“Look here, you’ve got to see if you can’t make yourself look like a human being, because I’m expecting my brother-in-law.”
Steffensen rubbed his eyes and looked askance at him.
“Brother-in-law coming?” he said sleepily as he made a wry face.
“Yes.”
“What sort of a person is he?”
“A stockbroker’s runner.”
“Does he drink?”
Jastrau laughed. “Yes, he has nothing against it—when he’s in the right company.”
“Thanks, that’s all I need to know.”
“But listen to me. You’ve got to get shaved and cleaned up before he comes,” Jastrau said with an irritated abruptness that sounded like a command.
“Take it easy now,” Steffensen grunted. But then he suddenly sat up, stretched, and yawned. “Ah—we had a fine time yesterday,” he said. “The only trouble was that I didn’t get drunk enough.” He gave a heartfelt sigh.
Little by little, Jastrau managed to persuade him to get up. He had to entice him, almost trick him, into the bedroom. Out in the kitchen, he had to set the water on to boil himself, because Johanne was busy getting the lunch ready and the only thing she had said was, “Isn’t he going soon?” “No,” Jastrau had said, “he’s staying for lunch.” Then he had to go back and practically force the shaving brush and the Colgate on Steffensen.
“A compulsory shave,” said the latter, grinning.
Jastrau kept after him relentlessly. “Now, here’s the hot water. All you have to do is get lathered up.” Sometimes Steffensen’s glance flashed spitefully and capriciously, so that he felt he had to let up a bit. Nevertheless, he thought he detected a streak of weakness in Steffensen’s rough personality. “Here’s a necktie, Stefan,” he said.
And so it came about that Steffensen was able to sit on the sofa, smooth-shaven and presentable, albeit a little green in the face, when brother-in-law Adolf Smith-Jørgensen put in his appearance—a neatly dressed gentleman with light-blond hair brushed back from his forehead, a ruddy face, and no eyebrows. He was, in fact, a bit too pink and white, like a little pig.
“Hello, Sister dear.” He kissed her on the cheek and embraced her so effusively that her gold necklace tinkled against the band of his wrist watch. “And how are you, sonny? Can you say hello to your Uncle Adolf?” he went on, lifting Oluf into the air. “And you, Brother-in-law—hello, hello. How are things? The same as always, I presume? That’s what I thought—no reason to complain.”
Jastrau introduced his brother-in-law to Steffensen. “Glad to make your acquaintance. It seems to me I’ve heard your name before. You’re a poet, aren’t you?”
“No,” Steffensen mumbled.
“No?” said Smith-Jørgensen, sitting down and rubbing his big, flabby hands together. “So much the better, because I don’t mind telling you that I can’t put up with all these poets and celebrities that one bumps into here at my sister’s.”
Johanne stood in the background, pale and with an ominous expression. Her brother quickly changed the subject.
“Well, sonny.” He turned to Oluf, who immediately ran to him and leaned against his knee. “Well, sonny, what do you think your uncle has brought you? Can you guess?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Oluf, standing on his toes. “Chocolate.”
“Right, my boy. You have a good nose, and the devil take me if you didn’t come by it from your uncle. But there are many kinds of chocolate. What kind is it?”
He held a small package in the air as if he wanted Oluf to jump for it.
“A cigar.”
“Right, sonny.”
And he handed him the chocolate cigar with the utmost solemnity.
Then lunch was served, and Smith-Jørgensen had an opportunity to grow really expansive. He looked pompous as he sat with the green akvavit decanter poised in his hand. He exuded affability in all directions and seemed coated with a glossy varnish of self-complacency. Opposite him, his sister had pulled herself together, too. Her brother’s presence made her feel better. She was mistress of the house. Once in a while she was entitled to feel happy. But Jastrau sat hunched up in his chair looking tired and dissipated, with his thoughts apparently elsewhere between every remark that was made, so that such amiability as he was able to command came in little bursts like steam from a heating pipe.
Steffensen was mute and oblivious to what was going on as if he sat alone at a table in a café. He took so little notice of the others that it seemed as if all he lacked was a newspaper to read while he ate.
