“Can’t you go then and look for one, instead of coming everlastingly and interrupting me?” he said.
“I didn’t know it was anything so important, Henry. And if you’re writing something anonymous about Norby or others that you suspect, please don’t go on with it! I’m sure you’ll only lose by it.”
“It seems as if you couldn’t imagine my writing anything but what was mean. That’s a nice thing to hear, Karen.”
She stood a few moments looking at him, and then went quietly out into the kitchen, and went on rinsing children’s clothes in a tub. She found it painful to live in these luxurious surroundings when none of it was theirs any longer, and when they never knew for certain at dinner whether there would be anything for supper or not. But to go into the parish—she—and beg for a roof over their heads, was the very last humiliation she would take upon herself; for this was just what so many people had prophesied when she married him. But why did he not go, when he always had plenty of time? Why could he not save her a little? These were the thoughts that had of late made Fru Wangen so bitter.
Wangen succeeded in recovering his happy mood, and had got on a long way with his article, when his wife came in once more and disturbed him. This time she had their two-year-old little girl with her.
“You must forgive me, Henry,” she said, “but you haven’t chopped the wood I asked you for; and now you must take care of the child while I go out and do it myself.”
He raised his head and looked straight before him for a moment. Then he sighed deeply. She saw that he had something to say, and stood waiting with anxious eyes.
“Oh, dear!” he groaned.
“Do I bother you so dreadfully, Henry?”
“I thought you would help me a little just now, Karen; but I believe even if people came here and killed me, you would go out and in just as calmly, cook and wash, think of house-rent, and above all not forget to chop wood.”