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Updated: June 25, 2025
Everything under the sun had been discussed: literature and art, man and God; they had settled the suffrage question, taken a fall out of Malthus, strayed onto the political preserves. It had unfortunately turned out that Paulsberg's article in the Gazette failed to have the desired effect on Parliament.
Around Paulsberg's table the political situation was being discussed. Milde once more threatened to banish himself to Australia. But, thank Heaven, it now looked as if Parliament would do something before it was dissolved, would refuse to yield. "It is a matter of indifference to me what it does," said Gregersen of the Gazette.
He would have liked to hear Paulsberg's opinion, but Paulsberg remained sphinxlike and silent. "How do you think of such things? These prose poems are really exquisite!" "It is my temperament, I suppose. I have no taste for fiction. In me everything turns to poetry, with or without rhymes; but verses always. I have entirely ceased to use rhymes lately."
"In payment for Paulsberg's portrait," said Irgens. "Well, it cannot be helped; don't let it irritate you; I am reconciled." "You take it beautifully; I don't see how you can." "The only effect it has on me is to make me a little bitter; it does not break my spirit." "I simply cannot understand it; no, I can't. Did you send your book with your application?" "Certainly Oh, my book!
Irgens intended to take a walk around the harbour so as to be left in peace; this more or less stupid talk about his book had really got on his nerves. Were people now beginning to prate about working hours and quantity in connection with poetry? In that case his book would be found wanting; it was not so very ponderous; it did not outweigh one of Paulsberg's novels, thank God!
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