“I really don’t understand you, my dear Jastrau,” Smith-Jørgensen said.
“What don’t you understand?” asked Jastrau. A little steam-cloud of amiability—puff. He smiled. Puff.
“Well, you see,” replied Smith-Jørgensen, thrusting his arms out in an elegant gesture so that the cuffs shot out from his coat sleeves, “the other day I sat down to read some of my famous brother-in-law’s works, and do you know what? I found them really quite interesting, these things of yours. But what good do they do you?”
“What do you mean, what good do they do me?”
“Oh, you know as well as I do. You’ll never get a statue out of them—like Goethe. Ha ha. Because while anyone who knows you might get a lot of fun out of reading them, otherwise—good Lord—what use are they? Am I right, Herr Steffensen?”
“Yes.” Steffensen nodded indifferently and went right on munching on a pickled herring.
“If you made some money out of them, it wouldn’t be so bad,” the brother-in-law went on. “But you don’t. Now it’s true that I haven’t studied or read as much as you.” Here he tapped his forehead with a finger. “All I have is what’s up here, but it tells me that you’ve got hold of things from the wrong end. You aren’t a business man, and unless you are it’s no use. You don’t get ahead in the world unless you have a business sense.”
Jastrau smiled. Puff.
“Yes, you smile, my dear Ole,” said his brother-in-law, laying his hand on Jastrau’s shoulder and looking him straight in the eye. “After all, money is a good thing. Isn’t that right, old girl?”
Johanne nodded understandingly. And Steffensen suddenly shifted his position. He planted his elbows on the table, leaned his chin on his hands, and began to stare at Smith-Jørgensen as if he were a freak.
Smith-Jørgensen grew a little embarrassed. A deep, perpendicular furrow appeared between his eyebrows, as though scratched by a nail.
“I’ve often thought about writing, myself,” he began again after a brief pause. Now he spoke very softly, and his eyes sparkled like sunlit water at low tide. “If only one had the time,” he sighed. “For I know what it is that people want. They want to know something about themselves. They want to know something about the great times we’re living in. They are great times, you know.” His voice rose in a noticeable crescendo. “There has never been a period as remarkable as this one. Just think of our inventions. Think of our big business men. What heads they have on their shoulders! What faculties for putting two and two together! People like that aren’t concerned with fantasies. Take Ford, for example. He’s a philosopher to boot. Such people’s comprehension embraces everything.” His eyes shone. “And what do you think such people care about a poem—or even a novel? What goes on in their heads is much more exciting.” He touched his hand to his forehead as if assembling his thoughts and drawing the proper conclusions. “And it’s such people that we want a book about. We want a book about them—these geniuses.” Here he clenched his fist and beat the air for emphasis. “A book about the fight they’re waging—a fight that thousands of people live by, and that thousands are crushed by. Write such a book, and the money will come pouring in.”
Johanne sat staring at her brother. She had followed his remarks, first with a narrowed, critical glance, then with wide-eyed uneasiness, as if fearful he might bog down under the weight of his rhetoric. Now that he had landed safely, with elegance, dignity, a sweeping gesture, and the
words “the money will come pouring in,” she glanced fleetingly at the other two. Steffensen was still sitting with his elbows on the table, and Jastrau still wore the halfhearted smile that reflected a mixture of uncertainty and contempt. In contrast to the pink-cheeked Adolf they both looked rather frowsy, she thought.
“Yes, there might be something to what you say,” Jastrau replied with a sluggish display of interest. “But think of all the things a poet has to be familiar with.” They were words chosen at random.
“Yes, of course, a poet should be up on things,” Smith-Jørgensen exclaimed, exultant over the impression he had made. “But you’re afraid of the work involved, just like all the other poets without any backbone. That’s the crux of the matter. Damn it all, you don’t know anything about the life that goes on around you, and by God, you deserve your poverty. What difference does it make that you have talent? No, I tell you, talent has to be put under control. I only wish I had the time—then I’d tell you what to write. I’d give you some instructions. Then, with your talent, you could sit on your fanny and put it all down on paper, and afterwards I’d look it over and correct whatever was wrong with it. I tell you, I’ve often thought about it seriously.”
