beneath his chin, and red watery eyes, gave him a patriarchal appearance. He was dressed in black frieze with silver buttons on his waistcoat, of which the lowest three were left unfastened to allow for his corpulence. How are you, Father? I? Grand! We're going to have an auction at home, sell every mortal thing, and your brother's going to America, and I shall have nothing to live on, and must choose between going with him or to the work-house. Father! she exclaimed in a whisper, her eyes fixed on him. The old man laughed with his lips compressed, and his blue red hands trembling still more upon the handle of his stick. His head shook, too, upon his thick neck. Is he holding a meeting for the work-people today again? Asked the old man with a bitter smile. No, she replied in a low voice. It's so strange to us old fogies, Karen, that the worse people are themselves the more they feel called upon to make others better. Can you tell me what he has to say to those vagabonds? He, the man who has cheated them out of so much pay? She did not reply, but sighed. And those working men? Yes, they're amusing, too. You may cheat them as much as you like, if only you provide them lectures to listen to. Never mind food and clothes, if only they can have bits of paper to go about with and wave. Yes, yes, it is strange in these days. You don't think of going to America, then, Father? No, not if he pays me back the last ten thousand Cronas, for he said he wanted them only for a fortnight. The old man laughed again. You can be quite sure he said it in good faith, Father. Good faith? Yes, of course. And this good faith is now driving us out of house and home. That was good faith, indeed. Fruvangan again closed her lips and kept silence. The old man passed his hand across his mouth. But I want something in return. You must leave him, Karen, both you and the children, for if I were to go to America I should die in the middle of the Atlantic. Now I might perhaps get a living out of the farm all the same. But do you imagine that I'll live there and see strangers managing the farm if none of my own family are with me? You must live with me. Do you hear, Karen? And he fixed his red eyes upon her. Fruvangan looked at him quite helplessly, but after a little shook her head. And as so often before, the old man went away in a rage, threatening that he would never set his foot there again. But in a little while she heard his voice in the garden, and going on to the veranda, she saw him standing at the garden gate, looking back, with trembling hands on the handle of his stick. You've thought over your answer, Karen? He cried, for it's the last time I shall ask anything of you. She could not answer, but made a helpless motion with her hands and went in, where she sank upon a sofa and began to sob. But leave Vangan? No, people would be right then. When Vangan came home he told her that the workmen had determined on a demonstration on the first of May, and that he had a suspicion that they intended going to Norby Farm. It seemed to her that this pleased him, and she rose suddenly, saying, It isn't you, I suppose, Henry, that have thought of this, is it? I? Oh, of course! he replied, smiling a little scornfully. Yes, but you'll do what you can to prevent it? Goodness me, how you do take on! To tell the truth I'm not going to prevent it. To make known their opinion in a body is the only weapon these poor working men have, and I can't blame them for wishing to show Norby and the other money-bags what they think of them. That's just what I thought, she sighed, and left the room. It was doubly painful to her to despise him now when she was obliged to cling to him against all the world. It was just now that she needed to respect him, but the worst of it was that while others were trying to ruin him, he was doing them the service of ruining himself. One day they received notice from the liquidators that the works in Villa had been sold privately, and that they must quit them at once. And so the day came when Fru Van Gan had to go and look for rooms. There was an empty cottage on a farm close by that had been occupied by a schoolmaster. But the owner, Lars Gringen, had once proposed to her and been refused, and to go to him now. But after going round to a number of houses she came home quite discouraged, and remained sitting with her hat and jacket on. She had received the answer, no, everywhere. But a house they must have, and she felt she could not ask Van Gan again. Well, she thought, rising, I may just as well throw the last overboard. And she went to Lars Gringen. A few days later a cartload of furniture was driven from the door of the Pretty Villa. Upon it sat two children, and Fru Van Gan carried the third in her arms. A little way behind, Van Gan walked with bowed head, and hands buried in the pockets of his coat. The little cottage stood upon a mound surrounded with fir trees, and had only two rooms and a kitchen. And when they entered, the difference between it and the home they had left brought them both to a stand still in the middle of the floor. The rooms were dark, the paint was worn off the doors and window frames, the boards were splintered, and the timbers and the walls cracked. Fru Van Gan had to undertake a very thorough cleaning. The greatest humiliation, however, had still to be gone through. They had to ask Lars Gringen for milk and provisions on credit, and on her way to and from his house Fru Van Gan felt as if she could sink into the earth. But all this was Van Gan's fault, and strive as she would she could not help a growing bitterness from rising up in her heart against him. And in all this poverty and discomfort it soon came to be that they never talked to one another except to scold. And Van Gan came home drunk more and more frequently. The Power of a Lie by Johann Boyer Translated by Jesse Muir This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Einar Norby still kept his bed. He sat up among his pillows in the middle of the day, and each day a little longer than on the preceding one. As the days passed he saw the last patch of snow melt away down in the yard, and heard the noise of wheels take the place of the sledge-bell's jingle, and the starling making a noise in the gutter over his head. One day, too, he heard the sheep being let out with a great deal of bleeding in deep and high tones, and little canute shouting at them from the steps. To Einar this illness was a black darkness that separated him from something that had happened long ago, and about which he could not now think. As he emerged from this darkness, too, it struck him how comfortable he was lying there. He was a child once more, wrapped in the clothes his mother put upon him, and eating what she gave him with her own hand. He showed temper and was exacting, and she scolded him. She washed him and warmed his night-shirt for him at the stove, as in days gone by. A recovery from such an illness is like being born into the world again. Worn out as one is, every little trouble brings the tears to one's eyes, just as they make the baby scream, and waiting for mother when she is away too long is unbearable torture. As his strength returned, Einar noticed that his father never came to see him, and at the same time he understood that this was something he ought not to mention. It was also something that he ought not to think about, for there was so much besides that went with it, and that should not be allowed to come near him now. One day Ingeborg came up with some hot water in a bath, saying she thought it was about time he had his feet washed, and as he put out his clammy feet and enjoyed the wet sponge and her gentle touch, the tears came again to his eyes. Oh, how good it is to be at home now, he thought. He remembered that during his first attacks of fever he had felt horror at being tended by those whom he had betrayed, but that must have been part of the illness. During the feverish attacks he had also seen Vangan standing in the room and saying, I shall be sent to prison, and it is your fault. And Einar had screamed with terror, but that too had been part of his illness, and he had now recovered from it. Yes, it was a strange thing to be ill. While his sister dried his feet with a warm bath towel, he looked up at the ceiling and thought, thank goodness that I was prevented from doing these people any harm. As the days passed and he gradually became able once more to retain difficult thoughts, he felt a certain fear as to how it would be when he went downstairs and met his father. He supposed he would have to ask his forgiveness, but that too caused him a strange pain. Thoughts came to him. I have abandoned a sacred purpose, and just because I am lying here and receiving all this affection, I am becoming more and more powerless to take it up again. I was to save an innocent man from punishment, and I was to stand a test of character. But I broke down, I took flight, and now I am lying and thanking God for it. Mother! he cried involuntarily, and if she were not in the room he would be seized with an uncomfortable fear until she came back, and he knew her to be near him. How pale and thin you are, mother! How often you must have sat up at night! That's nothing, my dear boy! How are you now? Is there anything you've a fancy for? He felt these few affectionate words quite overwhelming, because they dispelled all fears, and for a time gave him perfect contentment and rest. Ingeborg came up one day with some budding birch twigs which she threw upon his bed. There's a harbinger of spring, she said. Now you must be quick and come out, and see what I'm doing in the garden. When at last he was able to sit up, his seat was placed at the window. Girls were running bare-headed across the yard. They were laughing and joking. It made him smile too. He had had a lot of fun down there among the houses as a boy. There was a reminiscence connected with every corner, and these were now awakened, and all his ideas connected themselves more and more with the place and the people who lived in it. Ingeborg came to him rather timidly one day and asked him to