At home, he would sit dreaming in the arm-chair, so far removed from all reality that Emanuel might sing and prattle as much as he pleased without being stopped by a peremptory order from his father.
He was sitting thus one evening towards the end of May; both Emanuel and Hedvig were asleep. The day had been hot, and the heat still hung in the low-ceiled rooms. The children were tossing restlessly in their beds. If only one dared to open a window—but no; the night air was a thing to be careful about, while there were children in the place, thought Fru Egholm to herself. It was late, very late, but what did that matter, as long as there was oil enough in the lamp?
“Whatever are you sitting there thinking about?” she asked, when the silence had lasted an eternity. There was not the slightest danger now in such a piece of familiarity on her part. Not as he had been lately.
“Nothing,” said Egholm, drawing in his breath as if he had just emerged from the depths of the sea. “What’s that you’re fussing about now?”
“Wassermann’s wig. Look at it—it’s simply falling to pieces. But as for a new one—well, you should have seen his wife’s face when I spoke of it. And if it hadn’t been that there’s a chance they might take Hedvig as maid there, I’d never....”
“What d’you get for a bit of work like that?”
“Well, it ought to be a krone, but seventy-five øre I will have, and that’s the least. Though I don’t suppose she’ll offer me more than fifty, the stingy old wretch.”
Egholm sat silent a while, then involuntarily he lied a little. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “what I was thinking about. You know that verse from ‘Adam Homo’:
“‘What trouble’s worst? We’ve trials enough, Lord knows
If I should ask, a score of voices swift
Would tell me where they found the “little rift”
Each as experience led him to suppose.
One says ’tis boredom, one, ’tis married life;
Another finds it worse without a wife.
One thinks remorsefully of sins committed,
Another with regret of those omitted.
One, of all pains we’ve suffered since the Fall,
Will reckon Money Troubles worst of all.’
Yes, money troubles—that’s the worst. Paludan Müller, he knew. And he’s my favourite poet. He knew everything!”