 Part 1, Chapter 9 of The Power of a Lie by Johann Boyer, translated by Jesse Muir. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The inquiry was now approaching, and the nearer it came, the more uneasy did Norby become. He had found no way out of his difficulty yet, and he began to fear that he would not be able to find one. However way he turned, he ran against his own assertions, and these assertions, which now lived in people's minds, and traveled by post and railway, had grown into a power greater than Norby himself. They were like a son grown beyond the control of his father. They dragged him on continually. They compelled him, with threats, to stand on their side in this matter. He would not go to an inquiry, however, for then he would have to take his oath, and he was not so far gone yet as to go there and purger himself. I'm beginning to feel my rheumatism again, he said to his wife, when he was restless at night. It occurred to him that there was a suspicious stillness over the countryside, in spite of what he had done, a stillness as if someone were lying in wait. He himself had no desire to talk of anything but this one matter, for he thought of nothing else, and was only easy in his mind when others listened to what he said, and had no time, as it were, to think for themselves. But each new falsehood always cost another as its proof, and that in its turn another. He had to keep a constant watch upon himself, lest his tongue should run away with him. He was afraid of perhaps letting something out in his sleep, and hardly dared sleep. But day by day the inquiry drew nearer, and he involuntarily began to grope about for a means of pulling through after all, if, in spite of everything, it should come to an inquiry. But what he now had to get ready to say at the bar would be falsehoods again, and at this nor be stopped like a horse that will not venture upon an unsafe bridge. He pushed backwards, he was afraid, he was not accustomed to it. No one is so much in the humour of philosophising as he who is suffering in secret. As he cannot talk upon the subject he would most prefer, he chooses something similar. One day, when nor be heard of the sudden death of an acquaintance of his, in another part of the parish, a cold shiver ran through him, as an inward voice whispered, �You will be next, nor be.� That evening, when he and his wife were in bed, and the light was out, he yawned heavily, and said in a tired voice, �Isn't it a strange thing that we human beings, who may die at any moment, should pass all our time in doing evil to others?� Moritz sighed and smoothed out the sheet over the counterpane. �Yes,� she said, �it is.� And when we look into our own hearts, we see that even those who go wrong and commit crime need not be any worse than one of us. After a brief pause Moritz answered, �No, not if they repent. There is pardon for them too, then, I suppose.� It was very quiet during the pauses in their conversation. The winter night was dark and cold, and now and again the wind was heard whistling past the corner like a dying howl. In this feeling of death and the dark night nor be again saw the parish, his but this time all the people were alike. They were all ready to die, all cold, pale, suffering beings such as one ought to be good to. �Do you know what I am thinking about, Moritz?� �No� came the rather sleepy answer. �Why, that if we do something downright bad, it's not at all certain that the consequences will be obliterated if we die. It's very likely they go on living and doing harm to others for a long time. Hmm, but can you tell me, then, how such a man can have peace in his grave?� Moritz expressed her opinion that our intelligence was not sufficient for that, and turned over on the other side. The old man lay long, however, seeing a long string of vangans descendants having to suffer for this. Would he, then, at the same time be saved and sit in heaven? He lay there looking and looking, until he grew hot with anxiety, lest he should not get any sleep that night, either. He began to be sure that he had some disease or other, perhaps heart disease. And then, while he stood in the witness-box, then held up his fingers, it would come. He would drop down. �Oh, God, be merciful to my soul!� At last he sat up in bed and quietly struck a match. Heaven help us! It was past two already, and he had not slept yet. When he once more tried to go to sleep, he began to see how difficult it is, honestly and fairly, to put right a wrong done. He lay with closed eyes and saw it all. �If I wanted to make it all straight again,� he said to himself, �neither getting forgiveness from God, nor taking my punishment in a prison would help. For my wicked accusation would still live somewhere. But if I could find out all the ways it had gone, then follow all the threads to the end. Should I be finished, then? No. I should have to give compensation for the evil consequences. One will have forgotten the falsehood, another will have laughed at it, but a third will remember it, then make Vangan suffer for it. But suppose I could make up for this, too. Would that be the end of it? No. There will still be need to pay for what he suffered all the time people believed him guilty. Can that be paid for? No, no. And he involuntarily shook his head as he lay with closed eyes. How was he to get to sleep? The next day he roused himself and went to Gud's Brunsdall, where he owned large forests, and where his men were driving timber. He felt that he must get away, he must forget. Up there he was not a rich man dressed in furs. He was in a freeze suit, and went on ski through the forest. Then the exercise and the fresh air did him good. He saw immense piles of timber, and it was his. He stopped now and again to look out over endless stretches of tufted fir trees, sprinkled with snow, and gilded by the sun. And they were his. If Von Gyn had been even a worthy antagonist, he thought, as he leant upon his ski-staff, and surveyed his wealth, if it had been Herloveson now. But this man was down in the world, and did not own so much as the spoon he ate with. And it's that poor wretch you want to injure, he said to himself. And not even using honourable means, for you're attacking him in the rear, attacking a dead man in the rear. He felt inclined to thrash himself. When he got home he had caught cold, and was a little feverish in the night. He himself thought it might be typhoid fever, and that he would die. And he was tortured by the thought of the evil action that would live after him. At last one morning he felt he could bear it no longer, and determined to get rid of the whole thing. First go to his wife and tell her the truth, and then go to the bailiff, and make things right with him. Now it was settled. Thank goodness! But just as he was getting out of bed, Merritt called from the door that there was someone downstairs who had been waiting for him for ever so long. That's sure to be the bailiff, he said to himself, turning cold at the thought. But when he came down he found it was an old farm-labourer, Lars Claven, who wanted to speak to him. Come into my office, said Norby. He was vexed that it was only this old man who had frightened him and made him hasten his dressing. What do you want? he asked, sitting down before his writing-table. To his great astonishment the old man came close up to him and seated himself so that he could look Norby straight in the face. It's a hard task I have today, began the old man. Indeed, said Norby, impatiently. I've come to ask you, sir," he stopped to cough, whether you've laid this matter with Fongan before the Lord. Norby stared. He leaned back in his chair and stared still more. And wretched as he felt he could not help bursting out laughing. He thought, as he had so often done, that it was his father who sat there listening to this, and to think that one of his small tenants, an old Claude, whom he kept alive up on the hill out of kindness, that he should come here and want to interfere in a matter that concerned only himself and Providence. No, that was too much. And Norby laughed. It was like an avalanche falling, that he shouted and could not stop until the floor shook under him. Finally he did not know whether to give this poor fellow a krona or kick him out of the room. And what then, he at last managed to ask, trying to be serious. The old Cottager placed his hands upon his stick, which he held between his knees, and continued calmly, I want to rest quiet in my coffin, but I'd rather not go and witness against you, sir. What! said Norby, involuntarily drawing nearer, has anyone asked you to do so? Yes, said the old Cottager. Is Vangan allowing you to back-o on credit? It's God Almighty who's asked me. There was a pause, then Norby cleared his throat and asked, And what have you got to witness about, eh? I went to town with you that time, sir. When? The time you signed that paper, said the old man. Norby grasped the arms of his chair and pressed his lips together, and the two men looked at one another. He'd last Norby cleared his throat again. You're in your second childhood, he said. You'd better get home and go to bed. He rose and turned towards the window, but then seemed to recollect something fresh, and looked again at the Cottager. And by the by, if you appear at the inquiry, I shall have you declared irresponsible. Now go! Good-bye, said the other, gently, as he moved towards the door. I only wanted to lie quiet in my coffin, he said once more, and then went quietly out. Norby remained standing at the window with his hands in his pockets. It had done him good to be able to laugh for once, but it was still better to be able to be angry with someone besides one's self. They'd better just come and interfere in matters that concerned only himself and God Almighty. If they did, he was still man enough to show them the door. They'd better begin suspecting that he was not happy. If they did, he would be man enough to show them something else. It would not be that poor old fellow at any rate who would make him break down. There would be no confession today. Some way out of the difficulty could still be found. While he was sitting at supper that evening, Marit said with a little laugh, Do you know that the widow down at Liederende has started helping Vangan? No. But it was a piece of news that stung, and he thought of that active woman with the bright face that usually smiled at him. But suddenly her face seemed to become grave, to turn away from him towards Vangan. It would be a nice thing indeed if they began to doubt Vangan's guilt in the parish. If they one and all continued to believe in it, so that Norby could be at peace with God Almighty, he might still make his confession. But he would have peace. They must not think they could take him by force. Something healthy within him seemed to begin to growl and rise in opposition whenever anyone irritated him. He could not get this woman, who was on her way to Vangan to help him, out of his head. The master of the parish school, who had defeated Norby in the school committee, was a friend of hers, the fool. Norby soon saw him accompanying her in order to join Vangan, and at night, when he lay in bed, he saw yet others leaving him to go over to the adversary. Just see if my enemies don't make this an opportunity of injuring me, he thought, and the anger that this roused made him still stronger. What a relief it was to be able to turn his eyes away from himself, and instead occupy his thoughts with what was possibly taking place in the parish. He wouldn't wonder