“And are you the one that sings?”
“No, more's the pity. He is the one that sings.”
“Oh, so you are the singer, are you? We're namesakes, I believe?”
“Why, yes, in a way,” said Falkenberg, a little awkwardly, “My name is Lars Falkenberg, and I've my certificate to show for that.”
“What part d'you come from?”
“From Trøndelagen.”
The Captain went home. He was friendly enough, but spoke in a short, decisive way, with never a smile or a jesting word. A good face, something ordinary.
From that day onwards Falkenberg never sang but in the men's quarters, or out in the open; no more singing in the kitchen now the Captain had come home. Falkenberg was irritable and gloomy; he would swear at times and say life wasn't worth living these days; a man might as well go and hang himself and have done with it. But his fit of despair soon came to an end. One Sunday he went back to the two farms where he had tuned the pianos, and asked for a recommendation from each. When he came back he showed me the papers, and said:
“They'll do to keep going with for a bit.”
“Then you're not going to hang yourself, after all?”