let her read to him out of a devotional book, and he assented in order to give her pleasure. Gradually, as he listened, however, he began to think it was beautiful. He had been mistaken in this too. One evening, when the reading was over, she said, The lake is quite open now. The steamer ran to-day. And Einar saw the great open lake, its surface of a greenish color, from the melting of the snow. Logs were drifting about here and there, and a bird was sitting upon a solitary piece of ice, and floating along with it, now and again flapping its wings. He saw the steamer with its awning, and ladies on board in light dresses. Hi-ho! Summer was coming! Do you know what Father's doing? asked Ingeborg with a smile. Father? whispered Einar, turning his head towards the wall. Yes, he's having a little room put up for you at the Saetid. The doctor wants you to be on the mountains this summer. Einar turned his face to her, and smiled suddenly like a naughty boy. Was his father really thinking about him, and doing something for him, too? Father hasn't come to see me, he said, after a little, sadly. Ingeborg sighed and gazed at the candle. He asks after you a hundred times a day, she said, and when you were worst he neither slept nor ate. A little later she looked at Einar's pale face among the pillows, and though his eyes were closed the tears were forcing their way from under their lids, and his lips were compressed. She rose and wiped the tears away with her pocket handkerchief, saying, I think it's to spare you that Father doesn't come, and besides you can hardly expect him to come as long as he doesn't know what you think of him. Einar's lips were more tightly compressed as if something hurt him. Shall I ask Father to come, Einar? Yes, he whispered. Norby had said to his wife that there had been a disagreement between himself and Einar, and that he would not go in to see him until the boy was well enough to talk about the matter. He had gradually become quite sure that his enemies had incited the boy against him, but who could have been knowing enough for that? Einar. Yes, it was well done. But how anxiously he had waited to see whether Einar would send to him. For after the manner in which they had parted, he did not feel able to see him until he yielded. But would he yield? Should he get his boy back? What were his thoughts now when the moment came at last? He went slowly up the stairs, but had to hold tight to the banisters. When he entered the room, he saw at once how emaciated the boy was. The thin beard that had been allowed to grow while he was ill made him unrecognizable. Einar's eyes were still wet, and he smiled anxiously as he held out his hand. Ingeborg had come up again with him, but slipped quietly out when she saw her father's emotion, and the two were left alone. The old man's lips were compressed as he seated himself, and took his son's outstretched hand. It was so damp and nervous and thin that he was quite afraid to take hold of it. Einar saw his father's emotion, and worn and excited as he was already, he burst into tears. Forgive me, father! The old man rose and arranged the coverlet better about his son. Don't talk about it, he managed to say, and you mustn't take this to heart now. It's bad for you. When, a little later, the old man once more stood alone in his office, he was sniffing as if he had a cold. Heaven be praised, he said, with his eyes raised to the ceiling. Thank God that I have got my boy back again! He sank upon the leather sofa, and sat staring in front of him, his lips trembling. Nothing so great had ever happened at Norby before, and so there was a higher purpose in this illness, he understood it now. Thank God, he said again, with his eyes raised to the ceiling. When a woman gets back her child that robbers have taken, one can understand that her joy is unbounded, but that her hatred of those who took him from her, her fear of their coming again, and her desire to render them harmless, are just as great as her happiness. It was the same with Norby now. In the midst of his joy, he thought of Vangan. They didn't succeed, he thought. There's one who's stronger than all their artifices. While he sat and thanked God in an indescribable feeling of happiness, he saw Vangan and his other enemies as evil forces that might come again, but they should really be made harmless now. He shall leave the district, he thought, in mingled anger and pleasure. He's done harm enough now. He shan't only go to jail, he ought to be transported. And if Norby's best friend had now said to him, But you have guaranteed for this same Vangan, Norby would have knocked him down, for God knows it was false. Could the hands be clean of a man who had recourse to such tricks? No, no, no! If a thought such as this crossed the old man's mind, it filled him with disgust, and he felt he must spit it out. No, he was completely in the right. That devil actually declared that Norby had signed his document at the Grand. Good gracious! I thank thee, O God, but he shall be turned out of the district. Father and brother were to leave their farm. She had determined to get up very early in order to go and help them with anything that might be wanted. But at four o'clock she was awakened by somebody knocking at their door. She was surprised, but got up, put something on, and went to the door and asked who was there. It was her brother. When she opened the door she saw in the gray light that he looked quite distracted. Is anything the matter? She asked. Father! he whispered, in a terrified whisper, and remained standing outside. Do come in! What's the matter with Father? Her brother did not answer immediately, but walked past her into the room, and sat down heavily. By this time she was so frightened that she did not dare to ask, but stood dumbly waiting. And as she stood there in the half-light with her shawl wrapped round her, her brother told her, as carefully as he could, that the evening before they had missed his father and had been round the neighborhood searching and inquiring, and at last they found him hanging in the barn at home. When Vangan at last came down in the morning he found his wife sitting in the same scanty attire in the sitting room, staring straight before her. There was no coffee-made, nothing was done. She only sat there. Why, Karen, what is it? Nothing, she said huskily. This day too she had to go about and see to the day's work. The eldest girl had to go to school, the two younger ones to be taken care of, and the usual errands to be gone up to the farm to fetch food and milk. But all the time her old father seemed to be with her. Rather than leave the home of his ancestors in poverty, he had parted with life. She could see him hanging by his thin neck in the barn where she had so often played blind man's bluff, and all the time he kept saying, It is your fault. Why did you marry him? Now you see. Great exertion was needed to make her feet carry her where she had to go. When Vangan heard it, he sat motionless for some time, his face buried in his hands. The image of this old man, whom he had driven to death by his recklessness, took him back once more to that afternoon in the dark railway carriage, when self-knowledge and cold responsibility had overwhelmed him as a superhuman burden. Oh! he cried suddenly, starting up. This is too much, Karen. I can't bear it. You must help me. I think you ought to help me," she replied monotonously, without looking at him. Later in the day he came in and found her again sitting and gazing straight before her, motionless and far away, although their youngest child was standing crying and pulling at her skirts. And when she fixed her eyes upon him, he started involuntarily. He did not know whether her gaze was full of terror of him, or whether it was hatred. Now she thinks this is my fault, and she'll say so soon, he thought, and although he knew it was true, he felt a desire to oppose and keep her at a distance. As if I hadn't enough to bear already, he thought, and she wants to throw this upon me. And he worked himself up to still greater irritation against her, as if this new misfortune had been in some way or other due to her. They went about in fear of one another, each keeping silence from a suspicion that the other was ready to recriminate. They had been torn from the home in which they had passed happy years, and the discomfort and poverty of the miserable cottage only helped to remind them of their misfortune and keep them apart. While Fru Vangan was standing in the kitchen, making some soup for the children, she suddenly sank into a chair and stared into the fire with terrified eyes. For her father, as he hung there, said that he did not mind about Vangan. It was only she, he troubled about, she who had brought him into the family. It was she. The soup boiled over, and Fru Vangan did not notice it. The floor seemed to be sliding away from under her, and she thought that something black stretched out hands towards her until she turned cold with terror, and began involuntarily to look for something to save her. It was the bankruptcy that had ruined them all. But supposing that Vangan were really innocent, then her father might have made his speech to those who were guilty. She also now saw in Vangan's innocence a plank to which she could cling. He was innocent, he must be innocent. Later in the day Vangan had gone to her father's farm, as she did not feel equal to it. But he turned back, too, when he saw the house. He dared not see the dead man. When he came home, his wife was sitting alone with her elbows upon the table and her chin resting in her hands. Where are the children? he asked at once, looking round. They're sent away, she said in a dull tone, looking at him. An uncomfortable suspicion suddenly crossed his mind. But tell me where they are, he said, opening the door to the other room. But there was no one there. I telephoned for your aunt, she said, in the same tone as before. She came at once and drove away a little while ago. And as he still stood and looked at her a little uncertainly, she added, I thought it would be better for