The Power of a Lie. Johan Bojer
he felt more inclined to thrash her, and in the second because he did not know how she would take such a communication. She would perhaps only faint with rage at having run like a fool to the village, but she might also do something worse.
He mounted the stairs to his room in order to change his clothes. He must go to the bailiff. But when his trousers were off, and he was about to pull on his blue serge ones, his hands dropped and he sighed heavily.
“Now isn’t all this a sin and a shame!” he thought. “First I help the man out of kindness, then I have to pay up, then there’s a row in the house, and then I run about and make a fool of myself. And now I was actually going off to hold up my wife to the ridicule of the whole parish! No, that is really going too far!”
He remained sitting with the new trousers in his hand. Yesterday’s unpleasant picture of Wangen had become still more unpleasant now, for in reality he was to blame for all this to-day too. And for that man he was ready to——! The old man suddenly threw down the serge trousers, and drew on the old ones; for if he did withdraw his accusation from the bailiff, he would still have to answer for the report. And go to Wangen and eat humble pie? To ask pardon of that man? Never! Never would he do it!
No, there must be some back way out of this. He would think it over.
Knut Norby suddenly found himself in a misfortune for which he himself was not exactly to blame, but for which he had to bear the responsibility. He did not therefore feel the responsibility to be quite so heavy as it otherwise would have been. All the misery that had come upon his house to-day was thanks to his kindness in helping that fellow. It was Wangen’s fault altogether.
When the old man was sitting in the little room at dusk, he heard little Knut laughing in the next room, and rose to go in to him, but stopped at the door. He was not equal to seeing little Knut to-day.
“Perhaps he had a hand in bringing your father to such a bad end too,” he said to himself, thinking of the child. At any rate, Wangen was at Lillehammer fair that time.
One day went by, and then another. The old man was on thorns. But every time he thought of changing his clothes and going to the bailiff, he half unconsciously began to conjure up a picture of Wangen, to remember bad things about him, to place him in a ridiculous or an odious light, to impute to him all kinds of repulsive failings; and this gave him fresh courage to put off going, and he felt it more and more impossible that he should humble himself to such a man.
And suppose that Wangen was to blame for his son’s death? Although this possibility made the old man sick with anger, he was still uneasy in his mind. The witness, Jörgen Haarstad, was dead, it was true; but Knut Norby would not disown his signature. There must be some back way out of it.
CHAPTER IV
HENRY WANGEN descended from the snow-covered train from Christiania, and with his bag in his hand hurried homewards. He exchanged greetings with no one. His failure would ruin half the parish, and he knew that people stood and looked after him as they would after a rogue they would like to thrash.
He was a man of about five-and-thirty, tall and spare, with a reddish beard and a refined, youthful face. But he walked like an old man. His going humbly from one merchant to another in Christiania had been in vain; and he dreaded going home, because his wife must at last be told the truth.
Henry Wangen was the son of a magistrate who had misappropriated the public funds. He had tried many occupations, but was an agriculturist when he married the daughter of a wealthy fanner. Her father, who had long opposed the marriage, made it a condition that she should have the control of her own property. But when Wangen started the brickfields, he not only obtained his wife’s confidence and money, but he was so eloquent and enthusiastic that he also induced her father and brother, and many others, to entrust him with their money. And now?
When he came to the end of the bridge, where a number of cottages are dotted over the hill, he met a bent figure in a faded overcoat and fur cap, with a toothless mouth and a pair of gold spectacles upon a prominent red nose. Wangen stopped, opened his bag, and took out a bottle wrapped in paper. It was a commission he had had in town. The man with the spectacles smiled at the bottle as at something very precious, and put it under his arm.
“I say!” he said with a smile, “I’ve got a little piece of news for you.”
But Wangen was gone. He was thinking of his wife, who was expecting their fourth child. Could she bear what he had to tell her?
The other followed him, however, and took hold of his arm.
“Oh, but you must wait and hear the news!” he said, and laughed a little spitefully. “Come in a moment, and taste the purchase.”
“No, I can’t just now,” said Wangen, hurrying on. Wangen had unfortunately more than once allowed himself to be tempted by this inebriate consul from Christiania, whose relations boarded him here in the country; but now he was determined to be thoroughly sober when he got home. The elder man still hung upon his arm, however, and spoke so persuasively that he at length allowed himself to be drawn into his little house.
At the window of the low room they entered, which smelt of whisky and tobacco, sat a lean, tailor-like figure, playing patience. This was the third member of the whisky-drinking trio, an old lawyer, crippled with rheumatism, and long since past work. He went by the name of “the late future prime minister.”
“Sit down!” said the consul, but Wangen remained standing with his bag in his hand.
“Shall we have a game at cards?” said the man at the window, smiling in his white beard.
“Hold your tongue!” said the consul, busying himself with the rinsing of two glasses. “We’re first going to have a glass of three-stars.”
“No, I won’t have any!” said Wangen. “But what was it that I positively must hear?”
“Just you sit down, my boy!” said the consul, chuckling as he held up a glass to the light. “Upon my word, the world is worse than I thought.”
This meant a good deal, for the consul was not accustomed to judge people leniently.
“What is it?” said Wangen. “Has anything happened to my wife?”
The consul placed the glasses on the table, and fixed his little, venomous eyes upon Wangen, while his red nose wrinkled in a smile.
“Oh well, so many things happen,” he said. “Now for instance, what is your opinion of the great man at Norby?”
“Norby? I really don’t know. I’ve got enough to do to look after myself. But I must go.”
“Wait!” said the consul. “Norby must have a spite against you, for, to tell the truth, he means to get you sent to prison because you have forged his signature.”
The prime minister looked up from his patience, and tried to see by Wangen’s face whether he should laugh or not.
There was a short pause, during which the consul enjoyed the situation and continued to gaze at Wangen through his spectacles.
Wangen broke into a laugh, and involuntarily stretched out his hand for the filled glass.
“Your health!” he said. “That’s not a bad story!”
“You don’t believe it, perhaps? Upon my word it’s true, old chap! Ask the prime minister!”
The late future prime minister nodded.
Wangen looked from the one to the other.
“What’s all this nonsense you’re talking?” he said. He did not believe it yet.
“You may well say so,” said the consul with a venomous smile. “It’s a delightful world we live in!”
“Has any one been to tell my wife?” Wangen’s voice trembled, and he turned pale. He reached out his hand for his bag.
“Yes, she’s