Part 13 (1/2)

A week pa.s.sed in glory and gladness.

I had got over the worst this time, too. I had had food every day, and my courage rose, and I thrust one iron after the other into the fire.

I was working at three or four articles, that plundered my poor brain of every spark, every thought that rose in it; and yet I fancied that I wrote with more facility than before.

The last article with which I had raced about so much, and upon which I had built such hopes, had already been returned to me by the editor; and, angry and wounded as I was, I had destroyed it immediately, without even re-reading it again. In future, I would try another paper in order to open up more fields for my work.

Supposing that writing were to fail, and the worst were to come to the worst, I still had the s.h.i.+ps to take to. The _Nun_ lay alongside the wharf, ready to sail, and I might, perhaps, work my way out to Archangel, or wherever else she might be bound; there was no lack of openings on many sides. The last crisis had dealt rather roughly with me. My hair fell out in ma.s.ses, and I was much troubled with headaches, particularly in the morning, and my nervousness died a hard death. I sat and wrote during the day with my hands bound up in rags, simply because I could not endure the touch of my own breath upon them. If Jens Olaj banged the stable door underneath me, or if a dog came into the yard and commenced to bark, it thrilled through my very marrow like icy stabs piercing me from every side. I was pretty well played out.

Day after day I strove at my work, begrudging myself the short time it took to swallow my food before I sat down again to write. At this time both the bed and the little rickety table were strewn over with notes and written pages, upon which I worked turn about, added any new ideas which might have occurred to me during the day, erased, or quickened here and there the dull points by a word of colour--f.a.gged and toiled at sentence after sentence, with the greatest of pains. One afternoon, one of my articles being at length finished, I thrust it, contented and happy, into my pocket, and betook myself to the ”commandor.” It was high time I made some arrangement towards getting a little money again; I had only a few pence left.

The ”commandor” requested me to sit down for a moment; he would be disengaged immediately, and he continued writing.

I looked about the little office--busts, prints, cuttings, and an enormous paper-basket, that looked as if it might swallow a man, bones and all. I felt sad at heart at the sight of this monstrous chasm, this dragon's mouth, that always stood open, always ready to receive rejected work, newly crushed hopes.

”What day of the month is it?” queried the ”commandor” from the table.

”The 28th,” I reply, pleased that I can be of service to him, ”the 28th,” and he continues writing. At last he encloses a couple of letters in their envelopes, tosses some papers into the basket, and lays down his pen. Then he swings round on his chair, and looks at me.

Observing that I am still standing near the door, he makes a half-serious, half-playful motion with his hand, and points to a chair.

I turn aside, so that he may not see that I have no waistcoat on, when I open my coat to take the ma.n.u.script out of my pocket.

”It is only a little character sketch of Correggio,” I say; ”but perhaps it is, worse luck, not written in such a way that....”

He takes the papers out of my hand, and commences to go through them.

His face is turned towards me.

And so it is thus he looks at close quarters, this man, whose name I had already heard in my earliest youth, and whose paper had exercised the greatest influence upon me as the years advanced? His hair is curly, and his beautiful brown eyes are a little restless. He has a habit of tweaking his nose now and then. No Scotch minister could look milder than this truculent writer, whose pen always left bleeding scars wherever it attacked. A peculiar feeling of awe and admiration comes over me in the presence of this man. The tears are on the point of coming to my eyes, and I advanced a step to tell him how heartily I appreciated him, for all he had taught me, and to beg him not to hurt me; I was only a poor bungling wretch, who had had a sorry enough time of it as it was....

He looked up, and placed my ma.n.u.script slowly together, whilst he sat and considered. To make it easier for him to give me a refusal, I stretch out my hand a little, and say:

”Ah, well, of course, it is not of any use to you,” and I smile to give him the impression that I take it easily.

”Everything has to be of such a popular nature to be of any use to us,”

he replies; ”you know the kind of public we have. But can't you try and write something a little more commonplace, or hit upon something that people understand better?”

His forbearance astonishes me. I understand that my article is rejected, and yet I could not have received a prettier refusal. Not to take up his time any longer, I reply:

”Oh yes, I daresay I can.”

I go towards the door. Hem--he must pray forgive me for having taken up his time with this ... I bow, and turn the door handle.

”If you need it,” he says, ”you are welcome to draw a little in advance; you can write for it, you know.”

Now, as he had just seen that I was not capable of writing, this offer humiliated me somewhat, and I answered:

”No, thanks; I can pull through yet a while, thanking you very much, all the same. Good-day!”

”Good-day!” replies the ”commandor,” turning at the same time to his desk again.