you, Henry. Is there anything you would like me to help you with? It sounded so mysterious. He did not thank her, because he felt it was not to him she spoke, but to herself. It was uncomfortably empty in the bedroom when they went to bed that night. The children's places were empty. Although through Vangan had been frightened into turning to her husband, clung to his innocence, and felt a desire to support him and show him confidence, she could not speak to him yet, for she did not want to say anything unkind, and she could not yet say anything kind. The silence was all the greater, because there was no sound of whimpering, no gentle breathing, no little bodies turning over in bed or requiring covering. Husband and wife were thrown back upon each other, and the silence and the breach between them forced them to look into themselves, where each saw the old man hanging in the barn. Vangan was in bed before his wife, and lay looking at her. It took her so long to undress, it was as though she dreaded going to bed. Now and again she looked round bewildered, as if she expected to find the children there after all. It's not my fault this time at any rate, he thought, but she'll lay the blame on to me all the same. When at last she was in bed, lying on her back with her hands under her head, looking up at the ceiling, he had an uncomfortable feeling that she was capable of anything, perhaps that very night when he was asleep. A tallow candle was burning on a stool by his bedside, but he dared not put it out. Aren't you going to put out the candle? She asked in a dull voice, still looking up at the ceiling. He had to put it out at last. The gray light of the spring night showed in the window, which had no blind, and they both lay with wide open eyes fixed on this faint light, as if they were afraid of closing them or looking into darkness. Neither of them had any pretext for rising to attend to one or other of the children, so they were forced to lie still and let the thoughts put up their heads out of the night. She seemed to see her father as he was the last time he came to her, saw him down in the garden, heard his opinion of her husband. Why, wasn't I more compliant then? she thought. It's too late now. I can never make up for it. What have I done? Vangan lived over again the scene when he had borrowed the last ten thousand Kronas. He lied, he exaggerated, he persuaded, and believed in it. That was how it seemed with all his ideals now. He believed in them, they intoxicated him slightly, but just look at the consequences. He involuntarily began to tremble in his bed, for he felt as if he would have to drag the dead body of the old man after him for ever and ever. Through Vangan noticed his distress, and it made her own greater. Is it his fault after all? She thought, and felt her anger rise. But in that case it would be her fault, too. No, he was innocent. He must be innocent. The desire to hold him up insensibly gained the upper hand, and she put out her hand towards him. Take hold of my hand, Henry! And when their hands lay in one another's, the two alone together, they were as they had been when they were newly married and fell asleep with fingers intertwined. Shouldn't I have married him when I was fond of him? She thought, as if her father could hear. And she insensibly conjured up the memory of the beautiful moments in their early love, as if to convince herself that she was honest now. But her father had objections to make, hanging there, and she involuntarily pressed her husband's hand closer. This union of their hands in affection gave their fear another direction. They were at last able to occupy themselves with others, and therefore began to be sorry for one another, because that kept them from seeing to the bottom of their own misery. My poor Karen, said Vangan, it's worst for you, after all. She loosed his hand to stroke his wrist, and answered in a low voice. Oh no, Henry, it's worst for you. Good heavens! No, Karen, for I'm a man, and he was your father. The last words gave her a shock, and once more brought the image of the dead man before her eyes. But she could not stand this any longer. It couldn't be Vangan's fault, and insensibly she took refuge in Vangan, in his innocence, wherein now lay her only safety. Henry, may I come into your bed? Yes, dear. He too was glad not to feel alone any more. He held up the bed-clothes, and she crept in, and as in the old days, laid her head upon his shoulder, clung to him so as to feel safe and calm. He covered her up carefully, and put his arms about her. The confidence of each inspired the other, and they took refuge in one another, in the hope of finding the good conscience they both sought for. And as the warmth of one body was imparted to the other, and they became one, they began involuntarily to talk of their common excuse, as if to convince themselves, each through the other. After lying a little while, she said softly, against his cheek, with a sigh. Oh, dear, all this wouldn't have happened if— He understood what she meant, and passed his disengaged hand across his forehead. No, he said, it wouldn't. And at the words they both saw Norby and the rich men as the powers of evil against which their indignation might rise. And instead of feeling themselves guilty, they began to feel themselves as a kind of champions of right and truth. For him especially, it was so good to hear this from her. For now she no longer doubted, either. Outside the spring night was passing slowly. They could hear the sound of rain on the doorstep, and of the brook that ran down past their house from the little valley. She had been lying some time looking at the window, when she said, Perhaps Harstad's widow was pressed into making that declaration, too. Yes, said he, stretching himself. This suspicion of his that she had abhorred before, she now felt a desire to cling to. There was a relief, a kind of acquittal in it. They tried to close their eyes and be silent, but neither of them could sleep, and both wanted to go on listening to their defence. Well, now they'll go to America, most of the work people, he said, and left her to say the rest. And in a little while she said, All those who can work are likely to go, when things are managed as they are here. He felt such pleasure and comfort every time she said what he had so often said. She was quite on his side at last. At last she, too, felt convinced. And you had thought of establishing a pension fund for them, too, she said. Yes, if I could only have gone on. And how well the working men lived! I remember when their wives brought them their meals, how pleased and happy they looked. Yes, it's different now, he said. The night was very long, but they kept close to one another and talked at intervals about the same thing as if it were a fire that had to be kept up. She even ventured to say, Don't you think people would have got plenty good interest on their money if only you could have gone on in peace? Yes, of course. Why, it was improving all the time until the rich men grew frightened. Yes, I haven't understood until now what a disappointment it must have been for you, she said with feeling, and burying her head in his shoulder she whispered, Can you forgive me, Henry? I haven't been what I should have been. He was touched. Forgive, he said. Why, I've nothing to forgive. You've been so clever, Karen, and have had so much to see to. But I'll help you now. Don't talk like that, Henry. I see now that you must have felt paralyzed. Thus the night passed. They talked themselves more and more together, and found their own confidence in one another. They both felt haunted by the dark, cold responsibility, and fled hand in hand towards the land of innocence. The spring was early this year, and when Pastor Boring went up the avenue to Norby Farm at the beginning of May, the trees were in leaf, and a strong scent of leaves and grass filled the air. The priest carried a bag in his hand. He was going on a sick visit to Lars Claven up on the hill. Many of the young trees in the avenue were torn up or broken off, as if after a hurricane. But it was after the working men's procession to Norby, on the first of May. When the priest came to the garden, he saw Norby inside the fence in a white working-coat, busy with some trees. The priest stopped and fell into conversation with him. It looks dreadful after the demonstrations, said he with a shake of the head. Upon my word, it's not only the consul's standing drinks that has fooled them, there must have been someone or other who has dealt out mental strong drinks, too. Norby looked surprised but laughed as he leaned upon his spade. The workmen, he said, they had nothing to do with the damage in the grounds. The wind did that one night. The priest looked a little sheepish and soon went on his way. That Norby had a peculiar way of being proud. He was so terribly afraid that anyone should pity him. The path up the hill was muddy after the rain in the night, but the leaves of the trees and the green slopes were glistening in the sun. Brooks ran noisily towards the fjord, and in the fields round about, men and horses were busy harrowing. At last the priest had mounted the last hill, on which stood the little cottage. Dwelling-house and cowshed together formed one building. It would be difficult to know the one from the other, were it not for the porch at one end, and two small windows at each side. The steps were washed and the stones strewn with fur twigs because the priest was expected. He had to stoop to enter. The ceiling was low, too, so that he had to keep his head bent. A saucepan of water was steaming on the fire. The floor was white and strewn with fur twigs. The wife was sitting dressed in her best with a hymn-book in her hand, and in bed, beneath an old-skin coverlet, lay Lars Claven, in a shirt so white that it must have been put on at the moment the priest was seen at the bottom of the hill. The priest first shook hands with the wife, and then went to the bed. And how are you, my dear Lars? Lars said nothing, pressed his lips together, and looked at the priest. It was his wife