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Updated: June 19, 2025
He would tell nobody, not even Mrs. Hanka. They should not be able to say that he had moved heaven and earth in order to secure this well-earned encouragement. But he was curious to see if they would ignore him. He knew all his fellow applicants, from Milde to Ojen; he did not fear any of them.
Ojen is young and nervous; his little, round, girlish face is pale and void of expression; he squints as if he were near-sighted, although his eyes are good, and his voice is soft and babyish. "I am unable to understand that all this can interest you so greatly. It is all one to me." And Ojen shrugs his shoulders; he is tired of politics. His shoulders slope effeminately.
Didn't we have Paulsberg and Irgens, and Ojen and Milde, and the two close-cropped poets, and an entire army of first-class, sprouting talents besides! The Journalist himself laughed and wiped his forehead and laughed again. It was generally believed that this fellow was possessed of a literary talent which had not entirely stagnated in his newspaper.
Hanka spoke first; she smiled to Ojen and said, out of the goodness of her heart: "Oh, you Ojen, you Ojen! How everything you write seems evanescent, ethereal! 'Mute exhalations from the crowds' I can hear it; I can feel it! It is thrilling!" Everybody thought so, too, and Ojen was happy. Happiness was very becoming to his girlish face. "Oh, it is only a little thing, a mood," he said.
Even when Irgens appears, in high spirits and elegant attire, as befits the best-dressed man in town, nobody grows very enthusiastic. It is too early and too chilly; in a few hours it will be different. Ojen had said something about his latest prose poem; he had half-finished it last night. It was called "A Sleeping City." He had begun to write on coloured paper; he had found this very soothing.
I heard her sobs through the darkness. "This was The Power of Love," Ojen said. Everybody listened attentively; Milde sat with open mouth. "Well what more?" he asked, evidently thinking there must be a climax yet to come. "Is that all? But Heaven preserve us, man, what is it all about? No; the so-called poetry you young writers are dishing out nowadays I call it arrant rot!"
"Ojen has expressly stated in a marginal note that it is not to be Jahve; now you know it!" Jehovah is very busy; Jehovah has much to attend to. He was with me one night when I wandered in the forest; He descended to me while I lay on my face in prayer. I lay there praying in the night, and the forest was silent.
Ojen was pale and furious. "You have then not the slightest understanding of my new intentions," said the poor fellow, trembling with excitement. "But, then, you are a brute, Milde; one could not expect intelligent appreciation from you." Only now did the fat painter realise how much he had offended; he had hardly expected this when he spoke. "A brute?" he answered good-naturedly.
"Yes, Ojen is one of our most significant ones," he said. "He is beginning to create a school in Germany. There can be no doubt that his poetry is unique." "Exactly. I, too, got that impression.
To me it seemed beautiful and full of feeling; don't spoil it for me now." And she turned to Aagot and said: "Didn't you find it so, too?" "But, dear Mrs. Hanka," exclaimed Milde, "don't say that I am always unkind to Ojen! Do I not wish him success with his application for the subsidy, contrary to my own interests? But this blessed new 'intention' is beyond me. Memories all right.
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