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Updated: June 23, 2025
If a fellow could only afford a little dinner!" "You must try and strike a huckster," said Irgens. "I struck one for a brandy this morning." "I am wondering what Paulsberg really meant by that remark," said the Attorney. "'Your communication shall be Yea, yea, and Nay, nay'; it is evident it had a deeper meaning." "Yes, very evident," said Milde.
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.
"That is not easy to say on the spur of the moment." "Perhaps you haven't followed matters very closely; you have just arrived, I understand," said Mrs. Paulsberg amiably. "Followed matters closely! I should say he has; don't you worry about that!" cried the Attorney. "I have talked with him before." The discussion grew violent.
Paulsberg looked out of the window, shivered a little, and murmured: "Drat it, I cannot get anything accomplished these days; this eternal sunshine has played me the scurvy trick of paralysing my imagination. I am in the middle of a descriptive passage about a rainy season, a raw and chilly milieu, and I cannot get anywhere with it." He mumbled maledictions about the weather.
When finally Paulsberg and his wife arrived, they all went aboard and were soon tacking out the fiord. Tidemand held the tiller. A couple of warehousemen from Henriksen's wharf were along as crew. Ole had arranged the trip carefully and had brought along a choice supply of provisions; he had even remembered roasted coffee for Irgens.
Smell of paints and tobacco smoke; brushes, tubes, overcoats which the guests had thrown aside; an old rubber shoe filled with nails and junk; on the easel in the corner a large, half-finished portrait of Paulsberg. This was Milde's studio. When Ole Henriksen entered about nine o'clock all the guests were assembled, also Tidemand and his wife. There were altogether ten or twelve people.
Then Irgens flung back the haughty reply: "I take a pride in a limited production. The quantity does not matter." Later on, however, he inquired concerning the identity of this detractor. He was not tortured by curiosity; people knew fortunately that he was quite indifferent to public opinion. But anyhow was it Paulsberg? No, it was not Paulsberg.
If Paulsberg wasn't going to be in it, then.... Irgens could not control himself any longer; he sneered openly and almost hissed: "Mr. Subsidist! You are divine!" That subsidy was never out of his thoughts. "And as for you," answered Milde scathingly, glaring at him with angry eyes, "it is getting so that it is impossible to be near you." Irgens feigned surprise. "What is that?
It was, however, a secret arrangement that the picture was not to be finished until after the close of the Exhibition. Paulsberg had expressly demanded it. He did not want to be exhibited in mixed company; he desired solitude, veneration, a large window all to himself on the promenade. This was just like Paulsberg.
Paulsberg showed him the greatest deference, and conversed with him about his series, "New Literature," which he found admirable; and the Journalist was happy and proud because of this approbation. He had a peculiar habit of twisting words so that they sounded odd and absurd, and nobody could turn this trick as smartly as he.
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