who answered, Oh, mercy, how frightened I was that he'd be gone before the priest came! The priest took the old man's hand. It was as hard as horn and quite cold. The furrowed weather-beaten face was motionless, and the old eyes looked up dullly. Now and then his mouth moved, for he still had his quid to chew. The pastor sat down. Are you afraid to die, my dear Lars? It was again the wife that answered. He has something to confess to you, she said. Indeed, the priest looked kindly at the old man in the bed. The dying man suddenly surprised him by sending a squirt of tobacco juice out of his mouth onto the floor. It was about the inquiry, he then said, looking anxiously at the priest. Oh, between Vangen and Norby? He wanted to go and give evidence, said the wife, but he hadn't the courage to give evidence against Norby. The priest looked expectantly at Lars, who kept his eyes all the time anxiously on him, still chewing his quid. Do you think there's pardon for me? he asked at length. Yes, why not? the priest smiled. When I didn't go and give evidence to the truth, even though God told me to. Are you sure you knew the truth, then, Lars? He went with Norby to town that time when he signed the paper, said the wife, who now stood by the table with her hymnbook in front of her, looking anxiously at the priest. Pastor Boring sat looking at the floor for a while. And now he thinks there's no pardon for him, said the wife, wiping her eyes. But I tell him that Christ died for that sin, too. The priest still looked down at the floor, but he felt the eyes of the dying man eagerly fixed upon him, and he knew that he must answer when he met those eyes. If Pastor Boring had been alone and uninfluenced by the moment, he would have answered, Even if Christ died for your sins, and even if you get to heaven, Vaugan may suffer just as much in consequence of your sin. He had it in mind to say it, too, but it was another matter to look up and meet the old frightened eyes. Do you think there's pardon for me? came at last from the bed, and the priest had to answer. Yes, he said, looking up. Will you pray for me? said Lars, turning his quid in his mouth. The priest rose and folded his hands. But what should he pray? He thought of Vaugan, but the sun shone brightly in upon the first strewn floor, throwing a few beams across the old-skinned coverlet and on the old man's shirt. It was like a message from him who shines upon the good and the evil, thought the priest, and there was such poverty and helplessness in this little cottage, and the two poor old people filled him with a desire to be merciful, and he began to pray God to be merciful. When he answered, the wife was crying, and the old man lay with his hands folded upon the coverlet, and the tears running down his cheeks. When the priest sat down, he said, Will you give me the sacrament? The priest rose mechanically and opened his bag. He heard the swallows flying past the window outside in the sunshine and the starling that had its nest up under the eaves. It was like another message to tell him that life was greater than man's idea of right and wrong. When he stood ready in his priest's robes, after pouring the wine into the chalice he had brought with him, he said with bowed head, Listen, Lars, the trial is next week. Won't you ask your wife to go and give evidence for you? I can confirm what you have now confessed. Oh, yes, said the old man, looking longingly at the chalice. The wife sighed upon her bench, but came up and took the quid out of her husband's mouth and laid it on the window sill. When the priest had given the sacrament, and had packed up his gown again, he sat a little longer by the dying man's bedside. It seemed as if Lars had only kept up in expectation of the sacrament and the forgiveness of his sins, and that he now suddenly began to sink. Once he opened his eyes and turned them upon his wife, she understood him, and took the half-chewed quid from the window sill and put it into his mouth. And Lars looked at her as much as to say, Yes, that was it. The priest rose and was taking his departure when the dying man looked once more at the priest and then affectionately at his wife and whispered, Oh no, she mustn't be made to go and give evidence, for he'll take the cottage from her if she does. Very well, said the priest, a little uncertainly as he paused. Old Lars smiled with content at finding that every prospect had brightened so wonderfully, both for time and eternity, and he settled himself deeper into his pillow. He then wanted to raise his head as if to spit, but could not. The tobacco stuck in his throat, and he coughed. And the cough became a dying rattle, and after a moment that too ceased. His wife stood some time gazing at him, and then went resolutely up and closed his eyes. She then turned to the priest. Thank God! she said with emotion, Now I know that Lars died saved. On his way homewards with his bag in his hand the priest stopped on the hill and, sitting down on a stone, rested his chin in his hand, and looked out over the parish. Whenever pastor boring had imparted forgiveness of sins he was always unhappy, for in the first place he did not feel that God had charged him with the forgiveness of sins, and in the second he did not believe in the notion of forgiveness. And yet in the course of time he had laid his hand in church upon the heads of thousands and lied this dangerous comfort into their souls. And now he was sitting here, unhappy once more. He had never felt more distinctly than now how altogether meaningless it was to pardon, to forgive. If God forgave Lars Claven, was he also to pardon on Von Gen's behalf? Von Gen would perhaps be unjustly condemned in spite of the pardon, and Von Gen's family, who were the sufferers? No, a wicked action is a thing that is set in motion, and perhaps never stops. It appears in consequences, and the consequences of those consequences. It spreads like an infectious disease, and no one knows when or how it will cease. Even if it is lost to sight it still goes on its way. Who will pardon here? God? Is it his duty to pardon it on the behalf of innocent persons? Thus thought pastor boring as he sat. On his way home he felt saddened and ashamed, as he so often did during the performance of an act from which he did not feel strong enough to free himself. But what was he to do now? The confessions of a dying man are sacred. CHAPTER V Fru Von Gen had been impatient for the demonstration to take place. The means that she had despised in her husband, she herself now felt a sudden desire to resort to, like a person in despair who gropes about for anything he can lay his hands on. But after the day when the consul had secretly made the demonstrators drunk so that they frightened the whole district with their behaviour, both Von Gen and his wife saw that these allies of theirs had once more injured their cause, for the whole district was quite sure that Von Gen was at the back of it all, and even Norby's worst enemies began to feel sympathy for him and to turn from Von Gen. As the trial approached, Von Gen's fear of being left to stand alone became greater and greater. It was witnesses that he must have, and now he no longer relied upon witnesses, for he had a suspicion that everyone hated him. At night, when he lay and polished up his innocence, he saw more and more vividly that scene at the Grand when the document was signed. At first he had not been quite sure that it was there, but as he had said it once it was most probable, and the oftener he said it the more certain he became that it was there and nowhere else. He now even remembered the corner they had sat in. There was Norby, Harstad, and himself, and they were drinking coffee after dinner. But was there no one else? Suppose there had been someone else who had seen it all. He conjured up this scene more and more vividly, as if it had some hidden power that might suddenly make its appearance and be his salvation. He seemed to sit there and even to feel the taste of the strong coffee. He saw people at the neighbouring tables while Norby signed. The cigar smoke lay in layers in the air. The waiters ran about with napkins under their arms, counted money, and drew corks. Glasses jingled, people laughed and made a noise, and conversation filled the café. And here sat the three and signed their names. But was there actually no fourth man? He began to have a suspicion that there had been one more, just because he so earnestly wished it. But perhaps they had brought him too. This thought angered him. It should be brought to light. He went on seeing the hands writing and the people round looking on. He even saw it when he slept. He saw it when he fixed his eyes upon anyone he was speaking to. This was the scene that had to be proved, and it therefore appeared in a feverish light, the more helpless he felt himself. At last he really began to have a consciousness that there had actually been a fourth man close by. At first it was only like a shadow on the wall, but the shadow acquired eyes that looked on while Norby signed. It acquired a voice that said, Yes, I saw it, but I will not interfere in the matter now. Indeed! But he would have to. He should be brought to light, no matter how well he had been paid for not interfering. Von Gyn became more and more eager to produce him, as the trial pressed closer upon him. One day he had again met the tailor with the mad eyes, and lay awake at night. He then saw this unknown form more vividly than ever. It resisted and would not advance, but it would have to, by Jove it would. And although Von Gyn again and again felt impelled to cuff himself and say that he was mad, he could not but wish, hope, and cling to this new possibility, which would perhaps save him at the last moment. One day he told his wife about it, and she became excited and encouraged him almost fiercely. As she questioned him more closely, and he had to answer with probable reasons, it came to be someone whom he did not quite recollect. It was several years ago. But to sit and talk about this person became a strengthening draft to them both. At last