if his enemies utilized the opportunity. One day he heard that his old enemy, lawyer Basting, was going to defend Vangan, and that he was not only going to insist upon an acquittal, but claim enormous damages, Vangan, moreover, had found witnesses who would prove that for a long time Norby had done all he could to injure his business. Norby began to laugh, and then sprang up and began to bustle about, with his thumb hooked into the arm-hole of his waistcoat. After a time he stopped and drew a long breath, as if of relief. No, really, Marit, the wolf's beginning to howl now, Basting, so that hedge-lawyer has at last got a case, has he? And then these lies about my having— No, this is really too much, Marit. Isn't that just what I said? said Marit. From that day forward the parish was always in Knut Norby's mind, that parish which he saw best when he closed his eyes. All that everyone now did was to walk along roads and sit in rooms and gather together and to take sides in this matter. He guessed more and more who were gathering against him. He would, perhaps, be left quite alone at last, and they would make use of this in order to do for him entirely. Mind and health grew stronger and stronger in Knut Norby. It was too bad of Christian people to go and witness falsely against him. He had never wanted to injure Vangan's business, never. He was in bed one morning when Marit came and told him about Sorin Kiknet, who had been in service with Harstad. He sprang up and began to look for his slippers and said, laughing, By Jove, Marit, Mads Helufsen has had his finger in that pie. This eased him of his last burden. It was not hard on Vangan any longer now, for he had so many powerful friends, and besides he was circulating falsehoods. It now became, as it were, a matter between Norby and Helufsen. Norby had at last found a worthy opponent. There came fresh rumours. Vangan had asserted that Norby had cheated him in a timber transaction, then that he had defrauded the widow whose trustee he was. In his righteous indignation, Vangan did not weigh his words very carefully, and they all came to Norby as poisonous, irritating stings, hurting the old man by their positive untruth, and helping him more and more to forget the original matter, and instead to look upon himself as attacked, persecuted, and compelled to defend himself. But the indignation he now felt only produced a growing improvement in his health, and he began in real earnest to prepare for the inquiry with moves and counter-moves. It was no longer a question of who was in the right, but of who would lose. It was no longer a matter between him and God Almighty, but between him and his enemies. Every time he heard of new witnesses appearing upon his opponent's side, his anxiety, lest he should fail, increased, and this urged him on incessantly to think of ways of being even with these men. "'We shall see if they succeed,' he said to himself, with clenched teeth. He recollected now the evil that many of these witnesses had done to him in days gone by. They were like old wounds that opened and added their pain to that of the fresh ones. He became more and more angry. He no longer thought, but only looked about for weapons with which to strike. The strange thing was that Norby began to be at peace in his inmost soul. The wound in the innermost recesses of his heart was forgotten, and he thought only of those that grazed the skin. So he began to sleep better, regained his appetite, and was in good spirits. He had a good conscience, such as a man may have, who, being innocent on twenty charges, forgets that he is guilty on the twenty first. When he thought of all the twenty, he, as it were, told God Almighty that they balanced. There was no longer an impressive stillness round about him. There was a noise. He went on with his preparations, went to his lawyer in Christianity, always recollecting new false accusations and writing them down, letting himself be wounded by them in order to feel thoroughly how innocent he was. If there came moments when all was quiet about him, he went on expecting new false accusations. He wanted them. If none came, he made some up without noticing that he did so. Of course they say now, that I disown this signature out of avarice. I, or because I am afraid of my wife, Knut Norby, afraid of his wife. It irritated him that people could say such things, and he made up new charges one after another without noticing that they were made up. They were like glasses of spirits, which always kept him in a hazy condition, always buoyed him up, always made him forget what he most desired to forget, always gave him a feeling of innocence and of being in the right. The inquiry was now close at hand, and the old man drove about the countryside and collected counter-evidence. He was quite ready for the inquiry now. CHAPTER IX In a room in a Christiania boarding-house, a young man was sitting with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. In front of him lay a large open book, with certain passages underlined with red. But he was not reading. It was Einar Norby, Knut's only surviving son, and he was a student of philology and was reading for his final examination. The window was open to the warm March sun, but now he rose and went to shut it as the noise from the street disturbed his thoughts. He began to pace up and down the floor, now and then passing his hand across his forehead with a pained movement. What shall I do about this, he thought, for things have taken a different aspect now. He was a tall, slim, fair young man, of about five and twenty. His not yet having taken his degree was not owing to laziness. He had first studied theology for a couple of years, but one day he had gone home and had appeared before his father in his office to say privately that he could not go on with it any longer, that his conscience would not let him be a priest. His father sat, gnawing the end of his pipe, and when he had listened to his son's explanation, said, Well, well, you're quite right, my boy, to give it up if you are so sure of what you're doing. It'll be worse for your mother, but I must try and talk to her. So Einar went abroad to travel for a year and look about him, and on his return he had taken up philology. A week earlier he had heard in a letter from his mother of Vangan's forgery, and it had at once excited his greatest astonishment, for he remembered with perfect distinctness how one day three or four years ago his father had come up to him and said, Vangan's got the better of me nicely today. And then he had told him about the guarantee, but begged him not to tell anyone, not even his mother. This had surprised him at the time, and perhaps it was for that very reason that he remembered it so distinctly. What shall I do? He asked himself over and over again. It was possible there was some misunderstanding, but he nevertheless thought it best to write to his father about it. He had had an answer to-day. The old man wrote that Einar was talking nonsense. He had never had anything to do with Vangan. Is it nonsense? thought Einar as he paced his room. His father wrote quite confidently that it was all nonsense. But Einar took heaven to witness that it was not. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he remembered accurately. But what shall I do? He said again, for he felt that he could not at once give in about it. Suppose Vangan is innocent, and I am the only person who can save him. Mother wrote too that Vangan had no witnesses. What shall I do? The inquiry was to take place in a few days, so he could not put off acting any longer. And father writes that he has never had anything to do with Vangan, so it cannot refer to some other matter than the one I remember. Is it possible that father is so forgetful? Or… Certain of his father's ways in business matters had often jarred upon Einar. But this? No. But suppose that Vangan is punished for what he is innocent of. May ever be happy again? He threw himself upon the sofa, then covered his eyes with his hand. Supposing he went home and put things to his father. What a row there would be! And if his father had really embarked upon something wrong, he supposed it was too late now to turn back, at any rate from the old man's point of view. But what am I to do? Shall I not do anything at all? The thought of what it would involve, namely, his going before the court and giving evidence against his father made him dizzy. But if he were to interfere at all in the matter, he must be prepared for all that it involved. On the one side stood his father, and on the other, the impulse to do what was right, and he heard a mocking voice within him say, There! Now you can see how easy it is to rise above family considerations. What if it had been someone else and not your father? Einar Norby had often been guilty of judging harshly, especially in the case of public men. He belonged to the generation of young men who, through bitter disappointments, have conceived a deep suspicion, both of the ideas and of the men who had once aroused the enthusiasm of their early youth. While he lay upon the sofa with his hand over his eyes, the mocking voice within him went on. Now you must show what one ought to do. Be sure you don't show any family considerations. Don't be a party to any corruption, like public men. Do what is right. How you have been applauded in the students' club when you have spoken of public men who float about on vague sentiments, than whose consciences kept entirely by relations and friends. You once said that their meaning well was no defense, for they made their judgment drunk with sentiments that did not concern him, then thought they were honest, like the drunkard who believes that he alone is sober. Take care. Don't be a coward. Be sure you do what is right. It cannot be such a dreadful thing to come forward and give evidence against your father when you are in the right. It seemed to take him by the throat. There appeared to be no choice between the two things, either to be a coward or to go home and bring unhappiness upon all those he loved. At moments such as these, when a momentous decision has to be made, perhaps at great cost, there are always certain voices that lull and weaken. You are a fool, they said. What in the world do you want to meddle with that matter for? Your father has one son living, and that son now wants to get his father sent to prison. Do you know anything about the matter? You talk a lot of twaddle about remembering this, that, and the other. But what about your father? Do you suppose he doesn't remember what he did? Does he generally act like a scoundrel? In any case, stick to your last, leave to the courts of justice that which belongs to them, and see if you really can manage to be ready for your examination. This relieved him for a time, but when he rose and began to walk up and down, he once more saw the funny white-bearded mask that somewhere in his inner consciousness began to grin. Of course not, don't have anything to do with it. You might risk something this time, for this time it affects yourself, your own people. But talk in a loud voice when it's about persons that you don't know. Declame then, and bring tears into people's eyes. But now, be silent, sneak off, hide yourself, and start again tomorrow when you take aim at some poor person who doesn't belong to you. Be one of those champions of truth for whom you have always shown such contempt. He grew more and more agitated. He sat down and passed his hand again and again across his brow, then started up once more and