“There’s the concert first, don’t forget—tomorrow. And you’re going to be famous.”
“Tomorrow ... yes....”
Ormarr had sat up, resting on his elbow, while he spoke of his home. Now, he threw himself back once more, as if exhausted, and lay with closed eyes as before. For a few moments neither spoke.
“Aage,” said Ormarr at last, “I feel tired—deadly tired. I’ve been idling here all day. Tomorrow? I feel as if tomorrow were already a thing of the past.”
He got up, filled his glass and that of his friend.
“Drink! Aage, I’ve something to tell you. Just let me go on talking, and don’t bother about it, I only want to get it out. What do you think I’ve been seeing all the time, lying here with my eyes shut? This is no life for me. I have been counting. It is my tenth winter here now. Ten years, man—think! And today it seemed as if I had come yesterday. I have been asleep—fast asleep. But it can’t go on. There’s something hurting me, a sort of longing——Oh, I know it sounds all nonsense, but you needn’t worry about that.... No, this won’t do. I don’t go on drinking and enjoying life in this wasteful, silly fashion—and forgetting. I wasn’t made to live like that. I was made to think, and to work. And now here have I been living for ten years—yes, and working hard, I know—but all for nothing. It means nothing at all, really. Famous? If I found myself famous after tomorrow, I should be no better off than I am now. I’ve no ambition of that sort any longer—not a scrap. I never realized it before—it’s only just lately I’ve seen it. And think of dear old Abel Grahl! Do you know, honestly, I believe he’s jealous—the dear old boy! He’s fond of me, I know; and now that I’m on the eve of my ‘conquest,’ as he always says, he thinks of the time when he made his conquest—and fate overtook him after. I’m sadly afraid that old trouble’s cropped up again now with him. And after all, what is there to envy, anyway? What sort of a future if I do succeed? The life of a flunkey—a menial in gold lace, playing for money—and to whom? I’ve been studying my fellow-creatures this winter—musical people—my audience-to-be. Copenhagen’s not the world I know; but human beings are much the same everywhere, I take it, though their looks and manners may differ somewhat in detail. Grahl has been taking me about. He hates ‘society,’ I know, but he took it all up again for my sake—that’s the sort of man he is. It all helps, he says. Oh, and you should have heard their talk, their hard-and-fast opinions, and the views of the professional critics. Sometimes I feel I simply can’t go on living. Simply can’t stand it. What wretched caricatures we all are—myself included. No I’ve finished with this sort of life. There’s not a thing in the world I care for now, except to go back home. If only I could be sure that was a genuine feeling, and not another delusion. Don’t look down on me, old man—Heaven knows, I’ve no great thoughts about myself just now. You know me well enough to see that I’m not drunk. But I feel—oh, just worthless. All these years—and living like this—it’s too contemptible. I feel as if I hadn’t an atom of will-power left. Just sick and tired of everything ... and longing, aching for something.... Good of you to listen so patiently. Have a drink.”
Blad was silent for some time, and when at last he spoke it was in a low voice.
“There’s something I should like to say to you,” he said quietly. “And I’m half afraid to begin. I’ve been thinking a lot, and some of it I mustn’t say at all. But I will say this: When we have been together anywhere—out in the country, or on the sea, or in the town—anywhere, I always had a feeling that we lived as it were on different levels, you and I. To me, you were always the born leader; I felt if you took it into your head to order me about, I should have to obey. Things seemed somehow to belong to you. Then at other times, I could feel as if you were a distinguished visitor—one can’t help these stray thoughts, you know—as if Nature herself put on her best and did all she could to please you—while I was just an ordinary person, not worth making a fuss about. I belonged to her, as one of her children, and could stray about unnoticed among the trees like any other creature in the forest; it never came into my head to look on her in that gay lordly way of yours. And sometimes it seemed you were the better off; sometimes that it was better to be as I was. It’s all only fancies, of course, but still it does prove one thing: that we are utterly different. I am quite content to live an ordinary uneventful life; as long as I can ramble about in Nature’s garden and cultivate the modest growths of my art, it is enough for me. I don’t care for anything that calls for greater energy than I generally give, whether it be the way of pleasure, or pain, or work. I’ve no ambition worth mentioning. I can sit in my garden, and enjoy the scent of the flowers, or go out in a boat, and watch the sunlight on the water; walk in the woods in spring and see the delicate green of the beech leaves against the sky—I am happy enough with such things. There are heaps of little trifling things of that sort that please me every day. But it’s all different with you. It may sound theatrical, perhaps, but it’s as if you had mountains—glaciers and volcanoes—in your soul. And I shouldn’t care to change with you—it’s all too big for me. But then again, if you were like me, I shouldn’t care about you. You must live and act in a different way; I see that. You could stand suffering better than I; I’m sure of that. But I’m not quite sure that you have the power of being really happy. Anyhow—well, you know I’m your friend, and always will be.”
“I know that, Blad.”
Ormarr got up, switched on the light, looked through a bundle of newspapers and found the one he was looking for. Nervously he turned the pages till he came to the shipping intelligence.