As he was finishing his harangue, Steffensen got up without a word and went to the toilet. It was apparent that he knew the direction well.
Smith-Jørgensen’s smile was suddenly transformed into a ludicrous gape, and he exclaimed indignantly, “For God’s sake, one doesn’t behave that way when people are sitting around over their coffee!”
Johanne also shook her head.
“Say, what kind of a person is this anyway?” said her brother.
“It’s no wonder you ask,” Johanne managed to say with a certain amount of pique before Jastrau could answer. “But it’s plain to see that he feels himself at home.”
“What a lout!”
“He’s one of my friends,” Jastrau replied slowly, as if he had anticipated the invective.
“He’s a Bolshevik, that’s what he is,” Johanne said loudly. “And now that the Social Democrats have won, there’s no need for him to hang around here any longer. Herr Sanders had the decency to stay away today. But every morning this fellow here is sprawled out on the sofa, and there’s no getting rid of him. I can’t even get things straightened up in there until he gets up.”
“Hush, Johanne, he can hear you.”
“I don’t care.”
“But I do.”
“Listen now—listen,” Adolf intervened, shaking his head disapprovingly, “—let’s not get upset.” Then, in the mildest, most conciliatory voice, he went on, “I don’t suppose you’d have a drop of Benedictine. Just a drop to go with the coffee—to rinse it down. A small one, you know.”
With his fingers he demonstrated how extremely small it should be. “No. They drank it all,” Johanne said before her husband could speak up.
At this point, Steffensen returned and slouched down in his place.
“That’s a pity—a real pity,” Smith-Jørgensen sighed with a shrug of his shoulders. “No wine cellar. Then you ought to come to my house. Really, Jastrau, you should seriously consider doing that some day. For there we have liquor. The shelves aren’t empty, even though I had a party the other night—a little stag party. And by the way, Sister, I’m supposed to bring you greetings from Joachim, your girlhood sweetheart.”
Johanne raised her head and her expression grew rigid. “Thanks,” she said.
“He was there. And Lord, how drunk they all got—dead drunk. Afterwards we went out to the Golden Age Club. Ha ha—God knows what became of them all. I haven’t seen any of them since. But in the morning Joachim and I took a cab up to Helsingør. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, a little cold, but after all I have a good fur coat We had a quick little breakfast at the Railway Hotel, then came back and had a bath—ah, a cold shower. But you and Joachim—well, ha ha. Anyway, you have something to look forward to when you come to see me.”
“Yes, you lucky dog.” Jastrau benevolently flattered him with his words. “I’ve often envied you your wine cellar.”
“Earn some money, Brother-in-law. How often do I have to tell you that? You have plenty of opportunities.” As he said this, he reached for Dagbladet. “God knows you have opportunities when you have a steady job with an enterprise as big as this.” He slapped the newspaper with the flat of his hand. “But what do you write? Book reviews. All right, but now let’s see how you go about it.”
He unfolded the paper. But no sooner did Steffensen hear him resume his didactic tone than with a disgruntled jerk he moved his chair away from the table and over to the window. He made no effort to hide a sneer.
“Take for example this review of Stefani’s book.”
“I didn’t write that, but let me see it!” Jastrau exclaimed.
Smith-Jørgensen surrendered the paper reluctantly and hitched up his pants. He looked hurt. He felt his chain of thought interrupted, and this pained him.
Steffensen’s rigid profile was outlined against the window. He was listening now and mechanically twirling his pipe between his hands.
“That’s strange. Damned if it isn’t,” Jastrau muttered as he folded up the paper. Steffensen turned his head.
“What’s strange?” asked Johanne.
“Well, it’s not as favorable as I thought it would be. Eriksen—he’s the one who wrote it—refers to Stefani as ‘the spoiled charmer.’ That’s a bit of sarcasm, at any rate.”
