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Updated: May 5, 2025
There were Ojen, Norem, and Gregersen, all of them with half-empty wine-glasses in front of them. Ojen jumped up and said pleasantly: "Welcome home, old man! I am glad to see you again. I have missed you a good deal. I am coming down to-morrow to see you. There is something I want to see you about." Gregersen gave him a finger. Ole took it, sat down, and told the waiter to bring him his beer.
She ought to have thought of giving Gregersen a little hint herself and spared her Poet this humiliation. Yes, she certainly would speak to Gregersen at once. And Irgens thanked her; his bitterness vanished slowly. They sat silently on the sofa some time; then she said: "Listen! An awful thing happened with that red tie of yours you remember the one I took from you once? He saw it!"
"What the devil can we do with our army and navy?" said Gregersen with deep conviction. "We shall simply have to wait." They went into the Grand. Ojen was there with his two close-cropped poets. He was speaking about his latest prose poems: "A Sleeping City," "Poppies," "The Tower of Babel." Imagine the Tower of Babel its architecture! And with a nervous gesture he drew a spiral in the air.
No; whatever else one can accuse Ojen of, the ladies he leaves severely alone!" said Norem, good-natured and tipsy. "Your health, Mr. College Man!" shouted Gregersen again. Ole Henriksen looked at him. "Do you mean me?" he asked. "Of course, I mean you, certainly I do! Haven't you attended college? Well, aren't you a college man, then?" The Journalist, too, was a little tipsy.
"But, good Lord! what do you think of our younger writers, then?" cried Journalist Gregersen, flushed and angry. "Our poets, yes! Have you read any of them? Have you, for instance, ever come across the name of Paulsberg, the name of Irgens?" Aagot could not refrain from observing her old tutor.
One of them carried a small compass on his watch-chain. They were Ojen's comrades, his admirers and pupils; both wrote verses. Besides these, one noticed a man from the Gazette, Journalist Gregersen, the literary member of the staff. He was a man who did his friends many a favour and published in his paper many an item concerning them.
And she recounted merrily the climax. Norem had retired to a corner and was fast asleep. "Does anybody know the time?" asked Mrs. Paulsberg. "Don't ask me," said Gregersen, and fumbled at his vest pocket. "It is many a day since I carried a watch!" It turned out that it was one o'clock. About half-past one Mrs. Hanka and Irgens had disappeared.
But he had failed to find Coldevin, and he had purposely avoided asking Gregersen; the Journalist might have heard the news from Russia, and might inadvertently have betrayed the fatal tidings. Tidemand looked as if he had spent a sleepless night. To Ole's whispered inquiry, he answered smilingly that things might be worse. But he asked to be allowed to keep his place at the tiller.
And, really, she ought to get busy on that novel.... To show her that their friendship was still unbroken he even asked her to speak to Gregersen about that review of his book. It was most extraordinary that his verses had attracted so little attention. If she would only do him this favour. He himself would never be able to approach Gregersen; he was too proud; he could never stoop to that....
Gregersen plays a trump card: "But tell me, you I don't remember your name: do you know the story of Vinje and the potato? I always think of that when I hear you speak. You are so immensely unsophisticated; you are from the country, and you think you can amaze us. You have not the slightest suspicion that your opinions are somewhat antiquated. Your opinions are those of the self-taught man.
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