“How, Donkey—work it?”
“Not much, you bet. I go to London and take a Swedish boat from Royal Albert Docks to Gothenburg, train from Gothenburg to Marianna. Seventeen knots quadruple twin screw. I will be a passenger for one quid.”
“Donkey, did you ever hear of Ibsen—Henrik Ibsen?”
“Ibsen? Noa. What ship is he Chief of, mister?”
“A ship that passes in the night, Donkey.”
“What’s that, mister?”
How small a thing is literary fame, after all! When one considers the density of the human atmosphere, the darkness in which the millions live, is not Ibsen to them a ship passing in the night indeed, a mysterious light afar off, voyaging they know not where? Perhaps that is what I meant.
“He wrote plays, Donkey—Schauspielschreiber, you know.”
“Oa! Ich hatte nicht daran gedacht! ’Ave you a bit of paper and envelope, mister, please? I will write to Marianna.”
“Give her my love, Donkey.”