paced the floor with his head in a whirl. He had scarcely slept all night owing to the same thoughts. I must come to a decision. There are only two days left, and if I sneak out of it now, it will not exactly be a heroic deed, and ever after I shall have to keep quiet when anything is said about justice and truth. He looked at his watch. There was a train in a couple of hours. But just as he was about to get out his bag and pack it, he was once more seized with uncertainty. Suppose his father would not be persuaded. What should I do then? I ought to have some plan of what I am going to do if I am going to interfere. He seemed to see his father, and Norby Farm in the summer, waving cornfields, and the calm waters of Lake Musin. Go and give evidence, break with them all, bring unhappiness upon them, never more have a home at Norby. He sank upon a chair and sighed heavily. No, I can't do it. No one knew that Pastor Boring had a secret trouble that caused him continual suffering. He believed neither in the atonement nor in the utility of the sacraments, and yet as pastor he had to say and do what was pure and true. He felt that he was too old to resign his living and start again in life, and with his present good stipend he could help his numerous children in the world. But this faithlessness to his convictions had made a very good man of Pastor Boring. He knew himself sufficiently well to judge others leniently. He took no interest in gossip, for he thought that the evil that could be said about others was not nearly so bad as that which could be said about himself. Many came to him with their troubles, and it was easy for him to comfort them, because their misfortunes seemed to him small in comparison with his own. People thought him a good pastor and a noble man, and perhaps he was both of these because he was always burning with a secret despair. "'I'm going to drive today,' he said to his wife. "'Is anyone ill?' she asked. "'Yes. Where?' "'Out at the Britfields,' said the pastor. Inveloped in his grey ulster, with a red scarf round his waist, he seated himself in the sledge, and the little bayfued horse set off in its usual trot. It was a sad sight that met him out at the red factory buildings, where there was no smoke ascending from the chimneys, and the shop stood with locked doors and shuttered windows. "'Poor man,' thought the pastor. "'If he is guilty, all this trouble is too great for him to bear, and if he is innocent, this will be the worst evidence against him. He must be encouraged.' One still lived in his pretty house, and after taking off his coat in the cheerful hall, the pastor went into the drawing-room. A servant was occupied in dusting, and she went at once to tell Vangan. "'Tick, tick,' went a little clock in its polished case on the wall. There was a sound of children crying in the adjoining-room, and Vangan's voice hushing them. The door opened, and Vangan entered. He had grown very thin, his eyes wore an expression of suffering, and he was almost unrecognizable. "'Our little baby died last night,' he said, when he had seated himself. It was undoubtedly because of his mother's milk. She has had too much to bear lately. "'He means by that that Norby is to blame for this, too,' thought the pastor. "'It is high time I talked to him.' "'Dear Vangan,' he said aloud, "'will you do an old pastor of favor? Will you get up on my sledge and drive over with me to Norby?' Vangan started up involuntarily, and put his hand to his head. "'To Norby?' he said in astonishment. "'Yes, we'll try and put an end to this matter, dear Vangan.' Vangan smiled, and his eyes began to glow. "'He's afraid at last, is he?' he said. And so he sends you.' The pastor shook his head. "'I've come on my own account, my friend,' he said. "'Let me tell you that it is easiest for the innocent one to forgive. "'Show this now. Come with me to Norby, and there I'll say, "'Cnut, I want to talk to you a little, and Vangan is going to hear what I say. Then we three will go into a room by ourselves, and I shall say, "'You, too, who want to send one another to prison? You're both guilty. Take hands, sign a declaration that henceforth neither of you will ever mention the matter again. And when we go into the other room, I shall say to the others, "'There won't be any inquiry, for Vangan and Norby think that this has nothing to do with either the authorities or anyone else. They have arranged the matter between themselves. In a couple of days people will have forgotten something else to talk about, and in a month's time the whole thing will be forgotten. Now put on your things, Vangan, and come with me.' But instead of this, Vangan sat down and smiled a little uncertainly. "'And who is to pay the two thousand Kronas that Norby is responsible for?' he asked. The pastor was a little perplexed. He had not thought of that, and involuntarily he stroked his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "'Well, but dear me, peace between people is worth more than two thousand, especially when it's a case of going to prison. I'll say to Norby, let me see. I'll say, if you haven't given security for Vangan before, then do it now. Pay this. You'll never miss it. I'm sure my friend Norby will be reasonable.' But Vangan started up again. "'No,' he cried. "'Not for the world. Shall I beg him for the help that he's given once, but backed out of?' "'Good heavens! No! No! Do you really think, Pastor Boring, that when first Norby has ruined me, then dishonored me, then driven my wife to the verge of madness, I am going to Norby to ask him to be friends? No! That would be a little too much.' "'I don't know who is guilty,' said the pastor sadly. "'Let the guilty one settle the matter with God.'" Vangan laughed scornfully. "'That sounds very nice, Herr Boring. But what have we got law and justice for? You should feel what it is like to be in my place. I spent my wife's and my own fortune in creating an industry here, and it succeeded as long as it wasn't in Norby's way. He has traduced me until I was refused credit. He has managed to prevent my compounding, and it is not even enough for him to know that I am destitute. No! I am not going to keep my good name, either. I am to go to prison, too. And you want me to forget all this? If Norby were to come here himself and ask me. But it's too late for that, too, now.'" The pastor sat for a while with his lips compressed. "'Tell me, Vangan, have you never caused suffering to anyone else in this world?' he said. The question startled Vangan, and he again forced to laugh. All I know is,' he said, after a short pause, that I am innocent in this instance, and Norby has now tortured and worried me so long that he shall go to the prison that he intended for me. If he is so rich, too, he shall be made to pay. I won't take a small compensation.' Ah! It's all very well-suffering when you get paid for it,' thought the pastor. That man is the guilty one.' Aloud, he said, God help us that we find it so difficult to forgive one another, and yet we expect him to be always ready to forgive us. Do you think we shouldn't have courts of law to help us to obtain justice, ere boring? Judicial proceedings of that kind, dear Vangan, are a bad means of bringing right to light. They may perhaps get hold of the fruit, but never of the root. Just you notice when the witnesses stand forward. They lie without knowing it. They raise a dust, and the court passes judgment from the dust. It is human. But God deliver us from both the sentence and its consequences. All this time Vangan was in the belief that the pastor had been sent by Norby, and that he wanted to entice him with fair words. He had therefore become impatient and wished to put an end to the interview. He rose with an impetuous movement, and began to pace the floor. "'The only thing I'm afraid of,' he said demonstratively, for he was quite willing that Norby should hear this, is that he'll get off too easily. After thinking it over, I don't think he ought to come out of prison any more.' The pastor felt as if he had received a blow, and rose quickly. "'If he is in the right,' he thought, then heaven helped the right that has fallen into such hands. Can being in the right make a man so coarse and bad?' No. He is guilty.' He sighed and took his leave despondently. Vangan went to the door with him, and on the steps remarked, "'This is much more than a question between Norby and me. It most concerns the working men, who are left without bread. It is a social question.' "'Indeed,' said the pastor, seating himself in his sledge, and gathering up the reins, thinking as he did so. "'Of course. If a man only has toothache nowadays, he tries to make it into a social question. People are too cowardly to bear anything alone.' "'Yes,' continued Vangan. "'I don't stand so much alone now, thank goodness, as Norby thinks.' "'Then he's not so much to be pitied after all,' thought the pastor, adding aloud, "'Yes, I hear you've started a new working men's union, and that you've often given lectures there lately.' "'Yes,' answered Vangan. "'A man must be blind if he doesn't see that Norby has a number of rich men behind him, and that the end to name of this matter is to do away with the eight hours working-day in this part of the country.' The pastor smiled and said, good-bye, and cracked his whip over the bay. That was a very unsuccessful visit, thought the pastor, and sighed. People are only amenable to reason when they are dying, and even then it is in order to gain something. Vangan had returned to the drawing-room, and stood at the window watching the pastor as he drove away. He could not at once regain his mental equilibrium, for, in spite of everything, the old man had left a good impression upon him, although at the same time this was something he was unwilling to acknowledge. For it might disturb the calculation respecting man's wickedness, to which Vangan daily added fresh amounts, thereby strengthening his righteous anger. "'How strange it is,' he thought with some agitation, that the priests always play into the hands of the rich. The thought had half unconsciously been admitted, in order to get rid of the good impression. And they try with texts and solemn faces to make the poor man give up his rights. I daresay!' As he stood and followed the pastor's sledge with his eyes, he gradually let loose a whole series of such reflections, and little by little felt the irritation that made him believe in what he said. And little by little, the old pastor driving along the road seemed to him to be a theological messenger in the service of wealth, like so many other priests in this world. Has there ever been an affair too rotten for some priest or other to lend himself, his God, and his church in defense of it? Look at war, for instance, and the doctrine of eternal punishment! A nice thing indeed! Vangan had nothing to do all day now, so he was always busy with this affair with Norby, and it grew and grew in his imagination. At the same time he constantly had to witness fresh sad consequences of his failure. If he only met the old tailor who had entrusted his small savings to him, he involuntarily went another way, for he thought the tailor stared at him with wild eyes. From his early youth Henry Vangan had been intelligent and warmly interested in questions and ideas. But these ideas had always been aimed at what others should do, and how others should be helped, when finally an extraordinary responsibility had brought him to the last extremity, he was in despair at having to stand alone. He felt the duty of expiating