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Twice Met n 23
with his poor, deceived, and abandoned mother to whose
one sole lapse from virtue he owed his existence. Up there,
day after day her joyless grey eyes had dripped that bitter
hatred into his soul which made his cheeks blaze and his
brain glow. And it was from there that he had stormed out
to the great rallies, where under the eyes of the leaders
themselves he had delivered his own fiery speeches to the
listening thousands.
And then he had left—broken, disillusioned, full of
loathing, branded by all the newspapers’ inky lies, pursued
by the gloating grins of treacherous comrades and the vigi-
lant eyes of the police. Not long after, his mother died, and
with that his last tie with his hated hometown was broken.
And yet . . . and yet wherever in the world he happened
to set foot, in Germany, in America, and latterly in the
mountains of Norway, he had unfailingly kept one sleepless
ear cocked in the direction of the old places, waiting for the
day when the people’s patience would finally snap. And
now at last it had come! The summons had sounded! . . . Or
could it even be that the wondrous and ineffable had already
occurred? Had the sentence been passed, the punishment
carried out? It seemed to him that an eerie and eloquent
silence brooded over the city as it gradually opened up to his
gaze, with the long rows of pale lights under the still factory
chimneys stark against the sky.
Could it, could it have happened?
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24 n Henrik Pontoppidan
On the stroke of six they dropped anchor in the inner
roads. Darkness had fallen. Hundreds of ships’ lanterns
bobbed to left and right of the Trekroner beacon’s
penetrating beam. A tramp steamer came splashing out
from the harbour with its fiery red and cat-green eyes
riding above an incessant hissing and creaking. From
within the glowing city sounded a far-off restless hum.
Staggering like a drunk, Reinald got down into the
dinghy, which swiftly carried him ashore.
The first person he came across was a uniformed
messenger standing under a lamp by the custom house
steps, deep in a newspaper. But the blue, bloated face
betrayed nothing, and Reinald did not have the courage
to approach him. The customs officer, a sulky little fellow
who inspected his knapsack wordlessly, likewise left him
none the wiser. But as he hastened out into the deserted
foggy street where once in a while a solitary figure brushed
past him under the wan street lighting with coat collar
round his ears, he was struck anew by the uncanny silence
that hung over the city.
Next moment, through the fog he caught sight of a row
of large posters on a nearby hoarding. People’s revolution!—
flashed through his mind as he hurried over. But then by
the dim light of a far-off street lamp he made out:
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Twice Met n 25
Madame Popper Menter! Last concert! Theatre! Burlesque!
Chung-Chang the equilibrist! Breathtaking aerobatical per-
formances! Musse is coming!!! Bedbugs eliminated! . . .
A dry cough sounded a little way off. He looked round and
glimpsed a policeman’s helmet slowly approaching from
the direction of Grønningen. Quickly he turned a corner
and was almost immediately in Store Kongensgade. Here
there was no lack of light or people. Hansom cabs and
drays thronged the street. Shop bells jingled, boys whistled
‘The Happy Coppersmith’. On one corner a fat policeman
stood and yawned.
Reinald was astounded. He gazed at all those fine
gentlemen sweeping past him in their new promenade
furs, the imposing perfumed ladies with flashing eyes
roaming behind cherry-red veils. He gazed at the placid
urchins gathered wistfully in front of the bright shop
windows, at the workers quietly making their way home,
at the womenfolk and apprentice lads standing about in
doorways and gateways chatting together and smoking.
And he peered down into cellar tap-rooms where people
sat crowded together, drinking and laughing.
He could make no sense of it. What was the meaning of
this gaiety? Was it a cover under which the bullets were
being forged?
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26 n Henrik Pontoppidan
Where should he seek information? Whom did he
dare ask?
He turned down one of the side streets, and at once his
eyes were drawn to light streaming onto the street from a
big house some way ahead. Knots of people were gathered
on both sides of the arched entrance, and carriage after
carriage drove through it and drew up.
‘What’s happening?’ Reinald asked a shoemaker’s app-
rentice after watching a while in amazement the ladies in
ball gowns and the men in white ties skipping from the
carriages into the garlanded vestibule.
‘It’s the liberals.’
‘The liberals? Who are they?’
‘The liberals? Huh, get away with you!’
‘They’re dedicating the flag’, piped up a little old dame
in a bonnet and long cape, and she nodded portentously
up at him.
Reinald gazed down at her wizened trembling mouth,
as though unable to believe his own ears. Dedicating the
flag! Then had some sort of victory been won?