one evening, when they had once more been sitting and talking about it, and Von Gyn had been burrowing for some time in his memory, he suddenly sprang up, crying, I have him. Henry exclaimed his wife with a little cry also rising. It was Rasmus Brodersen. Oh, thank God! she panted with her hands upon her breast. But Rasmus Brodersen was in America. Von Gyn believed, however, that one of the letters from him was on this subject. He got out his packets of letters, and began to read through all letters from this old school friend of his. He did not find it that evening. It was possible it might have been lost. The excitement and tension of these hours made through Von Gyn quite ill. She wanted to sit up at night, but he wanted to wait until the following day. And as he seated himself, with fresh packets of letters the next morning, he thought, she'll be beside herself if I don't find anything today. At about dinner time she came in to him in the bedroom where he was sitting, and asked for the twentieth time. Well, there should still be another packet somewhere or other, he said, scratching his head, and he began to rummage every receptacle to find it. It must be in this last packet, she thought, and she determined to leave him in peace, and let him come himself and tell her. And while she waited for this salvation for them both, she suddenly regained her pride and peace of mind. She went on her errands up to the farm, tall, with slow steps, bare-headed in the sun, her hair like a crown above the pale, beautiful face. Perhaps, after all, her husband's enemies would be disappointed. That day was the first on which she had not thought, I wonder how little bias is now. And as regarded her father, it was a great trouble and sorrow, but it no longer caused a bad conscience. At dinner time she went and listened at the door. She heard the rustling of paper, but she dared not disturb him to say that dinner was ready, although she had got some unusually good meat today, that she knew he would like. At last he came out, quite pleased and satisfied. He had not found it yet, but he was so sure that he would have it before the evening. The decided promise nearly turned her head with joy. Sleepless nights and emotion had unhinged her, and while they dined she was childishly gay. Oh, no, he should be left off having to tell her if only it came to light that evening. And she drank to his health in water, and put her finger in his glass to change his water into wine for him, and while she laughed over this the tears stood in her eyes. She was on thorns all the afternoon, but he had asked to be left alone, and he should be. At last he opened the door and said, smiling, Here it is, Karen! Once more she started up with the cry of Henry. Then she ran to him, seized the paper from him, and began to run through it. Ah, yes, it was written a couple of years ago, and mentioned a good dinner, and further on, yes, there it was, there it was! She hung upon his neck, took his head between her hands, and held it from her while she murmured, Why don't you kiss me? Why don't you fly up to the ceiling? Oh, I shall faint! She had to take the paper to read it once more. But, but, a cold shiver ran through her. This handwriting, it, it was so suspiciously like Vangan's own. She looked quickly up at him, but she dared not say anything. When I produced this in court, he said, smiling, I think it will be enough. Yes, of course, Henry! She still laughed with delight, but was obliged to sit down. What has he done, she thought, sitting and gazing straight before her. God help me! Everything seemed to crumble to pieces, and she gazed into his guilt in everything, in everything. But this could not be. It must not, must not be. She must have made a mistake. She would not look at the letter any more, and she gave it back to him with a smile, and begged him to take good care of it. It might perhaps help him a little, only a little, for he must be let off. That evening, when they were in bed, she said, You don't write any more in the papers now, Henry, but I think it might very well come to the knowledge of the public, how the pastor and the daughter have behaved to us. Yes, he said, and it might be a good thing if it were read by the jurymen too, before they went to pass verdict on me. And they tried to sleep, with hands interclasped. Chapter 6 A man was coming down the hills from the north, and stopped at Norby Seta, at the door of which Einar was sitting making a birch broom. While the stranger lay full length upon the grass, his head resting on his wallet, he related how he had met a she-bear and two cubs west of the great snow field. As news from the valley, he mentioned that Vangan's trial was to take place that day. Indeed, said Einar, and went on with his birch broom. He rode the man across the mountain lake, for he was going west and down into the other valley. Einar heard that the doctor's twenty-year-old daughter had come up to move excite, and this awakened pleasant recollections of the ball at Christmas. He had lived here for a month in delightful quiet. For company he had the old dairymaid, the dog, and the cattle. He was to drink milk, go for walks, keep his feet dry, and sleep and eat well. And day after day he plotted about in wooden shoes and freeze-clothes like any peasant. It was splendid. But now his peace was destroyed. The news of the trial had cut like a knife. Old wounds were reopened, and he felt a despair approaching which he was not equal to bearing, and to which he involuntarily rose in opposition in order to dismiss it. Had he not suffered enough in this matter? At night, when he lay sleepless, he represented to himself how good his father had always been. But as that did not feel sufficient, he resorted to the young girl, who was also up in the mountains now at Asaita. How pretty she had been last Christmas when they danced together. People whispered and pointed at them. But why had he thought so little about her since? I am too old-fashioned, he thought. I live in books and great ideas, and meanwhile the good years are passing, and I haven't lived the life of youth. But there is sunshine in the world too, thank goodness. These thoughts helped him to make the young girl's stay in the mountains still more important, and at length he fell asleep in the middle of a dance with her, just as at Christmas. The day following, when he went for a walk over the hill, he frequently stopped to look at Bhuvik Saita. He lay on the other side of the lake, just below the snow field, at a distance of some three or four miles. Perhaps he's already in prison, was the thought that cut through him. But he still looked up oftener and oftener towards Bhuvik Saita, which had now acquired much greater importance than before. Smoke was rising from the little grey houses, perhaps she was preparing her dinner. As the days passed, his thoughts were continually occupied with the young girl, as he then had no time to think of anything unpleasant or painful. He was no longer alone. There were he and she, they too alone in the mountains. Two eyes always seemed to be resting on him from something beautiful close by. They were so near one another, because they were many miles from the valley. He might go there on a visit, but he would prefer that they should meet by chance, perhaps down on the lake. He often fished along the shore on the other side, but he never saw her, and when he rode home he laughed at himself for actually being disappointed and sad. He had to keep her continually in his thoughts in order to feel quite calm. The mountains seemed to acquire a peculiar grandeur. One evening he rode out to a little island and lighted a large bonfire. But still no boat came rowing out, only the silent shores looked on. He no longer went about in wooden shoes, however, and he always took care that his shirt and his hands were clean. Not because he expected any one, but because there was always something beautiful within him, for which he had to adorn himself. At last one day a man came up from the valley with a pack-horse, and before Einar could prevent him, he had told him that von Gen was sentenced to a year's hard labor. The punishment had been increased because he had produced a forged letter in court. Einar sat on the doorstep and heard this. He covered his face with his hands and sat motionless. And I think of going on with my studies, I who can never look anyone in the face again. It was a beautiful day with a clear sky above the brown moors and distant Blue Mountain ridges, and the snow-fields lay shining like silver in the sun. In the evening Einar went down to the lake and pushed off the boat. He had thought for a time that the whole world was extinguished and that he ought to jump into the water because he was too full of shame to live. But from force of habit he once more recalled the young girl to his mind, and just because he himself now stood so immeasurably low, it seemed to him that she stood high, high, and stretched out her hands to rescue him. He rode slowly over the smooth water in the middle of which the red sky was reflected. Twilight enveloped the silent shores in a light haze. The houses and the green fold of Norby Ceter were reflected in the water, and in the wake of the boat lay two rows of rings in the water left by the dip of his oars. Gradually he seemed to enter a peaceful land, and at last he shipped the oars and let the boat drift. Gradually the world grew large and radiant. The moors looked at him and smiled. Everybody was happy in the main. Good heavens, he thought, now I'm beginning to understand what love is. End of Part 3, Chapters 5 and 6 Part 3, Chapter 7 of The Power of a Lie, by Johann Boyer, translated by Jesse Muir. