Knut Hamsun - The Collected Works of Knut Hamsun

"Good-bye, then—" He could say no more, but offered her his hand; she took it. "I hope we shall see each other occasionally; but I want to thank you now for everything; this may be the last chance I shall have—I shall send you the money every month." And he put on his hat and went to the door.

She followed him with her eyes. Was this Andreas?

"Well, I suppose you want to go," she said, bewildered, "and I am standing here delaying you. I suppose we shall have to do as you say—I don't know what I am saying—" Her voice broke suddenly.

Tidemand opened the door with trembling hands and let her out. At the foot of the stairs she stopped and let him walk ahead. When he reached the landing he waited for her; then he opened the door with his key and held it for her. When she was inside he said:

"Good night, then!"

And again Tidemand walked down-stairs, down to his office, where he shut himself in. He went over to the window and stood there, his hands clasped behind him, staring out into the street with unseeing eyes. No, she had not changed her mind in the least, that was not to be expected. She had not hesitated. There she had stood, with her elbow on the desk; she had heard what he said and she had replied; "Well, I suppose we shall have to do as you say." There had been no hesitation, no, none at all…. But she had not exulted, either; she had spared him from witnessing any outburst of joy. She had been considerate—he had to admit that. Oh, Hanka was always considerate; God bless her wherever she went! She had stood there. Hanka, Hanka!… But probably she was rejoicing now; why shouldn't she be? She had had her way…. And the children were asleep now, both Ida and Johanna. Poor little things; they did not even reach up to their pillows! Well, they would be provided for. One might be getting a little grey, but there was still a fight or two left….

And Tidemand went back to his desk. He worked over his books and papers until daylight.

Mrs. Hanka looked in vain for Irgens for several days. She had hurried to him to bring him the joyful news; she was free at last! But he was never at home. His door was locked, and it was not opened when she knocked; consequently he must be out. She did not meet him in his usual haunts, either. Finally she had to write to him and make an appointment; she wrote that she had excellent news for him.

But during these two days, these long hours of waiting in which she could do nothing, it seemed as if her joy over the coming divorce had begun to wane. She had dwelt on her happiness so long that she had grown accustomed to it; it did not make her heart beat faster any more. She was going to be free from her husband—true, but she had not been so entirely shackled before. The difference was not so pronounced that she could steadily continue to revel in it.

And to this was added an indefinable fear, now when the irrevocable separation confronted her; the thought that she was to leave her home was tinged with a vague sense of regretfulness, of impalpable foreboding. Sometimes a quivering pang would pierce her heart when the children put out their little arms to her; why that pain? She had got out of her bed last night and looked at them in their sleep. There they were lying, each in her little bed; they had kicked the blankets off and were uncovered up to their very arms, but they slept soundly and moved, now and then, a rosy finger or a dimpled toe in their sleep. Such children! To lie there unblushingly naked, with arms and legs pointing in all directions! She tucked them carefully in and left them with bowed head, her shoulders shaken by inaudible sobs.

How was she going to arrange her future? She was free, but in reality she was married still; for three years she would have to live somewhere, pay rent, keep house for herself. She had worried and fretted about this for two long days without anyone to help her; what could have happened to Irgens? God only knew where he kept himself. She had not once seen her former husband.

She started for Irgens's rooms. Surely he would help her find a place and get settled! Oh, it was fine to have an end to this daily galling restraint; here she had been tortured by dissatisfaction and restlessness for months and years, ever since she had been introduced to the clique and had acquired a taste for their irresponsible mode of living. She was free, free and young! She would overwhelm Irgens with this joyful news, he who had so often sighed for that divorce during their most intimate hours—

Irgens was at home at last.

She told him the great news at once. She recounted how it had happened, repeated Tidemand's words, and praised his superiority. She gazed into Irgens's eyes; her own were sparkling. Irgens, however, did not show any great exultation; he smiled, said yes and no, asked her if she were satisfied now. So she was really going to get a divorce? He was glad to hear it; it was foolish to go through life in this heart-breaking manner…. But he sat there very quietly and discussed the great news in an every-day voice.

Gradually, very gradually, she came to earth; her heart began to flutter wildly.

"It seems as if the news does not make you so very happy, Irgens," she said.

"Happy? Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be happy? You have sighed for this for a long time; why shouldn't I rejoice with you now? I do, most assuredly."

Words only, without fire, without warmth even! What could have happened? Did he not love her any more? She sat there, her heart heavy within her; she wanted to gain time, to hush the wakening terror in her breast. She said:

"But, dear, where have you been all this time? I have called on you three times without finding you in."

He answered, choosing his words carefully, that she must have missed him because of an unfortunate series of accidents. He went out occasionally, of course; but he spent most of his time at home. Where in the world could he go? He went nowhere.

Pause. Finally she yielded abjectly to her fears and stammered:

"Well, Irgens, I am yours now, entirely yours! I am going to leave the house—You will thank me, won't you? It will take three years, of course, but then—"

She stopped suddenly; she felt that he was squirming, that he was bracing himself against the inevitable; her terror increased as he remained silent. A few anguished moments went by.

"Well, Hanka, this is rather unfortunate, in a way," he began finally. "You have evidently understood me to mean that when you got your divorce— that if you only were free—Of course, I may have said something to that effect; I admit that if you have interpreted my words literally such a supposition is probably justified. I have most likely said things more than once—"

"Yes, of course," she interrupted; "we have never meant anything else, have we? For you love me, don't you? What is the matter? You are so strange to-day!"

"I am awfully sorry, but really—things are not as they used to be." He looked away sadly and searched for words. "I cannot lie to you, Hanka, and the plain truth is that I am not enraptured by you as much as I used to be. It would hardly be right to deceive you; anyway, I couldn't do it—it is beyond me."

At last she understood; these were plain words. And quietly bending her head, yielding to the inevitable, letting go of the last lingering hope, she whispered in a dull and broken voice:

"Couldn't do it; no—It is all over, irrevocably over—"

He sat there silent.

Suddenly she turned and looked at him. Her white teeth showed beneath the slightly raised upper lip as she endeavoured to force a smile. She said slowly:

"But surely it cannot all be over, Irgens? Remember, I have sacrificed a great deal—"

But he shook his head.

"Yes, I am awfully sorry, but—Do you know what I was thinking of just now when I didn't answer you? You said 'irrevocably over.' I was wondering if that was proper grammar, if it sounded right. That shows how little this scene really affects me; you can see for yourself that I am not beside myself with grief—not even deeply stirred. That ought to show you—" And as if he wanted to utilise the opportunity to the utmost and leave no room for doubt, he continued: "Did you say that you have been here three times, looking for me? I know that you have been here twice. I think I ought to tell you, so that you can see how impossible it is for me to pretend: I sat here and heard you knock, but I didn't open. That surely proves the matter is serious—Dearest Hanka, I cannot help it; really, you mustn't be unhappy. But you surely will admit that our relationship must have been a little galling, a little humiliating, to me as well? It is true; it has not been easy for me to accept money from you continually; I have said to myself: 'This degrades you!' You understand, don't you—a man with a nature like mine; unhappily, I am proud, whether it is a virtue or a vice in me—"