Over near the window, Steffensen let out a snort of laughter.
But Jastrau merely stared into space, and his brother-in-law took advantage of his preoccupation to grab the paper again.
“What I’d like to know,” he began immediately, “is why you concern yourself with such trivialities? What difference does it make whether the reviewer calls him a spoiled charmer or not?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. Nothing makes any difference,” said Steffensen, laughing raucously. Oluf began to raise a fuss and kick his feet against the legs of his chair.
“Of course, I don’t think it makes any difference either,” said Smith-Jørgensen. He was irritated by the interruption. “It might be true, but it isn’t the kind of information that’s of use to anybody. Reviews can be all right, I’d say, when they tell what a book contains and whether it’s a good book or a poor one. But you fellows write such deep and learned stuff that a cat wouldn’t bother to read it. Even if you only set down some thoughtful observations, a person might get some benefit out of it. But you don’t do that either. I don’t know what it is you do.”
Steffensen and Jastrau both laughed. But Johanne had a sensitive ear, and she was beginning to feel uneasy on her brother’s behalf. She helped Oluf down from his chair and set about clearing the table, making a lot of noise with the cups.
“What I’m saying is true,” her brother continued, his face flushed with excitement. “The temper of the times—what I mean to say is that everything is so unsettled these days. We’re all so busy—yes we are. Our time is so taken up that there’s no opportunity to have thoughts of our own—yes, that’s the way it is. That’s how I feel about it, and there are many others who feel the same way.”
Steffensen looked at him with unconcealed amusement.
“Yes, there are many others who feel the same way—who believe that it’s the newspapers’ duty to think—”
“The newspapers? Think? Now, by God, I’ve heard everything,” Steffensen roared.
“Will you let me finish?” Johanne’s brother said indignantly. He looked as if he were about to explode. “And as a matter of fact, we do have some thinking journalists—homespun philosophers, you might call them.” Once more his manner became mild, his voice almost gentle. “Those fellows come up with a sensible thought every day—every single day—and that’s the kind of writers we need, Ole—that’s the point I’m trying to make. What I mean is, that sort of thing would be something for you, something useful—useful for those of us who
don’t have time to think ourselves, and useful for you as well. And it would pay damned well, you can be sure of that.”
After having vented his feelings, he was once again his calm, smiling, supercilious self. “But money is still nice to have, old chap,” he concluded and nodded to Jastrau.
“Adolf, don’t you have to watch the time? You said you positively had to leave by one-thirty,” Johanne interrupted.
“Yes, confound it, that’s so!” exclaimed Adolf, pulling a large, flat, gold watch out of his pocket. It was polished so highly that it shone like a sun. “It’s a good thing you reminded me.”
“But wait just a bit,” said Johanne, getting up. “Oluf and I have to go out for a little air, and we can go with you.”
Her brother wrinkled his brow. “Don’t be too long about it,” he complained.
Finally Johanne was ready. The leather shoulder bag with the cowboy fringe dangled at her hip, and there was an audacious gleam in her eyes, as if she were planning to launch an attack. Oluf stood beside her in a heavy brown overcoat, shoving out his belly like a little horse trader. A brown stocking cap was pulled down over his ears.
At last they were ready to go. Jastrau wore an uneasy smile. He would not feel safe until they were well out the door.
Then Johanne launched the attack.
“And so, good-bye, Herr Steffensen,” she said in a polite but sharp-edged tone. “It’s best that I say good-bye to you now, because I’m sure you won’t be here when I get back.”
A faint blush colored Steffensen’s cheeks as he clicked his heels together and bowed to her like a well-mannered schoolboy. But all he managed to utter was a hoarse “Good-bye, frue.”
The three of them left.
For some time there was silence. Jastrau and Steffensen each sat smoking his pipe.
Finally Steffensen mumbled, “There was no mistaking what she meant.”
Jastrau bit his pipestem and said nothing.
Steffensen took a breath and said, “And then that horse who would like to think! A real philosopher—God in Heaven!”
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