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. One Saturday afternoon, Thora of Lirrende went out towards the sound. It was in hay-making time, and the moors were on the hills, making the hay into cocks for the evening. The fresh scent of hay was wafted through the air. Lake Muizen lay still and clear, so that through Thora could see the stony bottom a long way out. She turned up the avenue to the big parish school building, entered the yard, and hastened up the steps, for there were others she must manage to call on to-day. Although the principal was occupied for the time being with some pupils in dialect, his wife went and fetched him when she heard that through Thora had come on an important errand. Then soon they were all three sitting round a table in the large comfortable drawing-room, with port wine in front of them. Principal Heggen was a man of about fifty years of age, with a bald head, a long brown beard, and spectacles. He had a fine high forehead, and nice eyes. He was well known for his kind disposition, and as he was most unsuspecting, he loved many things. As regarded religion, he was a warm advocate of a national Christianity. Yes, I've come on an important errand to-day, said through Thora, sipping her glass. Both the schoolmaster and his wife looked attentively at her. She continued with a smile, as she looked from one to the other. It's in connection with recent events. It has been a sad time, and a disgrace to the district. Yes, said through Heggen, shaking her head as she knitted. But we who sit here have got off fairly well. I only got sneered at a little in the papers, because I was rude enough to wish to take one of their children for a time. And you, Heggen, have been found fault with because you remained neutral. Fru Thora could not help laughing. Poor man, said the schoolmaster, playing with his beard. Yes, it's hard on him, and we won't judge Vangan, said she, but as long as we live in an orderly community, I suppose we have the right to some protection, and it doesn't do to go on as Vangan has done. Fru Heggen shook her head once more, said no, and looked at her husband. But the person who has suffered most during this time, dear friends, is Norby, and I've come to propose that we make him some reparation in one form or another. Heggen rose and left the table in order to fill himself a pipe, which he slowly lighted, and then returned to the table and seated himself. Out of doors the sun was beginning to set, and sent golden beams into them through the treetops in the garden. Well, what do you think of doing? Heggen finally asked, while he endeavored to make his pipe draw. Fru Thora colored a little. She had expected that she would meet with opposition here, so she had come here first. She braced herself and continued courageously. Well, we see what our great politicians, for instance, do when one of their number has been exposed to unjust attacks. They give him a banquet, and I think we might give a little festive entertainment for Norby. It might be as simple as possible. Heggen and his wife looked at one another. Yes, said he, but with a slightly embarrassed smile. There was a short pause, which Fru Thora dared not allow to become too long. With reference to the heart of the matter, she said, you too believe, do you not, that Norby was altogether in the right? Yes, said Heggen, shaking his head a little. There seemed to be something he would not say. Yes, said Fru Heggen too. He said from the very first that Von Gehn was guilty, and Heggen has a wonderful power of judgment in such cases. Well, then, said Fru Thora, I hope you won't let old disagreements stand in the way this time. We ought really to begin to appreciate the worth of others than those we always agree with. Oh, dear, yes, said Heggen eagerly. But who did you think of asking to join? Fru Thora laid a pretty hand upon the table, as if to give more emphasis to her words. All who wish to, the authorities, peasants, all without difference, wouldn't it be nice if government officers and country people for once joined hands and said, One of our best men has been persecuted, and his name sullied. Here we are, and we will join hands and wash him clean again. An example should really be set to show that Christianity and national feeling are not just words, but that we actually help a brother when he is in need. Has Norby taken it to heart? asked Heggen, with a look of sympathy. I don't know. He is so proud, that man. He certainly doesn't complain. But now, today, my brother in Bergen wrote to me and asked if it were really true that Norby had defrauded the widow for whom he's trustee. That's the way ill-natured remarks spread. And how much wouldn't a man lose by such things? Oh, yes! sighed through Heggen. There's always someone ready to repeat an ill-natured thing. And there's one thing we must be all agreed about, continued through Thora, and that is that a better head of a family and master than Norby is not to be found in the district. Where would you find anyone so good to his old servants and men? The schoolmaster thought it over, and the warm appreciation of Norby's goodness to his farm servants touched him and overcame his last scruples. Well, I'm willing to join, he said. But who is to make the speech? He thought to himself. Yes, said through Thora, taking another sip of wine. But you aren't going to be let off so easily. You will have to make the speech. No one can do it so well. I, said Heggen, his brow flushing. But he finally agreed. If a few words were to be said in honour of Fru Norby, perhaps Fru Thora of Lidorende might attempt them. When she left she felt relieved and happy at having succeeded here. Now the rest would be easily managed, and she hastened down the avenue as briskly as a young girl, while the last rays of the sun fell through the leaves upon her light dress. With no suspicion of Fru Thora's plan, Knut Norby was sitting that day hard at work with his accounts. He had at last fallen again into his old ways. He had wasted so much time on all that nonsense with Vangan that there must be an end of this. He must set to work and make up for what he had lost. His hair had grown a little grayer during the last few months, and he was pale and tired. It had been rather trying the way things had gone on. When he had finished and gone out on to the steps with his pipe in his mouth, Ingeborg came up to him and told him, with tears in her eyes, that the old dairymaid was dead. Norby put his pipe in his waistcoat pocket and went across with her to the little cottage. The two old farm men were sitting by the bed in the little room, looking straight before them, with their large coarse hands folded between their knees. The eyes of the one who had been engaged over and over again to the dairymaid were wet. Norby, too, stood and looked at the old dead servant with trembling lips. That afternoon he went up over the hills to the little cottage where Lars Clevin's widow sat sorrowful. When he entered he had to stoop under the ceiling. The old woman was sitting by her spinning wheel. She rose in alarm, thinking, He's come to take the cottage from me after all. How are you? asked Norby, sitting down with his stick between his knees. Thank God I can't complain of my health, she said timidly, but I'm dreading the winter. Well, the dairymaid's leaving us now, said the old man, and her little room will be empty. If you can be satisfied with it you can move into it for the rest of your days. I think they clean it today, so it'll be ready to-morrow. And your cow and fowls, yes, you can bring them with you, there's room enough. The old woman folded her hands and gazed at him in amazement for a little while, before she sank down and burst into tears. But at that Norby left. He did not like tears. As he trudged homewards he had no feeling of having done anything good. He had only moved a thing into its proper place. It is true her husband had let himself be tempted by Vangan and his people. But he, poor fellow, lay in his grave now, and there was nothing more to be said about that. On the hill he sat down and looked out over the valley, which lay bathed in the last gleams of sunshine, with long blue shadows over the lake. He sat there for some time, his hands resting upon his stick. He felt as if he had come into a haven after a long storm. They had been evil days and sleepless nights, but one could not expect to have things always go well. They had tried every possible way to injure him. Lies and slander, newspaper vulgarity, riots at his farm, and influencing Einar. Well, well, the boy should never hear the slightest allusion to that matter. But there was one thing that the old man could hardly help laughing at, and that was that at one time he had really thought that his own hands were not quite clean. He smiled now and shook his head. It was too funny. He remembered too, now, that at that dinner in town Vangan had asked him to stand surety, but that they had then gone to the Grand and signed? It was incredible audacity to say such a thing. It was what his wife always said. He was often too kind-hearted, especially in good company, and because he was kind-hearted, he had believed that if Vangan could go and say he had stood surety, there must be something in it. He did not know then what a scoundrel the fellow was. And now at last there would be peace in the district again, and labour conditions would be decent once more. Perhaps some people believed some of the calamities about him. Well, let them believe them. He lived on his farm and cared for no one. But it was hard on Vangan's wife. They said she had taken to her bed after the trial. When Norby got home he found Fru Thora of Lira Rende in the drawing-room. She had come to say that half the district, with the authorities at their head, had subscribed to a dinner in his honour. Nonsense! he said, laughing, for at first he would not believe it at all. But when she asked what day would suit him, he sighed and considered. It must be true, then. In a little while he answered, Well, I can't go to any sort of entertainment as long as someone is lying dead here. Marit Norby looked at him in surprise, but understood once that it would be useless to dispute the matter. When Fru Thora went away she was almost disappointed because the old man had not been touched by the dinner. It's possible to be too proud, she thought. End of Part 3, Chapter 7 Part 3, Chapter 8 of The Power of a Lie by Johann Boyer translated by Jesse Muir. