IT sometimes happens that in the even current of our lives we suddenly meet with an obstacle that compels us to pause and consider. To Henry Wangen his failure was such an obstacle as this. As he sat in the train on his way home from town, with unavoidable ruin staring him in the face, he was nearly passing sentence of death upon himself. He saw that this failure, which brought misfortune to so many, was due to his own incapacity and recklessness. It was terrible, but it was true.
“This is a consequence of never having taken the trouble to acquire thorough knowledge,” he thought. “And if I hadn’t so often sat drinking far into the night at the consul’s, I should have had more judgment in my business the next day.” Every drowsy or lazy moment in which a determination was taken now seemed to him to have come to life in the form of a starving, despairing family. “There! There!”
And during these moments of calm justice towards himself, he saw one thing that impressed him more than any other, namely, that his kindness of heart had really been a greater enemy to him than drink; for he had always contented himself with the knowledge that he meant well. And he did mean it all so well, and sheltered by this good intention, he had done the most thoughtless acts, and always with a good conscience; for good faith was always ready to excuse the blackest lies and raise them into the light of truth.
And now? Reality had no use for good faith; it demanded more.
While the train rolled on, he also saw how his pet idea for the improvement of the conditions of the working-man, an eight-hours’ working-day, had also helped in the ruin. So it was not only necessary to have benevolent ideas in this world; they must be such as did not bring misfortune upon those they were intended to help, as they had done in this case.
He was filled with a dull rage against himself, and swore that he would not rest until he had paid back to them all that he had wheedled out of them. He swore not to touch strong drink again. He was fully aware that this was not enough. He would never, never be able to make up for the suffering he had brought upon so many.
And his wife, who had put such confidence in him? He felt as if he could have taken himself by the throat and called himself a scoundrel.
He was now on his way home from the consul’s after having heard the “news.” Strange to say, his mind had become more composed. He did not hang his head any longer. He walked more easily. He did not know himself how it came about, but he was not quite so afraid of going home to his wife and confessing the truth.
When he came in sight of his house, which lay a little to the left of the dark mass of the brick-kilns, he saw a light in a single window. He remembered his wife’s condition and the bailiff’s visit. “Poor Karen!” he thought; “perhaps she was at home, alone too.” And a flood of anger filled his heart, anger this time not against himself, but against Norby. “Is he quite mad? What does he mean by this?” It was a relief to be able to turn his indignation against others than himself.
When he entered the dining-room where he had seen the light, he found his young wife sitting by a small lamp. She rose mechanically. He saw at once that the children were in bed, and the supper was laid and waiting for him. How cosy and peaceful it was! But in the middle of this peace she stood pale and frightened, gazing at him as if she would say: “Tell me quickly, is it true?”