The Power of a Lie. Johan Bojer
“Because—because I’ve committed forgery?”
“Exactly.” The consul was enjoying the situation to such an extent that he forgot to empty his glass.
Wangen had emptied his, and now held it out for more.
“Your health!” he said. “If this is true, then by Jove it’ll be Norby and not me to go to prison!” And with that he buttoned up his coat and hurried to the door.
CHAPTER V
IT sometimes happens that in the even current of our lives we suddenly meet with an obstacle that compels us to pause and consider. To Henry Wangen his failure was such an obstacle as this. As he sat in the train on his way home from town, with unavoidable ruin staring him in the face, he was nearly passing sentence of death upon himself. He saw that this failure, which brought misfortune to so many, was due to his own incapacity and recklessness. It was terrible, but it was true.
“This is a consequence of never having taken the trouble to acquire thorough knowledge,” he thought. “And if I hadn’t so often sat drinking far into the night at the consul’s, I should have had more judgment in my business the next day.” Every drowsy or lazy moment in which a determination was taken now seemed to him to have come to life in the form of a starving, despairing family. “There! There!”
And during these moments of calm justice towards himself, he saw one thing that impressed him more than any other, namely, that his kindness of heart had really been a greater enemy to him than drink; for he had always contented himself with the knowledge that he meant well. And he did mean it all so well, and sheltered by this good intention, he had done the most thoughtless acts, and always with a good conscience; for good faith was always ready to excuse the blackest lies and raise them into the light of truth.
And now? Reality had no use for good faith; it demanded more.
While the train rolled on, he also saw how his pet idea for the improvement of the conditions of the working-man, an eight-hours’ working-day, had also helped in the ruin. So it was not only necessary to have benevolent ideas in this world; they must be such as did not bring misfortune upon those they were intended to help, as they had done in this case.
He was filled with a dull rage against himself, and swore that he would not rest until he had paid back to them all that he had wheedled out of them. He swore not to touch strong drink again. He was fully aware that this was not enough. He would never, never be able to make up for the suffering he had brought upon so many.
And his wife, who had put such confidence in him? He felt as if he could have taken himself by the throat and called himself a scoundrel.
He was now on his way home from the consul’s after having heard the “news.” Strange to say, his mind had become more composed. He did not hang his head any longer. He walked more easily. He did not know himself how it came about, but he was not quite so afraid of going home to his wife and confessing the truth.
When he came in sight of his house, which lay a little to the left of the dark mass of the brick-kilns, he saw a light in a single window. He remembered his wife’s condition and the bailiff’s visit. “Poor Karen!” he thought; “perhaps she was at home, alone too.” And a flood of anger filled his heart, anger this time not against himself, but against Norby. “Is he quite mad? What does he mean by this?” It was a relief to be able to turn his indignation against others than himself.
When he entered the dining-room where he had seen the light, he found his young wife sitting by a small lamp. She rose mechanically. He saw at once that the children were in bed, and the supper was laid and waiting for him. How cosy and peaceful it was! But in the middle of this peace she stood pale and frightened, gazing at him as if she would say: “Tell me quickly, is it true?”
She was a tall, stately woman, not yet thirty years of age. She was dressed in a loose-fitting grey dress, and her wealth of fair hair was set like a crown upon her head. Her long eyelashes gave a depth and brightness to her eyes. Her face was in the shadow of the lamp-shade, as she stood leaning upon the back of a chair, motionless, impatient and anxious.
“I know all!” he said abruptly, stooping to put down his bag; and even before he raised himself again, he heard her drop into a chair and burst into tears.
“I thought I should have gone out of my mind!” she sobbed.
He stood looking at her. She did not come up to him and throw her arms about his neck. Did she really suspect him? His indignation and pain at this again felt like a relief; for in this he was innocent at any rate; he could defend himself here with a good conscience.
He went up to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Karen!” he said, “do you believe it?”
There was a pause, during which he grew more and more anxious. At last she raised her hand and placed it in his. He clasped it; it was so thin and helpless, and so warm, and it seemed to give him all her confidence. It is true that during the last few days she had often reproached him, and had mercilessly demanded from him the return of her money; but this was beyond ordinary limits, and made everything else seem small, and now she clung to him confidingly.
In a little while she pointed to the supper-table and whispered: “Won’t you have supper?” And she rose slowly and went to the stove for the tea-pot. “Would you like me to light the big lamp?” she asked gently.
“No, dear,” he said, seating himself at the table, and beginning to eat, more for the purpose of removing the smell of whisky than of satisfying any hunger. He noticed that there was a half-bottle of beer upon the table, and this positively agitated him. They could not afford to drink beer now, but perhaps she had found this last bottle in some box, and in spite of her own troubles, had not forgotten to put it on the table when she expected him.
“Have you had supper?” he asked, as she did not come to table.
“No, thank you,” she said; “I don’t think I can eat anything.”
“Oh yes, Karen,” he said; “Sören will want his supper, you know.”
This little joke seemed so strange in their present gloomy mood. For Sören was their secret pet-name for the little one that was still unborn. And now, when the father said this, it was as though a little bridge of gold had been thrown between them, and she could not help looking brightly up at him and smiling.
That smile seemed to light up the room. It relieved them both, and they were now able to talk quietly about this affair with Norby.
“Can you imagine what has made him do it?” she said, as she poured herself out a cup of tea.
He felt her eyes upon him, and this time he could raise his head and meet them.
“Well, it must come to light some day. It is either a misunderstanding, or——”
“Or?” she questioned.
While he was seeking for probable reasons, he felt at the same time an ill-defined anxiety lest it should only be a misunderstanding. A star seemed to have risen in the firmament of his consciousness, and pointed to an inquiry, acquittal, and reparation. Half unconsciously he felt that this would be salvation, not only as regarded this accusation, but also all others.
“Norby is one of those men of whom you never can make anything,” he answered. “It is quite possible that the couple of thousand now in question have quite robbed him of his wits.”
She raised her eyes, and her glance said: “Two thousand? There too!” And she almost imperceptibly shook her head.
With an involuntary anxiety lest she should attach too much importance to this side of the question, he continued:
“He’s a great idiot anyhow; for he must surely understand that as there’s a witness, he can’t get out of it.”
As they talked, and he was able to occupy himself