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When at length the day for the dinner could be fixed it became a busy time for Fru Thora. She managed to get it agreed to that for once they should try to kindle exhilaration without the aid of strong drink. There should be only homemade wine and milk. To make up for this she got hold of the best members of the Young Men's Club and began to rehearse a play that was to be acted after the dinner. She also intended to decorate the walls of the large town hall in which the dinner was to be held, in a way that would form a suitable frame to the guest of honour. When at last the great day arrived she was both worn out and nervous, for, as usual, when one person is energetic and throws himself heart and soul into a matter, the other members of the dinner committee had sat down and left everything to her. In the afternoon of that day she heard that Fru Vangen was still confined to her bed, whereupon Fru Thora very quickly made up her mind that she should not take part in any gaiety that evening without first having inquired about the poor woman. If there was nothing else to be done she would offer to take her in for a time and the children with her. When she came to the little cottage among the fir trees in which the Vangen's had last lived she found the door locked in the shutters before the windows. An uncomfortable fear made her actually run up to the farm where she met a girl who was drawing up water from a well. Where is Fru Vangen? she asked. She is up in an attic here, said the girl. I suppose I can go up to her? The girl shook her head. Fru Vangen would not even speak to the master, and both the priest and the doctor had come to see her and she would not see either of them. Oh, but do go up and tell her it's me, said Fru Thora. The girl took the bucket and went, but when she came out onto the steps again she shook her head. Fru Vangen wanted to be alone. Besides, the girl then added, she had got up and was going to see her children. But what is she going to do now? asked Fru Thora. Nobody knows, said the girl. She doesn't say a word about it. Fru Thora had tears in her eyes as she went homewards. Of course, this dinner for Norby must wound Fru Vangen, but it really could not be helped. Guilt is guilt and reparation must be made to the innocent. It was Saturday afternoon and the dinner was at seven. The last loads of hay had been driven in from the fields and the well-raged hills had taken on a soft, dark green colour, while the leafy slopes had here and there begun to get golden patches upon which the sun shone. When at about six o'clock the first carriages drove up towards the town hall they met near the fjord a tall pale woman hurrying along with bent head. It was Fru Vangen. Her little faded straw hat seemed to have been put on in a hurry and stood off too much from her head, raised by the quantity of fair hair that still lay like a crown above her pale, beautiful face. When she got out to the ridge that descends steeply to the fjord she saw no more carriages in front of her and seated herself upon a stone by the wayside. She rested her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands and gazed out over the fjord whose calm surface reflected the red clouds in the sky. When she had seen the children, where should she go? What should she do? Could she keep both herself and them? Or, oh no, she ought not to think of that now, for thinking was what she could not and dared not do. She passed her hand across her forehead and side. I must take care, she thought, that what is in there doesn't get loose, for then I might go mad and then I shouldn't be allowed even to see the children. She had a letter from Vangan that day. He said that he was trying to obtain a pardon, but she was not equal to further faith. She could not believe in his innocence any more, if he had only confessed it at first at any rate to her. But now, her father had been right, her father, the whole thing overwhelmed her like a terrible darkness. Suddenly she started up and hurried on. She must manage to reach the children before dark, for she dared not be out alone when it was dark. When the carriage drove down the avenue from Norby Farm, the two daughters sat opposite their parents, and Einar with the coachmen on the box. Einar had come home quite unexpectedly. That evening, when he rode across Dubuvik's Seta, he had met with a great disappointment. The doctor's daughter had left for the valley that afternoon. From that time Einar founded unbearable up on the mountains. It was no help now, in his expeditions over the moors, to look over to Dubuvik's Seta. The disgrace he had fled from now met him both out of doors and indoors, and his eagerness to reach this young woman thereby became greater than ever. So he packed up his things and set off. He must catch her up. He must know for a certainty whether she cared for him or not. At home he settled down in a wonderful way. The good conscience that everyone there had was infectious, and he could not but feel glad that his parents should now be rewarded for all their troubles with this dinner. It was high time that he, too, gave up his ugly suspicion. As he sat upon the box, he gazed at the carriages that were driving up to the flag-decorated town hall. Would she be there this evening? Muret Norby looked handsome as she sat leaning a little towards her husband, dressed in a silk dress and light straw bonnet. Knute, however, was by no means happy, for as he grew to feel himself more and more firmly in the right, he had become more indifferent to the respect of the district. Fancy if people were making this fuss because they were sorry for him. In that case he would like to tell them that they were mistaken. There was nothing the matter with him yet. Nevertheless, as he saw carriage after carriage drive up to the town hall, a smile played about the corners of his mouth. For he was thinking of Mads Hurlufsen. Would he come? Or was he sitting at home sulking? In that case Norby would like to see him. As they drove into the yard of the town hall, Einar saw the doctor's gig driving away. There was room for only two in it, the doctor and his wife, so she was not there. He had been so anxious about this for days and nights past that the disappointment was very great, and for a moment he lost all desire to go in. Something awoke in him that shook him and said, What are you about, Einar? Between two flags on the steps stood the bailiff and Fruthora of Lirrende to receive the guests of honour, and Einar slowly followed the others up the steps. Laura, who today was wearing her first light silk dress, grew suddenly red when she noticed a beardless youth standing in the passage and looking at her. It was the bailiff's son who had just taken his degree in forestry. I wonder if he will take me into dinner, she thought, her heart beginning to beat. The only person who lived in the town hall building was the midwife of the district who had two rooms in one wing. There the pastor's wife was now busy at the head of a flock of maids serving the dinner. She was both angry and in despair because the railway hotel which was providing the dinner had forgotten to send gravy with the joint, and now a servant came and said that Norby had come and that people were sitting down to table. Who's asked them to sit down to table? cried the pastor's wife. A nice dinner committee they are. And she rushed to the telephone and rang up violently. Hello! Are you never going to let us have that gravy? End of Part 3 Chapter 8 Part 3 Chapter 9 of The Power of a Lie by Johann Boyer translated by Jesse Muir. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When Norby entered the hall, the first thing he noticed was that her Lufsen was not among the guests. But all the other magnates were there, and there was a general greeting when he appeared. It was a large airy hall, and the setting sun shown through the long windows that looked out upon the fjord, and formed three broad bands of light across the floor, upon which the festively attired guests moved, either through the dark or through the gold. There was a hum of conversation, and there was a continual cracking of whips outside, where fresh carriages were driving up to the steps or off towards the roads. Among the dress-coated farmers, who cautiously kept close to the walls, while they glanced at the long table decorated with flowers, strutted the owner of the saw-mills a stout man with a gold chain dangling upon his expansive waistcoat. He laughed loudly, and his red face shone, for when he had heard that there was nothing to be got here but homemade wine, he had indulged a little before he left home. Ladies and gentlemen, he said with a wave of his hand, I don't think you're in a properly festive mood yet. The magistrate, a stout man with silvery hair and beard, took Norby by the arm and pointed out the walls. They were decorated with flags and garlands of leaves, and here and there, in place of arms, were old artistic domestic articles, such as painted and carved harness and saddles, wooden spoons and bowls with flowers painted on them. Fruthora had lent the rudiments of her country museum. Look here, said the magistrate, with a pleasant little laugh. Isn't that pretty? There's Norwegian nature in the greenery, freedom in the flags, and our northern culture in all the rest. The combination forms a beautiful harmony. Yes, it's quite pretty, said Norby, with a slight yawn. Suddenly he felt his coattails pulled, and turning round he found two old acquaintances smiling at him, both farmers from up the valley who had been jury men at the trial. What! Have you come all this way? said Norby, taking them by the hand. They told him that Vongan was supposed to be busy upon a fresh newspaper article, which accused the jury men of partiality, and when they heard that, they were so angry that they set their teeth and came to the dinner too. But now Norby was led to the table. At one end of the long table a kind of raised seat had been arranged for the guest of honour, and on one side of him sat his wife, on the other the wife of the magistrate. When