and suffering to be a burden beyond the power of man to bear, and he involuntarily tried even now to turn the matter into a social question. He had at first, therefore, half unconsciously wished and hoped that this forgery matter was only the expression of a conspiracy against his business. Now he felt quite sure, and every time he could suspect someone fresh of being the rich man's accomplice, he became more comfortably certain. When he really thought about it, he had long seen signs of something brewing among his connections outside as well as inside the district. Rich men were rich men, whether they called themselves farmers or merchants. They were all afraid of him because of his eight hours working day, and they not only wanted to force him into bankruptcy in order to be able to say, That's how things go with such a short working day. No, they wanted revenge. They wanted to send him to prison. They wanted to dishonor him so greatly that he would henceforth be harmless. He understood it now. Like many others, he had fallen a victim to the demoniacal brutality that wealth and capital breed. For this very reason the work-people began to be unspeakably dear to him. He no longer feared them in consequence of having deceived them. They had become his brothers and fellow sufferers. It was, in fact, for their sakes that he was now being persecuted. In this way the recollection of his regrets and resolutions in the dark railway carriage became less and less frequent, and in their place rose anger against the social powers, whose blame it really was. Or was the oppressive sense of duty to expiate and become better himself any concern of his? In this matter, too, he could leave himself out of consideration and look at society. He turned from the window and began to pace the floor. So he was willing to let himself be used, too, was he? He thought, and the more he thought about it, the more excited he became. Fancy, that lazy priest who perhaps lies in bed until ten o'clock in the morning grudges the working man a little ease. He bit his lip. By Jove the working man ought to hear this. It would be a good thing if they could hear it all over the country. Priests were priests all the world over. He would have it in the newspapers and some form or other. And Norby? He might send out as many priests as ever he liked. He should go to prison anyhow. Wait till the day after tomorrow. CHAPTER II of THE POWER OF A LIE by Johann Boya Translated by Jesse Muir. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Every evening, lately, Ingeborg Norby had sat and read the Bible to the pensioners in the little house. The pensioners were four in number, the dairymaid and the two farm servants, who were all between seventy and eighty years of age, and had been in service at the farm for more than half a century, and the blind tenant farmer whom Norby had taken in so that he should not go to the work-house. In the little room lay the bed-ridden dairymaid, and in the larger room sat the two white-haired farm-labourers who speculated on various matters. They smoked, moved from one chair to another, and talked together chiefly about their various illnesses. The blind man, for the most part, kept his bed. From the large house nothing was seen of these four persons. Even Norby seldom went to see them, but he kept them supplied with clothes and tobacco, although they all had money in the bank. This evening the birch wood was crackling in the stove, and the lamp shed its light upon the long table, and Ingeborg sat at the door between the two rooms and read so that she could be heard on both sides. When she had finished reading, she repeated the Lord's prayer and sang a hymn, in which the two old men upon the bench tried to join. When this was over, and she was about to go, one of the men said, How is the case going on? There will be an inquiry the day after tomorrow, said Ingeborg. Laughed the blind man from his bed, while he scratched himself. Hasn't that there Vangan confessed yet? murmured one of the farm laborers, shaking his head sympathetically. No, sighed Ingeborg, adding, May God turn his heart. If he'd only been wise enough to confess it once, his punishment would have been lighter, said the blind man, still scratching himself. He may have confessed to God, said Ingeborg, but the Bible says that if anyone wants to do God's will, he must go and be reconciled to his brother. I'm sure if Vangan had come and asked Father to forgive him, Father would have forgiven him. Yes, God bless him, said the dairymaid from the little room. Ingeborg said good night and left the house. The two old men upon the bench began to undress, with many sighs over their rheumatism and pains in their limbs. One of them, after taking off his trousers, sat down upon the edge of his bed, and lighted his pipe before drawing off his stockings. The other was also in his drawers, and now crept cautiously in his clumsy slippers into the dairymaid's little room, and seated himself upon the edge of her bed. Have you got enough on you at night? he asked, as he struck a match upon his nether garments, and lighted his short pipe with a trembling hand. Oh, yes! said the dairymaid in a sleepy voice. These two had been engaged, and had broken it off, and been engaged again, over and over again, for pretty well a lifetime. For a couple of years they were not on friendly terms, and were each engaged to someone else. But then they became reconciled and engaged again, until things again went wrong, and so on. Since they had become pensioners, however, they had made peace and were good friends. "'Because you're welcome to one of my sheepskins,' he said, looking at the bowl of his pipe, and trying to make it draw. Did you ever hear such nonsense, and you would lie in shiver perhaps?' she said. "'No. If I'm cold, I've only got to speak to the mistress.' "'Very well,' said the old man, rising and tucking her carefully up. He came in every evening before he went to bed, to ask her if she wanted anything. It was a kind of good night. Of late he had induced her to smoke, for then he could always do her some little service, such as to clean her pipe and cut up the tobacco for her. But now, without saying good night, he slouched away and went to bed. "'You've forgotten to put out the lamp,' said the blind man. He could not see it, but felt its light upon him. After the light was put out, the three old men lay and yawned audibly for some time. Until there came from the little room a yawn so loud that the three men could hear it. This was their good night to one another. "'It's coming on to blow, and there'll be a storm tonight,' said the blind man, drawing the skin coverlet over him. "'Then they'll have to have the snow plow out again tomorrow,' said one of the others after a short pause. Then they yawned a little more, and silence fell upon the little house." CHAPTER II The Day Before the Inquiry Norby was in his office all day, arranging his papers, making notes, and preparing his answers to the questions he would probably be asked the next day. He no longer felt that it was he who accused Vangan, but on the contrary, he thought it was he who had to make the defence. The grey light of a snowy day fell upon the table and his papers, and upon the old man as he stood with his spectacles far down upon his nose and passed his defences in review. He was tired of going about collecting counter-evidence and taking declarations, but now he was well-armed and was only impatient to begin. A slight smile came over the old man's face as he looked at a paper that he held carefully as if it were something precious. It was precious, too. It was a declaration from Jorgen Harstad's bed-ridden widow, and it would completely confound the evidence that Soren Kikny was going to give. This was amusing, because Herlufsen would be disappointed. The old man was looking forward with intense pleasure to the moment when he should read the declaration aloud in court, perhaps with Herlufsen sitting there and listening to it. There was no doubt that poor Soren had simply been bribed to give evidence as to as having heard this remark of Jorgen Harstad's. That was the kind of means these people used. It was really beyond a joke. The old man began to pace the floor, sighing now and again. He was pale. Of late he had been unable to think of anything, but of how he could be even with his enemies. He had, as it were, passed by the actual heart of the matter in a railway train, and it now lay so far behind in mist that there were far more important things to be thought of. It was clear, too, that it was not justice that his enemies were so anxious for. No, what they were striving to do was to injure him and knock him down. At one time that scene at the hotel had stood very distinctly before him. But Vangan's assertion that it took place at the Grand Café had taken the sting out of the recollection. Oh! thought Norby. So it was at the Grand? Very well. Perhaps he's right. But then it's all the more certain that it's a lie. I've never in my life signed any document at the Grand. If any paper was signed there with my name, then it's a forgery. Although these thoughts did not always bring satisfaction, it was nevertheless a relief to let them out. And there was so much besides to indicate that Vangan's hands were not clean. There were thousands of other things to think about and be incensed over, and the old man had now so often expressed himself regarding the affair that to remember his assertions was the same as remembering the reality. He was still standing rummaging among his papers when the door opened and Marit entered. When I hear you talking at the telephone, asked the old man, looking over his spectacles, "'Inaar's coming home today,' she said. He has asked to be met at the station with a sledge. The old man put his hands behind his back and his legs astride and looked at her over his spectacles. "'What do you say?' he exclaimed. "'Inaar, coming home now? He must have plenty of time that, gentlemen. He must be thinking of becoming a perpetual student. "'You are so hot-tempered,' said Marit. "'You're generally glad to have the boy come home.'" He did not answer, but again began to rummage among his papers. Was the boy going to interfere in earnest in this affair? He felt as if an enemy had suddenly stabbed him in the back. "'Inaar, he'd better try, that's all.'" If only he doesn't first go and talk to his mother about it, the old man, but that wouldn't be like him. He hung about, however, on the watch to be the first to meet his son at the house. When Inaar alighted at the station he found Ingeborg waiting with horse and sledge. The mocking voice had at last forced Inaar's courage up, and when he finally determined to go home he felt as if he had burnt his ships behind him. He would put this matter right, and first of all he would try to bring his father to reason, but all the time he felt as if he were going up for an examination. When he saw the old brown horse, the familiar double-sledge and fur rug, a warm feeling seemed to come to him from home, and as he sat beside his sister, driving homewards amid the jingle of the sledge-bells, he was imperceptibly filled with the childlike happiness of going home. But these were the feelings that Inaar had had to overcome before he came to his determination, and he was therefore on guard against them, for on this occasion they were a danger. Ingeborg had met him at Christmas with the same horse, and this brought a host of bright, pleasant recollections into his mind. He thought of the ball they had