The Power of a Lie. Johan Bojer
Fru Wangen stood in her night-dress by the bed, winding up her watch for the night, he came and laid his arm round her shoulders, and said with some emotion:
“So now, Karen, it can be explained why they have begun to lose confidence in me in town, and I am hardly likely to be allowed to compound. The rumour of a crime will knock that on the head.”
“Poor Henry!” she said, and hanging her watch in its place, she turned and threw her arms about his neck. “I’m afraid I’ve misjudged you, Henry! Can you forgive me?”
He was touched, and folded her in a close embrace, feeling as he did so the warmth of her body through her nightdress. They stood thus silent, her head upon his shoulder, both seeing the same persecution and injustice, feeling themselves united in the same innocence, and finding warmth in their mutual need of standing together.
And now when he thought of her money, it no longer seemed to be his fault; the blame was transferred to those in whose way the brick-kilns had lain. And he thought of her old, ruined father, and he no longer dreaded his coming in the morning. The widow, the workmen’s families passed before his mind’s eye, but they no longer accused him. He felt sympathy for them, and indignation on their account; but now the indignation was turned against others, not against himself.
“Aren’t you coming to bed?” she asked.
“Oh, wait a little!” he said, still standing as before.
“Yes, but I’m getting cold, Henry.”
He was actually afraid of letting her go, as if she were the happy conscience he had now built up, which felt like a deliverance from something terrible.
“I think I’ll go out for a little,” he said at last. “I shan’t be able to sleep anyhow.”
“Don’t be out too long!” she said. “Remember I’m lying here alone.”
Of course he would not be long. But she was anxious nevertheless; for he was always “only going out for a little” when it ended at the consul’s, and he came home a little unsteady in his gait.
Wangen set out with his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. The hard snow creaked beneath his feet, and above the snowy hills and dark ridges was spread a wide, brilliant, starry sky.
“Thank goodness!” thought Wangen, “that eight-hours’ working-day probably has nothing to do with the failure.” And he involuntarily felt as if a lost ideal had been regained, so that he had a beloved, bright idea for the future to believe in. From this his thoughts passed insensibly to Norby and the other rich men, who sat brooding over their money-bags, suspicious of everything new, fearful of everything, averse to all improvement of the condition of the lower classes.
“They managed to quash it this time,” he thought; “but there will be a next time.”
He walked on until he found himself outside the consul’s house. A light was still burning in the sitting-room. A good impulse took him by the button-hole and said: “Remember your vow in the train!” But there are times when we feel ourselves so morally well-to-do that we think nothing of flinging away a halfpenny. Wangen must have some one to talk to now, and he would only stay a quarter of an hour.
“Why, dear me! Aren’t you arrested yet?” said the consul, who was sitting in his dressing-gown, stirring a freshly-made toddy.
And they sat with the bottle between them, and discussed the matter very thoroughly. Wangen talked himself into more guesses, suspected more rich men, one after another, of being in the conspiracy, and was lavish in his use of forcible expressions about them all. The consul encouraged him with little spiteful remarks, and made numerous mental notes. To-morrow he would go for a walk.
They emptied the bottle between them, and when Wangen went home a little after midnight, he stumbled every now and then over his own boots.
“Poor consul!” he thought, dreading going home; “he has had a hard life, and needs a little sympathy and appreciation.”
When he staggered into the bedroom, his wife awoke with a cry of terror.
His head was heavy next morning; he was ashamed to meet his wife, and again began to dread meeting those who were to come to him that day.
By clinging, however, to his innocence in the one matter, he very soon succeeded in regaining his self-confidence; and when, later in the day, he had to go to the station, he was no longer afraid of meeting people. He began to entertain a dim idea of giving a lecture to the workmen, and explaining to them the true cause of their common ruin.
As he went homewards, the sun was shining upon the wide, snow-covered fields, and dazzled his eyes. There stood the dead factory-buildings with their tall chimneys, seeming to cry to heaven; but it was not with him they had to do. Yesterday in the train he had thought that his own house was too luxurious, and the factory buildings too large and expensive; but now he looked at everything with different eyes. He knew in his own heart that he had built these works in an honest belief in the future of this industry in the district; and a banner of innocence waved over both the works and the house.
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