He felt utterly at a loss. As if in a dream, he roamed a
long while through a succession of dark streets, almost
unaware of walking. At last he halted outside a deep
basement tavern. And being thereby reminded he had
eaten nothing all day, he pulled himself together and
descended the steps.
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Twice Met n 27
It was a grubby little room with a spittle-dotted floor, at
that moment void of customers. From the centre of the
blackened ceiling dangled a drowsily fuming bare paraffin
lamp, and seated in one corner in shirtsleeves was the stout
tavern keeper, fast asleep. The sound of the doorbell woke
him, though, and he eyed the stranger in befuddled sur-
prise. Reinald sat down at a table close to the door, and
ordered a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of beer. With
much effort and audible grumbles, the fat man rose from
his chair and shuffled across the floor to a hatch in the
wall, where he remained standing until the order was
thrust through the hole.
‘Bad times, eh?’ he gasped as he slumped into a chair
opposite the newcomer, and, still half asleep, bit off a good
three inches from a stick of chewing tobacco which he
fished from a trouser pocket.
Reinald nodded assent, bent over his sandwiches.
‘Nothing seems to be moving. Just strikes and bank-
ruptcies and mischief and misery wherever you look. And
al
l just because of politics! Can you beat it?’
At the word ‘politics’ Reinald pricked up his ears.
But the fat man was suddenly wide awake too, and
darted a hard look at his visitor out of the corner of an eye.
‘Well—so what’s your opinion about all this here poli-
ticking?’ he asked.
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28 n Henrik Pontoppidan
Reinald replied that he had only that very evening
arrived in the city from abroad and was therefore in
complete ignorance. But he would appreciate some infor-
mation; he had heard so many rumours.
‘Did you also hear about the new emergency laws?’
‘No!’
‘About the gendarmes? And the police?’
‘No! Has . . . has something happened? I mean—
something really serious?’ Reinald stammered out.
‘Eeh, God preserve us!’ cried the fat man in horror.
‘What more could possibly happen? Isn’t it dangerous
enough already? Thank the Lord I don’t bother myself
with politics and that. To my way of thinking the Right
or the Left would be equally good, if they could only agree.
That’s what they should be thinking about, that lot over
there in Parliament, and start understanding it’s us trades-
men who suffer. You tell me what’s the use of all their fuss?
Previously I could dispose of a half or even a whole barrel
of beer in a single night, just to labourers and workmen.
But now everyone’s keeping well clear of public places so
as not to run into trouble over what they say. It’s easy to let
slip a word or two when you’ve had a drop too much, and
a spy can jump on it and use it to harm a man. So that’s
why they’re all stopping at home, unless as like as not
they’re setting up secret societies and hush-hush clubs. . . .
And as though that’s any better! Watch out, or before you
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Twice Met n 29
know it we’ll be the same here as over there in Russia, what
with them nillylists and dynamiters.’
‘You really think so?’ asked Reinald eagerly.
The publican again gave his customer a searching look.
Then he winked a couple of times and said in conspirato-
rial tones:
‘Who knows what might be going on in these strange
times. Could be something new pops up sooner than
anyone thinks.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hm! I’m not saying nothing’, he said, and stared hard
out into the room.
But a moment later he turned back to Reinald and laid
a hand confidentially on his arm.
‘Know how to keep a secret?’
‘Me? . . . Yes, of course.’
‘Then listen to this. Up here on the second floor lives
one of the leaders . . . of the opposition, naturally—’
‘Here, in this house?’
‘On the second floor, aye. Take it from me, something’s
afoot up there. There’s been no end of running up and
down them stairs in recent days! And they go whishing
and whispering and putting their heads together soon as
they come out on the street. The other day—but don’t
quote me!—the other day there was a proper meeting on,
with a good two dozen—and ladies and all, naturally! You
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30 n Henrik Pontoppidan
can be sure things were up for debate there! ‘Cos there the
police can’t go poking their noses in, am I right? . . . Bah!
Go ahead, is all I say! I don’t go meddling in what’s none of
my business. I’m neither nilly-this nor nilly-that, me, and
according to my way of thinking both lots are as good as
the other in those opinions they happen to hold, right?
Fair enough, eh? . . . So will it be another beer?’
‘No thanks’, said Reinald, getting to his feet.
‘A bit of baccy?’
‘No thank you . . . How much do I owe you?’
‘Forty-two øre.’
He counted out the money—his bony fingers were
shaking—bade farewell, and left the cellar.