given, remembered the doctor's daughter, who looked so pretty that evening, saw her eyes. His father and mother had done everything to make them enjoy themselves, and now, now he had a feeling that he was coming home as a traitor in disguise. Why have you come so suddenly? asked Ingeborg. To be here at the inquiry, he answered, I want to see how it will turn out. Oh, you can be quite sure that father's all right, she said with warm conviction. Inaar found himself wishing it might be so, and had to say hastily to himself. Take care that your good feelings don't weaken your purpose. Poor father, said Ingeborg, you can't think what stories people are telling about him now. That vungen must be a dreadful man. Her eyes shone with confidence in her father, and Inaar felt the infection. How are they all at home? he asked, in order to change the subject. Little Knute has not been very well, answered Ingeborg, but he is better now. At these words Inaar seemed to see the little fatherless boy looking at him and asking, Are you really going to be unkind to grandfather? A little later Ingeborg told him that a young horse had been found dead in its stable the morning before. Inaar felt for his father's loss, and seemed to be standing at his side and looking at the stable where the horses were stamping. And he thought how the beautiful creatures would turn their heads in their stalls and winny their recognition of him as if they too would say, Are you really going to? For he kept in mind all the time that he would have to go through it all. As they turned up the avenue and approached the house he asked himself again, Am I really going to? It began to seem dreadful. When they turned into the yard their father and mother stood upon the steps as they always did when he came home. How do you do, father? How do you do, mother? He cried. But the words sounded like treachery to-day. Come into my office, I want to tell you something, said his father, when Inaar had taken off his coat in the passage. But you must come in soon and have something to eat, said his mother. It's all ready. When they entered the office Norby turned round at the writing table and said, with his hands behind his back and his legs astride, I only want to tell you that your mother knows nothing about your letter. Inaar inclined his head and the old man continued, And if that's what you've come home about you'll have to keep to me. Very well, father. So that is what you've come for? Yes, father, said Inaar in a low voice. The old man compressed his lips but he moved towards the door, saying, Well, let's first go in and have dinner. Inaar followed in a shame-faced way as if he were a naughty boy. He was old enough to see his father's faults but he had a very great respect for him. Then mother knows nothing, he thought, and if father is so afraid of its coming to her ears, he dared not think it out. The old man was quiet, almost cheerful, during dinner, but Inaar noticed how pale he was. His mother seemed to have grown grayer lately and he felt an involuntary desire to spare her. She had such complete faith in their cause. He felt more and more drawn into the home atmosphere. He asked for news from the district and had to tell his news from town. He had his old place at the table and was the son just returned home to whom everyone showed the most friendly face. Little Knute came creeping under the table several times and up between his knees. Everything combined to draw him into something beautiful and soft where he felt he must surrender. But all the time a good instinct seemed to be shaking him. Take care, it said. Take care. Don't let your good feelings play you a trick. Now, little Knute, said the little boy's mother, you mustn't worry, uncle. It sometimes happens that we suddenly receive a new impression of a person, as if he had in a moment changed his identity. Up to the present Inaar had looked upon his father as the man who was unjustly accusing Vangan, in whom he was ready to oppose. But before he was aware of it, this same father was he who had been laid up last winter with typhoid fever and was perhaps not quite recovered from it yet. On the way home Ingeborg had told him of all the false accusations that Vangan was spreading about their father. And now Inaar too felt his anger rising, and at the same time a desire to take his father's part. As the atmosphere of home gradually brought out the feeling of being son of the house, he felt an increasing shame of his intention to betray his father, his own family. Here they were, all sitting round him without a suspicion of the true object of his journey. He felt like a tyrant who was going to make use of his power of ringing, with a single word, misfortune upon them all. After dinner he felt inclined to sit down and chat with his mother and little Knute, but his father, calling him to come, went towards the door. God help me, thought Inaar, now it's coming. His purpose was already so weakened that he heartily wished himself back in town. Little Knute wanted to go with him, but Inaar loosened the clasp of his hands about his knees, saying, I'll soon be back, Knute. In the office the old man sat down in his customary place at the writing-table, and Inaar could not help admiring the tranquillity with which his father slowly and deliberately filled his pipe. Won't you sit down? said the old man, carefully lighting his long pipe, and then calmly lying down upon the leather sofa. Inaar sat down a little way off. Are you in want of money? asked the old man, raising his eyelids just far enough to be able to look at his son. Inaar felt slightly irritated at this question being put just now, then answered quickly, No, thank you. The old man himself was a little embarrassed, for he had a secret respect for this son, who knew so much, and in a way was of a finer metal than himself. He would treat him as well as he possibly could. What was that nonsense you wrote in your last letter? he said at last, once more raising his eyes. Inaar rose involuntarily. A voice within him seemed to say, Be brave. He began a little hesitatingly. I didn't mean any harm, father, and I still seem to remember that day you came up to my room and told me about the guarantee. The old man laughed a little, and pressed down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with his forefinger. My dear boy, he said at last, putting on a merry look, you've dreamt that. No, father, said Inaar, in rather an injured tone. I'm not a child. It's my firm conviction that you're mistaken in this matter. It's quite possible you've forgotten it, and I want to ask you to take back your accusation, for I suppose there's still time, and, of course, I know that you wouldn't do anything that was wrong. Are you taking leave of your senses, man? exclaimed the old man, taking his pipe out of his mouth and looking at his son in astonishment, although he laughed again. Inaar bowed slightly and said, I mean no harm, father. Yes, you mean no harm, said the old man, trying again to laugh, but do you quite know what it is that you're accusing me of? And the astonishment with which he now looked at his son was more serious. Inaar put his hands behind his back and leaned against the wall. He had become more courageous, and all the time he heard the good voice saying, Take care! Can't you remember that day, father, when you came up to my room and… His father interrupted him with another laugh. No, Inaar, you can't expect me to remember what you dream. For a moment Inaar felt perplexed. He had expected to be loaded with abuse, but this kindness and this cool assurance began to disarm him. He passed his hand across his forehead and looked before him a little helplessly. Had he dreamt it, was it really nonsense he was talking? And though for his part the old man laughed, he thought to himself, I wonder whether someone or other has been taking the boy in. It would be just like them. But now Inaar raised his head. No, father, he said, I'm not making a mistake, for you haven't put your name to any other papers for Vaugan, have you? Ha-ha-ha! No indeed! Thank goodness! Well, father, then you must take back your accusation, for Vaugan is innocent. There was a pause. Take back my accusation. The old man sat up and passed his hand over the crown of his head, looking straight in front of him and putting bits of his beard into his mouth. At length he said, with stony gaiety, Oh, no, Inaar, it's you who are talking nonsense. So I propose that you go back to town again, then set to work upon things that you understand better than you do this matter. Saying which, he rose, and took a step towards the table. Inaar had noticed an alteration in his father's voice, which indicated storm. Well, said the old man, turning round, you stand there like a parson in the pulpit. Once more, father, take back your accusation. Do, father! You're quite sure your father's a scoundrel? It's only that you don't remember, father. Now seriously, Inaar, what have you come home for? His father looked actually curious, and Inaar felt angry at not being taken seriously. So he said as forcefully as he could. I've come home, father, to prevent you doing something you will repent of. Don't you think, Inaar, his voice sounded a little pained, that I've got enough with half the parish down upon me. There are numbers of them only trying to get me locked up. And now you come, too. Aren't you ashamed? Inaar's head sank. Father, but! His knees began to give away under him. But unwittingly his father came to his aid. Who has persuaded you to do this, Inaar? Who? Inaar looked up suddenly, bit his lip, and took a step forward. His voice trembled with anger as he said, What do you mean by that, father? The old man could not help laughing at the lad's imperiousness. I believe you mean to go to the inquiry and give evidence against your father, he said, and laughed again. If you take back your accusation, father, I shan't have to. Would his father take him seriously now? A deep flush overspread the old man's face. He attempted to laugh, to gnaw his beard, to pass his hand over the crown of his head, to sit down. But he did none of these things. He rushed at Inaar, took him by the collar, and said, laughing, but at the same time grinding his teeth. Go, go! And you shall go back to town this very day, or else Heaven help you! He drew back a couple of steps, as if afraid of being tempted to strike him. Ha! Indeed! And he suddenly began to measure him from top to toe. He had only just become aware that the young man who stood there was no boy whom he could laugh at or thrash. It was his own son who had suddenly grown up, and now stood up as his opponent. He, too. Will you go? Take back your accusation, father. This was too much. The old man seized a chair, lifted it up, and cried, Be off with you! Go! Do you hear? Will you leave the room at once? Be off! Do you hear? Go, Inaar! Yes, I'm going, said Inaar, raising his head. He was so angry that he would have liked to take the chair away from his father and show him that he was too old now to let himself be struck. But let me tell you, he continued, that you'll have to leave off treating me in that way. Good-bye! And so, saying, he slowly left the room. As evening fell, Norby drove out. After supper Inaar felt a longing to confide everything to his mother, but he did not dare. What should he do in the morning? Should he flee from the affair? It seemed doubly hard now that he had staked so much upon it. He went early to bed, for he was afraid of the influences that hovered about the rooms downstairs and the