he looked down the table, and all the handsome women in gay silk bodices and male notorieties with wide shirt fronts, he could not help turning his head to his wife and whispering, This is just like what we had at our silver wedding. During the soup, Einar got into a discussion with a member of the Storthing, who sat opposite him. Several others took part in the discussion, and Einar grew angry, but suddenly he felt as if an invisible hand had struck him, and a voice within him said, Yes, be severe in your judgment of others, Einar, you who are such a hero yourself. And he instantly bowed his head and was silent, and he felt the blood mount to his face. Laura, true enough, had been paired with the bailiff's son, and though he had not yet noticed her new dress, she still felt that everything was wrapped in a wonderful golden mist, and she had a vague notion that this was her own wedding. After dinner you must help me with something, he said to her. What is it, she asked curiously, as she tried to push an obstinate wave of hair off her forehead. I won't tell you now, you must wait. When the joint was served, the schoolmaster rose and tapped his glass. This was Fru Thora's great moment, and she felt her heart beat with joy and pride, for there had been so much ill-will between the schoolmaster Heggen and Knut Norby. Now Heggen was standing there, and was going to make a speech in honour of his enemy. This was her work, and there had been many misunderstandings between the schoolmaster and the old magistrate, but she had made Heggen take the magistrate's daughter into dinner, for they should all be friends this evening, and learn to understand one another. Looking at the speaker, Isn't he handsome? she whispered to the gentleman who had taken her in. The sun was just sinking, and its last rays played upon the glass on the table, and made the tulips in the large bouquets glow. Forks were laid down, and faces turned toward the schoolmaster's tall figure. His voice vibrated with emotion, and Fru Thora thought that she had never heard him speak so beautifully, as now, when he was making a speech in honour of his old enemy. He called this dinner an event in the district. He held his glass in one hand, and with the other fingered his long beard, and looked at nothing in particular through his spectacles, while the sun threw a ray of light across his fine forehead. This was an event, because he had never seen so many dissimilar people united in a common object, a common desire to do good. There were still Birkenbinds and Boglars to divide people in this country, but this evening he seemed to read a message of spring in this festive meeting. Like Olaf at Stegelstad, he seemed to be looking out over the whole country, with its blue hills and shining fjords, over farms and lands, and into the many mines. And he described the day when all men would be united in a sabbath atmosphere, with hands joined in brotherhood, united in waging war against the powers of evil, united in helping those who had suffered wrong. Whatever religion we profess, or party we belong to, we shall henceforward agree in considering that the human in man is higher than all difference of opinion. And when the human being, Norby, suffers persecution and derogation as he has lately done, we hasten to him and enclose him in a chain of fraternity and say, Here we are, your brothers and sisters, Knut Norby, we will wash you clean. Here we are!" Scarcely a breath was heard during the impressive speech, until the sound of gentle weeping was heard a little way up the table. It was Frew Hagen, who always cried when her husband made a speech. Gradually several faces turned from the speaker to the guests of the evening. Frew Norby sat with her eyes full of tears and smiled. But Norby looked down, and modestly shook his head as if to say, You mustn't say anything more, Hagen. When at length the speech came to an end, and the guests rose to drink with the guests of honour, the sawmill owner roared, Long live Norby, and Frew Norby! Hip, hip! And his abandonment to the spirit of the occasion was quickly followed, and the hurrahs rang. Ingeborg sat and looked on with tears in her eyes. Her joy was unbounded. She thought how patiently her father had borne all the persecution. She thought of her prayers and involuntarily looked upwards, saying to herself, My God, I thank thee for answering my prayers! She seemed to see a host of good protecting spirits, above the heads of her parents up there. Her mother looked at her. They both had tears in their eyes and smiled. They remembered the night when they dared not go to bed after the riots at Norby. To marit Norby it seemed now as if all evil, all suspicion, were melting and must be wept out, and it felt so delightful that she could not help smiling all the time. But worse was to come, when Frew Thora of Lirrende rose, after the knives and forks had clattered for a time, and made a speech in her honour. It was a woman's and a mother's heart beating with hers. Mention was made of her struggle to keep up her husband's courage in adversity, even while she was nursing her son through a dangerous illness. It was a great deed, a woman's heroic action, such as as seldom mentioned at festive entertainments, but is often, very often, performed in secret. No one had ever heard such eloquence in a woman. She stood there, slim, youthful in appearance, despite her five and forty years, full of fire and warmth of feeling. Her hearers were astonished that this feeling did not overwhelm her and make her burst into tears, but she stood and smiled all the time, although her eyes were wet. Everyone had to acknowledge that she was handsome, in her plain black dress and little white lace collar about her neck. It was no wonder that she showed feeling, for she was thinking all the time of her own son, the little Gunnar of Lirrende, who was in bed with hooping cough. The toasting and cheers for Frun Norby were deafening, but she burst into audible weeping, for it was true. It had been a hard time. At the mention of his mother and his illness, Inar was also touched and went up and drank with his parents. It had gradually grown so dark that the large hanging lamps over the table had to be lighted, and although there was nothing but homemade wine, spirits had risen so that most of the faces shown red in the lamp-light, the conversation was lively and the laughter resounded. The two jurymen were seated at the lower end of the table. One of them now said cautiously to the other, Isn't it customary to chair the guest of honour? We mustn't be in a hurry, said the other as cautiously. What was it we called Norby when we were at the agricultural school with him? Fatty, said the other surreptitiously, taking up a bone in his fingers. His companion began to laugh, for it was so amusing to think that they had once been so intimate with Norby as to call him Fatty. But now a silence fell on the assembly when Norby himself tapped his glass. He rose a little red in the face and looked first at Marit and then at the company assembled. His voice was hoarse when he said, I must return thanks both for myself and my wife, and now I will ask you to drink to the health of one of whom I cannot help thinking this evening, the judge. And when the health had been drunk, Fru Thora cried enthusiastically, Long live the judge! Long live the jury! This evoked loud applause, and the sawmill owner led the enthusiasm with his hip-hip. One of the jury men started up, saying, Come, now we'll take him. Don't be in a hurry, said the other. Yes, said the first, we'll show people that we repudiate Von Gyn's charge of partiality. At this the other rose too, and they both stole up to take Norby by the arms. At first the old man resisted strenuously, but when one of the jury men said, Come, now, fatty! Memories of younger days were called up, and he laughed and gave in. The whole company shouted when he was carried round, and when he had got back to his seat Fru Thora got up and said to a young farmer's wife, Then Fru Norby shall be carried round too. And they rushed up and took Marit by the arms, and the enthusiasm increased, except with the sawmill owner, where it gradually began to come to a sad end. While the others grew merrier as they ate and drank homemade wine, his spirits began to go down more and more, and he whispered to the magistrate, Don't you think we shall have a little something with the coffee? The magistrate shook his head, and the mill owner sighed deeply, and wiped his forehead. I say, said Norby to his wife, it's strange that her Lufson isn't here. How naughty you are! whispered Marit, laughing, and the old man chuckled. More speeches followed, the best being won by a young teacher in honour of his country. The national song was then sung standing, several taking parts, and finally, Pastor Boring rose. He knew that he was expected to say something, and although his presence had been well considered, he felt strangely oppressed. After Von Gyn had made use of a forged letter in court, he understood, of course, that his first supposition had been correct, and that Lars Klevin's confession had only been the crochet of a dying man. But nevertheless he could not help thinking of Von Gyn, and to the surprise of every one, he now began to speak of him. He asked those present to give a sympathetic thought to the unfortunate man who was guilty. It had been rightly said this evening that they should join hands round him who was innocent. Quite right, but let them also, if only in spirit, at the same time join hands round him who was guilty. He stood most in need of reparation and help, and his wife. But here the pastor could say no more, and sat down, and there were tears in several eyes. A fresh astonishment was created when Norby tapped his glass and Rising said, I propose that we start a list to make a collection for Frue Von Gyn. I will do what I can myself. We must remember that she is left with three children unprovided for. There was a pause when he sat down. People looked at one another with eyes that said, He's a man in a thousand. End of Part 3, Chapter 9.