Once he was out in the street he first looked warily
about him, then went through the entrance and quickly
climbed the stairs. On the second floor he found a large
brass name plate on the door. He recognized the name,
which he had often seen in the papers, and softly rang the
bell. A maid opened the door and looked him up and
down suspiciously.
Was the master at home?
No—yes—but he wasn’t receiving today. He had to go
out, and was dressing right now. But tomorrow morning
he would be available for consultation in his office.
Yes, yes—but all the same he would very much like to
speak to him this evening.
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Twice Met n 31
Was it not something she could pass on to him—for he
was busy right now.
No, he absolutely had to speak to him in person.
She pulled a grumpy face and went away after casting
an eye over the coats and cloaks hanging on the hall rack.
When she came back she instructed him imperiously
to wipe his feet on the mat, after which she showed him
into a large, beautiful, elegantly furnished room with rugs
on the floor, armchairs upholstered in velvet, engravings
and costly paintings—all softly lit by a red-globed lamp
suspended from the ceiling. In one wall was a curtained
doorway, and through this stepped a fair-haired middle-
aged portly gentleman with a big moustache, dressed in
tails, white satin tie, cream-yellow gloves, and with a large
rose in his buttonhole.
‘You wish to speak with me?’
‘Yes’.
‘Aha! Now I see, it’s about the dance. So have you
managed to get the bouquets and posies for the cotillons
arranged to your satisfaction?’
‘No—I am a traveller.’
‘Is that so?’ The fair-haired gentleman took out his
pince-nez. ‘May I ask you to be so kind as to be brief.
My carriage awaits in the entrance, and I must away.’
Reinald, white with excitement, proceeded to explain
his presence in naive detail. He started with his youth, the
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32 n Henrik Pontoppidan
rallies, and his departure, and told how this very evening
he had arrived from Norway where he had spent the last
years, and how up there he had followed the course of the
struggle and now had come back to offer his services to
‘The Cause’.
At this a broad smile of understanding spread out from
under the big blond moustache to the pale eyes which at
first had lingered impatiently on the peculiar-looking
stranger, inspecting him with suspicion all the way from
the mass of unruly locks to the down-at-heel bespattered
shoes. Reinald’s story had touched him, and he stepped up
to him, deeply moved, and gave him his hand.
‘All you tell me delights me more than I can say—<
br />
delights me more than you perhaps may understand. I bid
you most heartily welcome! Believe me, it does all of us
good, and fortifies us in our efforts, to meet with such fine
proof of a true and devoted love of liberty. . . . Oddly
enough, at the very moment you called I was endeavouring
to find a suitable opening for the speech I have the honour
of being asked to deliver tonight. And truly, if you will
permit me to mention your heroic arrival on these shores
I am convinced it will arouse universal sympathy. For—
yes indeed!—it’s as you say, there is a war on in this
country—we are at daggers drawn! And that is precisely
why it is so fine, yes, magnificent, when a man so unhesi-
tatingly rallies to the banner at the hour of danger . . . Once
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Twice Met n 33
more, a hearty welcome! Be assured, we do not underesti-
mate your contribution.’
And he wrung his hand again with genuine warmth.
But Reinald, heartened by this, now looked around the
room and asked in a whisper:
‘No one can hear us here?’
‘Hear us? No, I don’t believe so. But why?’
‘Because . . . well, I wanted . . . I want to know right this
very night how you wish to use me.’
‘Use you? . . . What exactly do you mean, my good
fellow? I could hardly have been more precise . . . ’
‘I am totally at your command. I am ready for anything!’
‘Ready? How so? I don’t quite understand you.’
‘You can safely rely on me, Sir. My lips are sealed.
I know . . . I know you had a meeting up here . . . the other
day . . . ’
‘Yes, quite correct—the social committee gathered here
in view of tonight’s banquet . . . But how—in what connec-
tion did you imagine that you—?’
‘There is no need to be afraid of me. Like I said, Sir, I’ve
known how to keep my mouth shut all this time. Give me
any task you will. I’ll take on anyone, even if it be—the man
himself! I have an old score to settle there, I can tell you.’
‘But what does the fellow mean to suggest?’ cried the
fair-haired gentleman of a sudden, instinctively taking a
step back towards his desk. Horror-struck he stared at that
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34 n Henrik Pontoppidan
pale, quivering apparition, those two tiny coal-black eyes
glowing at him above the dark stubble. ‘What are you
Copenhagen Tales Page 3