people there. They all seemed to tempt him to surrender. In his little room the birch wood crackled in the stove, and diffused the familiar odor of which he was so fond. A metal candlestick shone in the light from the stove, and in it stood a candle of his mother's own molding. He had fled from the good impressions in the downstairs rooms, and had run straight into the new ones here that quite folded him in their embrace. The sheets on the bed, the clean curtains at the window, the recollections of all the nights he had spent here in his holidays, everything asked, Are you really going to? I shall never be able to do it, he thought, as he lay in his comfortable bed, wrapped up in his mother's sheets and blankets. It was very different from what he was accustomed to in the boarding house in town. But suppose sentences passed on Vangan and I might have saved him. God help me! I should never have another happy day! During the night Ingeborg was awakened by Einar's coming into her room with a candle in his hand. What's the matter? She asked, rubbing her eyes. Hush! he said, for there was only a thin match boarding between her room and the one in which her parents slept. There's something I must tell you, Ingeborg! And he seated himself upon the edge of her bed with the light in his hand. That first it dazzled her, but she soon grew accustomed to it. These two had always been one another's confidants, for Ingeborg was the nearest to her brother in age. He spoke almost in a whisper, and she listened to him with wide opened, frightened eyes, and her breath coming quicker and quicker. She made excuses. She seized his hand convulsively and said, Don't say any more, Einar! You must be mad! But she took his hand again. She wanted to hear all his reasons, and he told her them, because he needed to have someone on his side. At length she closed her eyes as if she did not dare to look up. She breathed still more heavily, something seemed to have given way within her. When at last he left her, she lay still with her eyes closed. She began to be afraid, because it was so dismally dark, and it was such a long time till morning. She tossed about in her bed and could not sleep, owing to an indefinable terror. A criminal had found his way into the house. He was sleeping under the same roof. And this criminal was? He was her. No, no, it was not true. It could not be true. Oh God, help me, help me! She sobbed out in a passionate ecstasy. Help me! Give me a sign that it is not true! But she suddenly noticed that it seemed as if God were gone. It was the first time this had happened since her conversion. What was it? Why did she not go on praying, instead of lying, her eyes gazing terror-stricken into the darkness? Was there no God? Had it all been a delusion? She had prayed that this affair might turn out well for her father. She had thanked God for his innocence, and felt a comfort in thanking him. She had also prayed for Vangan. She had won this victory over herself, and had felt a pleasure in it. And was it all a delusion? Had God made fun of her? Or did he not exist? Was that a delusion, too? Was this comfort to her soul in fellowship with him? This pleasure in doing good, also delusion, delusion, delusion? She tossed about in her bed, weeping convulsively. If her father were guilty, then there was no God. It was all a delusion, a delusion. Oh God, give me a sign that Thou art. Give me peace. Is my father a bad man who will give false evidence to-morrow? My father? Oh God, give me a sign. Help me if there be a God. For Christ's sake, give me a sign." At last she knelt in her bed, stretching out her clasp tans. Towards morning Einar was greatly astonished to see Ingeborg come creeping into his room. She took his face between her hands and said in a voice that trembled with joy, I must tell you at once you've made a mistake and thank God for it. She involuntarily laid her hand upon her breast. He lighted the candle and looked questioningly at her. Her eyes were positively shining with joy. Yes, Einar, God has given me a sign. You've made a mistake and I was sure you had, and now you must go and ask Father's pardon. She stroked his forehead with her hand and disappeared noiselessly. Poor Ingeborg, thought Einar, this young girl whose hair sorrow had turned gray, this nun who lived always with her thoughts on the other side of the grave. Would it not crush her too, if to-morrow he— Remember, Einar, whatever you do, don't take any family considerations. It was a gray winter's day and the snow was falling fast. As they turned out of the yard the old man's thought was, I wonder how things will be when we drive in here again. At last the day was come of which he had once stood in such fear, but which had gone on inexorably approaching. He was not afraid now. He was only impatient to begin, like the excited gambler who only thinks of winning. A slight suspicion that some enemy or other had had something to do with Einar's behavior the day before only increased his inward excitement. They didn't know what shame was, those people. They bought witnesses like Soren Kikne. They tried to make the sun rise against his father, but just let them wait. The courthouse lay near the sound, which is the center of the parish, and near which the magistrates lived upon their farms. Along the narrow lines that ran across the stretches of snow and represented roads, people could be seen like black dots moving in the direction of the courthouse. The body of the court would be full enough to-day. The first person Norby saw when he got there was Herlufsson in his great wolf-skin coat, and the first thing he did when he got out of the sledge was to go up and shake hands with him. Herlufsson also advanced to meet him, drawn like steel to magnet. The handshake was warm, and the two smiling faces shone with pleasure at meeting one another. Both were thinking, I wouldn't be in your shoes today for something. So Herlufsson invited Norby to take a cup of coffee with him at the hotel, but Norby protested that on this occasion he would stand treat. The doors were almost too narrow to admit the big, fur-clad men. At the coffee-table they were soon warmly united in speaking evil of one and another whom they both hated. The great case they only ventured to mention very carefully, for fear that the one should see through the other. Outside there was a bitter east wind blowing, which swept the smoke from the neighbouring factories through the driving snow. People walked about beating their hands together to warm them, and some went into the baker's shop and bought bread as an excuse to warm themselves. At length the magistrate arrived, the court was opened, and the people streamed in, stamping the snow from their boots as they went up the stairs. When Merit Norby entered she saw the pastor's wife and Fru Thora of Lirarende among the audience. They both gave her a friendly recognition and made room for her between them. When Vangan stood at the bar and protested his innocence, the pastor's wife turned towards Merit Norby with a sigh and a look, which said, Poor man, how foolish he is! Thora of Lirarende already felt as if she must burst into tears. Vangan was so pale and emaciated. His throat was so thin inside his collar, and the back of his head seemed so big. His back was actually bent. Poor man, if only he would confess! It never occurred to Fru Thora that her opinion of Vangan's guilt could be wrong, since she sat there and pitied him. From the very first this opinion had fostered a number of beautiful charitable thoughts in her mind, and she therefore never considered how she had arrived at it. It was a view that had made her willing to make some sacrifice, for instance, to adopt one of Vangan's children, and a conviction for which one sacrifices something, not only becomes a certainty, but grows so dear that it actually acquires a moral value. Poor Vangan, she thought, who can say whether all this is not really the outcome of an unfortunate inheritance from his father? But the human tribunal does not take that into consideration. It is merciless, and at that thought she seemed to see before her the community with tribunals that were different. Knut Norby was called as the first witness in the case. The moment had come for which he had previously felt such terror. He had to go in and say that he had not put his name to any paper for Vangan. When he entered the corridor he felt the excitement of the card-player who has good cards in his hand, and is impatient to play them. His one thought was that he must not for the world forget anything. As his hand touched the handle of the door, a far-off voice seemed to say, "'Turn back! There is still time!' But the voice was far too distant. "'Did you really defraud that widow?' said another voice, and this filled him with a desire to not Vangan down. As he entered the court he raised his shoulders a little, as he was accustomed to do when he knew that a number of people were looking at him. The first thing he saw was Vangan in the dock, and when their eyes met in a flash the old man felt a dull anger rising within him. He remembered all the reports that Vangan had spread about him. "'You wait!' he thought. On his way to the witness-box he saw both the pastor's wife and Fruthora nodding to him, and it gave him encouragement. When he saw that it was not the magistrate himself but his head clerk who was conducting the inquiry, he was offended. The magistrate might send his clerk to unimportant cases, but it was Knut Norby that this concerned. When the young man with the eyeglasses and the downy moustache adjured him to speak the truth, the old man felt a desire to laugh. Fancy that whipper snapper acting magistrate! He had heard that this very gentleman had been as drunk as a Lord at Lawyer Basting's last Saturday evening. And there sat Basting, too, that pauper, trying to look like a sage. He had come already to help Vangan, the fool. Yes, this was a court to inspire respect. The questioning began. Norby found it easy to answer, just because Basting was on the watch. He had been on the watch, too, when he had tried to agitate for Norby's removal from the bank board, and to get appointed himself. The poor wretches' goods were restrained for the poor rate, and he was thankful to get a bill for two Kronas to collect. And that man was on the watch against Knut Norby? Supposing it were he who had got hold of Einar. Vangan asserts that he distinctly remembers the place where the signing took place, said the clerk. Well, perhaps I might be allowed to know where it was, too, said Norby innocently. The clerk turned towards Vangan. Wasn't it at the Grand Café? Vangan rose, and his eyes shone as brightly now when he said it took place at the Grand as when he said he was innocent. To Norby this gave a welcome touch of comicality, and he answered with deep conviction, That document was not signed by me. Despite these words he heard a little sarcastic laugh from Vangan, which made him boil with rage. I'll give him something to laugh at, he thought. Wait a little! Then something happened which came quite unexpectedly upon Norby. The clerk took out a paper and handed it to him. Here is the document, he said, and there is your name. Will you see whether it resembles your signature? You might possibly have forgotten the matter. For a moment Norby saw his name, as he himself had written it. It had the effect of a ghost. He would not look at it. He looked at lawyer Basting, who was looking a scance at him, and this made him quite angry, and he threw the document upon the