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“There’s the concert first, don’t forget—tomorrow. And you’re going to be famous.”
“Tomorrow... yes....”
Ormarr had sat up, resting on his elbow, while he spoke of his home. Now, he threw himself back once more, as if exhausted, and lay with closed eyes as before. For a few moments neither spoke.
“Aage,” said Ormarr at last, “I feel tired—deadly tired. I’ve been idling here all day. Tomorrow? I feel as if tomorrow were already a thing of the past.”
He got up, filled his glass and that of his friend.
“Drink! Aage, I’ve something to tell you. Just let me go on talking, and don’t bother about it, I only want to get it out. What do you think I’ve been seeing all the time, lying here with my eyes shut? This is no life for me. I have been counting. It is my tenth winter here now. Ten years, man—think! And today it seemed as if I had come yesterday. I have been asleep—fast asleep. But it can’t go on. There’s something hurting me, a sort of longing——Oh, I know it sounds all nonsense, but you needn’t worry about that.... No, this won’t do. I don’t go on drinking and enjoying life in this wasteful, silly fashion—and forgetting. I wasn’t made to live like that. I was made to think, and to work. And now here have I been living for ten years—yes, and working hard, I know—but all for nothing. It means nothing at all, really. Famous? If I found myself famous after tomorrow, I should be no better off than I am now. I’ve no ambition of that sort any longer—not a scrap. I never realized it before—it’s only just lately I’ve seen it. And think of dear old Abel Grahl! Do you know, honestly, I believe he’s jealous—the dear old boy! He’s fond of me, I know; and now that I’m on the eve of my ‘conquest,’ as he always says, he thinks of the time when he made his conquest—and fate overtook him after. I’m sadly afraid that old trouble’s cropped up again now with him. And after all, what is there to envy, anyway? What sort of a future if I do succeed? The life of a flunkey—a menial in gold lace, playing for money—and to whom? I’ve been studying my fellow-creatures this winter—musical people—my audience-to-be. Copenhagen’s not the world I know; but human beings are much the same everywhere, I take it, though their looks and manners may differ somewhat in detail. Grahl has been taking me about. He hates ‘society,’ I know, but he took it all up again for my sake—that’s the sort of man he is. It all helps, he says. Oh, and you should have heard their talk, their hard-and-fast opinions, and the views of the professional critics. Sometimes I feel I simply can’t go on living. Simply can’t stand it. What wretched caricatures we all are—myself included. No I’ve finished with this sort of life. There’s not a thing in the world I care for now, except to go back home. If only I could be sure that was a genuine feeling, and not another delusion. Don’t look down on me, old man—Heaven knows, I’ve no great thoughts about myself just now. You know me well enough to see that I’m not drunk. But I feel—oh, just worthless. All these years—and living like this—it’s too contemptible. I feel as if I hadn’t an atom of will-power left. Just sick and tired of everything... and longing, aching for something.... Good of you to listen so patiently. Have a drink.”