table, saying, I don't need to look at that thing, I know what I've done. At this Basting asked permission to put a question, and rising came nearer to the witness-box. Has Vangan never asked you to be surety for him? He asked. Norby looked contemptuously at the greasy-looking, bald-headed old man. He was about to laugh or give a scornful answer, but a voice whispered, Take care not to let the cat out of the bag! And he said with a smile, A great many people have asked me to be surety for them, but I can't remember them all. Then irritated at again hearing Vangan's sarcastic laugh, he added casually, He must have asked me, however, for laterally he was running about and asking every blessed soul he knew. This time he heard Marit laugh. When his examination was over, he remembered the declaration from Harstad's widow, and asked to be recalled when Soren Kigny had given evidence. When he came out of the room, he stood on the stairs for a little while to cool himself before putting on his cap. There was a voice far away crying, You have lied! But it was too far away, and powerful voices rose against it. It was true, was it, that he had defrauded that widow? He still seemed to hear Vangan's laughter, and he thought once more, Wait a little, and I'll give you something to laugh at. He still had his best cards in his hand. It's too bad all the same, he thought, as he sauntered across the yard, that one should be exposed to the attacks of such riff-raff. You have both to circumvent them and to wriggle away from them, but I'll be damned if that man doesn't have to leave the parish now. Suddenly the old man stood still. A young man in overcoat and fur cap was coming towards him. Was he mistaken? No. It was Einar. Maybe he was excited already, and now when Einar came, too, perhaps to interfere, he felt inclined to give the boy a thrashing. They both stopped within a few steps of one another. Einar was very pale. Is that you? Said the old man, attempting to laugh. He knew that people could see them from the window. Yes, father, said Einar, as he dug his stick into a snow-drift, and it isn't very pleasant to be myself just now. At this the old man laughed scornfully and shrugged his shoulders. No, of course not, he said. Is a hundred and fifty Kronas a month too little? You have a family in Christianity, perhaps? Einar pressed his lips together, and his voice shook, as he said, looking calmly at his father. I wanted to follow the dictates of my conscience and do what was right. Yes, of course, said the old man, coming a step nearer and laughing again. Does anyone forbid you to do so? I shall have to go in and save the innocent man, said Einar, no matter what it costs me. But he involuntarily retreated a step, and gazed at his father in fear. The old man still tried to smile, because people could see them from the windows, but he suddenly turned pale. Yes, I thought so, he said, breathing heavily. But who has put you up to this? At this Einar flushed and drew a step nearer. Father, he said, and his voice was indignant. You must tell me what you mean by that. The old man, however, resented the authoritative tone, and began to gesticulate, while he shouted, Go in and give evidence then, confound you, don't stand there and torture your father. Go at once, do you hear? He caught his breath and gesticulated with his arms, but no more words came. And he turned abruptly and tramped away, while Einar began mechanically to walk towards the courthouse. Suddenly he heard his name called. Einar! he turned. Yes, father? His father was standing looking after him, but made a sudden movement with his hand. Nothing, he said, and went on. Pride had conquered. Einar stood upon the steps of the courthouse. There were a few steps to be made. The fact is that father himself is the best proof that Vangan is innocent. He thought, but can I? Am I cowardly or courageous? All I have to do is to tell the truth and save an innocent man. Is that so dreadful? Perhaps it's the only time in my life that a brave action will be required of me. I must be a man! And he went on with slower steps into the passage and knocked at the door. END OF PART 2 CHAPTER V PART 2 CHAPTER VI OF THE POWER OF ALI by Johann Boyer TRANSLATED BY Jesse Muir This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When Norby left Einar, he did not know where he went. He met some acquaintances and had to stop and shake hands with them and chat, although he felt inclined to throw himself upon the ground and weep. There's no lack of snow this winter, he said, laughing almost convulsively at the group gathered about him, and at the same time thinking, now he is in there giving evidence. Everyone without exception spoke to him with the usual deference and gave him sympathetic glances, and this gave him fresh courage. He's welcome to give evidence, he thought, but we shall see. At last he was alone, and stood at the window in a little general store. Above him on the hill stood the courthouse, and he could see at the window the profile of a head with a hand raised to the chin. Now they're enjoying the scandal, he thought. They think they've caught me when they've caught my boy, but wait a bit. It seemed to freeze something within him. This son, upon whom he had spent so many thousand cronies, but who suddenly attacked his father in this way, was not Norby's son any longer. There was only a smart, as if something had been cut away, and it made him set his teeth hard. They are mistaken. If I'm not man enough to overthrow his assertions, I'm not what I thought I was, for now it's a matter of life and death in any case. He could not help laughing, but it was a cold hard laugh, for the thought that he was going to disgrace himself and his son by having to refute his evidence in court made him quite fierce. As sure as I live, they shall regret that they took the boy from me. When Einar entered the court, he saw at a glance that the witness box was empty. The clerk was dictating something to be entered in the minutes. The witness's place was waiting for him who should tell the truth. It seemed to beckon to him. When he shut the door behind him, the little noise made him start. The door was shut now between him and his father forever. I can never go home again, he thought, and at the same moment he caught sight of his mother among the audience. She smiled at him. She was flushed and perspiring with the heat. If you only knew that I can never come home again, thought Einar, as she made room for him beside her. And the fact that she sat there and made room for him, without suspecting why he had come, agitated him greatly. When she hears my evidence, he thought, she'll faint. It must be done now, however, now or never. He felt that if he did not go straight at it, his courage would ebb, and he would collapse. It had cost him so much to make up his mind. To turn round now would be an insult to himself. He looked across once more at his mother, as if to say, You cannot want me to tell anything but the truth. I tried to save father while there was time, but it was impossible. He was about to address himself to the clerk, when Thora of Lida Rende, and the pastor's wife, gave him a friendly nod, and he had to nod back again. And his mother beckoned to him, while the two other ladies helped to make room for him. Should he go there for a moment? He very much wanted to sit down. He had been wandering about for hours out in the cold, and the court was hot and badly ventilated. And he felt giddy, and the blood rushed to his head. His mother beckoned again and smiled, and before he quite knew what he was about he was sitting beside her. The two ladies with her gave his hand a warm pressure as they shook hands with him. The next moment his mother was called as a witness. The clerk looked at her and said, I thought you were sitting among the audience. Yes, I was, said Frue Norby. But that is not allowed, said the clerk. You must be good enough to remain outside when you are a witness. Einar had a strange feeling on seeing his mother in the witness-box. It seemed to him that standing there she was in some danger or other, and when the clerk administered this rebuke he felt an involuntary agitation. Until his filial instincts were aroused and took up their stand beside her. He was no longer capable of thought, he only felt. After strenuous working himself up to a high pitch of clearness of judgment and truthful endeavour, he now suddenly lost his balance and fell into a strange world of indistinct but warm impulses. Far off a star beckoned to him. It was for him to go up and give evidence. But it seemed to go farther and farther away. There stood his mother, looking all at once so thin and helpless. The clerk had offended her. And was Einar now going up to contradict her before all these people? He might just as well go up and knock her down. He grew more and more afraid that something would happen to her out there. Nothing must happen to her. When his mother had finished she went out, and Einar had to follow her to see if anything was the matter, and in doing so forgot his overcoat, which he had taken off and placed beside him on the bench. When he caught her up near the bakers a sudden resolution came to him to leave her, for he could not bear this any longer. He was not equal to the task of concocting any explanation. He only said good-bye and hurried away. Sharp hail showers had taken the place of the snowstorm and deluged him with rolling ice-pearls. The road meandered along the fjord and on to the station. There was an hour before the train went, and he had plenty of time, but he hurried like a man who was running away. At last he began to walk more slowly. There was a voice that whispered to him, But this inquiry is only an investigation of the matter. It will be time enough if you give evidence before the jury. But he stood still, as if the thought were something that he could knock down. Con found it, he thought. This is just as cowardly. I imagine I can go to the trial by jury. I, the coward! He had wandered backwards and forwards in this way before today. Now determined to go away. Now to go straight to the inquiry and give evidence. And when he finally approached the courthouse with firm steps, he had felt glad and proud that what was truest and bravest in him had conquered. And now he could not go home any more, even if his father could forgive him he would despise this sorry hero. And as son at Norby Farm he had betrayed the house and all his family just as much as if he had not been too cowardly to put his resolve into action. He stopped and looked back. There on the white snowy surface by the sound stood the courthouse enveloped in driving showers. In Einar's eyes that building was now only a den of injustice in which false accusations were made than false evidence given and where an innocent man was condemned and had his life ruined. And he, who could save him, he fled. He was the greatest coward of them all. Einar suddenly felt it was quite impossible for him to go back to town and be the old Einar Norby. He could never look his friends in the face. He would have to live with shame in his heart and always bow his head and keep silence when mention was made of honesty and truth in the world. Could he ever have another happy day if Vangen were condemned? No, he could not walk any farther towards the station. His feet refused to carry him. At last he sat down upon a stone by the wayside. He had not yet noticed that he had forgotten his overcoat. An hour later he was still sitting there with his head in his hands. He was roused by the sound of sledge-bells. Two men drove past in a double sledge, laughing and talking about the inquiry. Something must have happened. But Einar sat on. Should he turn back? He thought, perhaps there was still time. And then he suddenly burst into a laugh, that this desire to do something great could still raise its head made him laugh scornfully and bitterly. And as he laughed, he coughed. When Soren Kikne at last came into the witness-box, he put himself into an important attitude and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, for he knew now that the whole thing depended upon him. He declared that while he worked at Harstad's, Harstad had once told him that he had seen Norby put his name to a paper for Vangen and that he himself had signed as witness. There was a great sensation in the court. This was an acquittal for Vangen. Are you sure of that? asked the clerk, who looked at the farm labourer. I remember it as if it had been yesterday, said Soren. We were painting a carry-all, what's more, when he told me. The clerk now recollected that Norby wished to give evidence after this man, and as he scented something interesting he determined to confront the two witnesses. Norby had freshened up since Marit had told him of Einar's departure, and now his great moment had come at last. When he stood in the witness-box with Soren Kikny, he first looked round. Yes, her Lufsen was in court. He then took out his document and asked the clerk if he might read it aloud. Certainly, said the clerk, a little uncertainly, involuntarily extending his hand for the paper. Norby read. I, Jürgen Haarstad's widow, hereby declare upon my honour that Soren Kikny left our service six months before the date of the signature of Vangen's document. As he then went into service for some time in another parish, it is impossible that my husband can have spoken to him about this matter before he died. The clerk now took the document and ran his eye over it. The audience had risen in their excitement, and the accused had also risen, and had to lean against the wall for support. What have you to say to that? asked the clerk, fixing his eyes upon Soren Kikny. Norby had turned to look at Maad's her Lufsen. That's one for you, he thought, thinking too that her Lufsen looked as if he had got the toothache. What have you to say to that? repeated the clerk, as Soren Kikny stood staring at his boots. You said you were painting a cariol when he told you about it, but it appears that your memory is at fault. How do you explain this? But Soren was by no means equal to a new explanation, so he was allowed to go. When Norby and Marit were sitting in the sledge in the twilight, ready to drive home, a number of people crowded about them and gave them quite a novation. Norby had had his case in such first-rate order that all Vangan's witnesses had only provoked laughter. As the old man took up the reins, Vangan chanced to pass. He looked broken down, and as he caught sight of his adversary, he suddenly came nearer and shook his fist at him. You wait! he cried, his features distorted with anger. You scoundrel! You think you've won today, but wait a little! You shall go to prison, both you and the woman sitting beside you! He made a sudden dash forward in the snow as if to attack them, but two men caught him by the collar and drew him away, although he resisted strenuously. Ah! that brandy! said an old man, shaking his head after him. I saw that their consul had him into the hotel and stood treat. The best thing would be for the bailiff to take him in and charge it once, said another, looking sympathetically at Norby. Norby laughed, cracked his whip and drove off, while they all took off their hats to him. He was tired. There had been so much excitement to-day. But he seemed to be sitting all the time reading aloud that declaration and seeing her Lufson's face. He should never forget it as long as he lived. As they turned into the yard at Norby, Ingeborg came out under the steps and said in a frightened voice, INAR! INAR! said Marit, who was the first to get out of the sledge. He's gone back to town, hasn't he? They've brought him here in a sledge, said Ingeborg. I've telephoned for the doctor. End of Part 2, Chapter 6 Part 2, Chapter 7 of The Power of a Lie by Johann Boya Translated by Jesse Muir. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A bright moon shone out from among floating silvery clouds over snowy fields and forests in the dead of night. The buildings and the flagstaff at Norby cast shadows upon the sparkling snow. The sledges standing in the yard were turned up on their edge, so as not to freeze under their runners. A solitary dog was running round the house, giving short barks, because no one let him in, although there was a light burning in one of the attic windows. During the night, one of the old men in the pensioner's house got out of bed and crept to the window in his slippers. He stood there with the moon shining in his face and looked across at the house. The other farm-labourer was also awake, and after yawning asked, I suppose there's a light in Einar's window, isn't there? Yes, said the man at the window, hunching his shoulders because he felt cold. I wonder, he continued, whether there is any change. The dairymaid could now be heard turning over in bed in her little room, and she murmured, The dog has howled so dreadfully all night, and that doesn't mean anything good. There was a pause. The old man at the window continued to stand there, looking out into the silvery night and across at the lighted window in the big house. I heard howls last night, said the blind man suddenly from his bed and yawned, and I've not heard an owl here since old Norby died. Ah, well, Einar's always been a good lad, said the dairymaid. God have mercy upon his soul! There was another pause. It seems to me there's someone walking up and down in the big drawing room, said the old man at the window. The next moment he hurried into bed as if he were frightened. After a little the blind man said, Wasn't it in the big drawing room that old Norby's ghost used to be seen? If there's anyone there tonight, said a voice from the little room, we'll know very well what'll happen. The moon drew two windows right across the floor. The big clock on the wall struck two, and the old man turned over and drew the coverlet over their heads. The big drawing room lay between Einar's room and that in which the servants slept. A figure was really walking up and down there in noiseless felt slippers. The moon sent a flood of light across the floor, and the frost ferns upon the window panes were flames of silver. But the man walking about there kept in the shade. At last he paused at the window and looked out. It was very quiet out there in the night. The stars twinkled among the shining clouds, and lower down above the hills hung red and black banks of clouds, looking like some strange variegated land. The old man wore his overcoat, and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets. The door opened, and Ingeborg entered with a candle in her hand. How is he? asked the old man quietly. Won't you come in, father? Is it Einar who wants me? No, mother. He's spitting blood again. But the old man shrugged his shoulders and answered. They often do that in inflammation of the lungs. Just you go back and take it quietly. He's so young and strong, he'll get over it all right. Ingeborg went quietly out, and the old man began to pace the floor again. There was no use in fetching the doctor again. The complaint must take its course. But the old man felt he must be here, because he could not sleep, and because the women wanted to have him at hand. Oh, dear! he thought. I do hope Einar will pull through. But the terrible thing was that sometimes he caught himself wishing that he would not pull through. But such as these buzzed about like stinging wasps on the surface of his mind. He was sometimes frightened, and sometimes would have liked to have given himself a thrashing. But the wasps came again. So low had he been dragged down in this confounded matter with Vungen. Why of course he forgave the boy. He would never refer to the matter again if the boy recovered. But this illness had followed so close upon his anger, and it would take something to sweep away every little sting. He paused again at the window and looked out into the bright night. The wind was rising now towards morning, and began to raise snow clouds away over the hills. Oh! how pleasant life would be when this nasty case was done with, and he could be the old Norby once more. Here he lived on his farm, and only wanted to be left in peace. But was he allowed to? No. They dragged him into this foolery with Vungen, wanted him to support such swindles as these Brickfields, and when he wanted to get out of it they threatened him with imprisonment. Then they suborned witnesses, and then they set the son up against his father. And why was Einar ill? If they hadn't persuaded him to come to this inquiry he would have been in town now, reading his books, instead of going down there on a winter's day without his overcoat, and getting inflammation of the lungs. Supposing he died. It would be the fault of those who had persuaded him, and they would be sure to exult if Norby lost this son too, for they had succeeded in causing him to lose his eldest. His lips began to quiver as he stood in the moonlight. Would they succeed? Would they have that pleasure? And he turned suddenly, and walked towards the door. I'll go for the doctor all the same, he thought. But then he remembered that the doctor had promised to come early in the morning, and he turned back to the window, and stood gazing out at the red and black banks of Cloud in the north. Supposing Einar died and went over there. There he would stand forever, always looking at him as he had done down at the courthouse, when he dug his stick into a snowdrift. I want to follow my own conscience. Would he not hear those words night and day, and see that form as long as ever he lived? Always this accusation from the dead. He might travel all over the world and collect evidence and declarations to disprove it, but it would be of no use. The old man pressed his lips together again. No, the boy must be kept alive, better that he should go to the trial and give evidence against him, than die and witness against him everlastingly. The wind was rising. It howled round the corners of the house and in the roof, and up under the icicle-fringed eaves. In the east a gray band of light began to show above the hills, but the moon still spread her silvery veil over land and water. Suddenly there was a sound of sledge-bells going down the avenue. It was the old man, in his fur coat with the collar turned up, hastening away to fetch the doctor. Einar must be kept alive. The poor dog, which had not been let in, uttered a joyful bark at sight of the driver and bounded through the snow to join him. It was still long before anyone at the farm got up. Only the pensioners in the old cottage began to yawn in their sleep. This they began to do an hour before they woke, and they always woke at four from long habit. The dairymaid always had it in her mind that she had to get up to go to the cows as she did fifteen years ago, and the men dreamed of getting up and going to the forest as they had so often done in the early winter mornings long ago. The old habit had now become regular dreams. Perhaps when these old people lie in the churchyard they will dream the same things as morning approaches. End of Part 2, Chapter 7