Shyness And Dignity (4 page)

He asked one of the pupils, an eighteen-year-old girl, to read it again. She bends over the book and begins to read. But at that very moment a resigned sigh is heard from one of the other pupils, who is no longer capable of suppressing it. Loud and clear, on the verge of a savage roar, so insolent that it made him give an inward start, but despite the fact that the class peeked cautiously up at him, on the sly, he chose to ignore it and waved the eighteen-year-old girl on. She read. A teenager with a dreary,
rather
bashful face and sweet, calf-like voice that seemed to search for the words, which she recited somewhat unsteadily and fumblingly, either because she did not understand what she was reading, or because a layer of dew had coated her eyelashes, brought about by an unendurable and glaringly unjust drowsiness that was blinding her like tears, so that she could not see clearly but had to look for the words, one by one. ‘Relling (goes up to Gregers and says): No-one shall ever fool me into thinking that this was an accident. Gregers (who has stood horror-stricken, twitching convulsively): Nobody can say for certain how this terrible thing happened. Relling: The wadding has burned her bodice. She must have pressed the pistol straight at her breast and fired. Gregers: Hedvig has not died in vain. Did you not see how grief released the greatness in him? Relling: Most people show a certain greatness when they stand grieving over a dead body. But how long, do you think, this nobility of his will last? Gregers: Why shouldn’t it last and grow all his life! Relling: Within nine months little Hedvig will be nothing more to him than a fine pretext for speechifying. Gregers: You dare say that about Hjalmar Ekdal! Relling: We’ll talk again when the first grass has withered on her grave. Then you will hear him spouting phrases like “the child prematurely torn from the paternal bosom”, then you can watch him wallowing in sentiment, self-admiration and self-pity. Wait and see! Gregers: If
you
are right and
I
am wrong, life is not worth living. Relling: Oh, life can still be quite alright, if only we could be left alone by these damn bill
collectors
who force themselves on poor people with this so-called claim of the ideal. Gregers (with a vacant look in his eyes): In that case I’m glad my destiny is what it is. Relling: What, then, is your destiny, if I may ask? Gregers (about to leave): To be the thirteenth at table. Relling: The hell it is.’

He listened to this rather stammering reading with increasing irritation and became completely paralysed. Not because of the reading, but because of the aggressive, suppressed groan heard in the classroom right before the girl began to read. Which he had not remarked upon. It so paralysed him that he was unable to say ‘Thank you’ when at last she reached Gregers Werle’s epoch-making words, which for him had now become the key to the play and, more, were the entrance to that clearing where the tracks he believed to have discovered were to be found and, pointing further inward, were the reasons why he had asked these lines to be read anew, because he hoped that when he got to that remark again, he would once more see this clearing and be able to follow the tracks inward. But when she got there he could not bring himself to stop her and let her go on, in her stammering fashion, to read the final, concluding exchanges in
The Wild Duck
as well. He was so vexed that he did not manage to concentrate on the play. That suppressed groan. Aggressive in all its youthful intensity. Which he had pretended not to hear. It was humiliating, although he hoped the pupils attributed his non-censure to his being so patronising that he did not bother about such trifles. But that was not the reason, as he knew in his
bones
. He had simply not dared to speak up, and the moment that dawned on him he had felt utterly paralysed and incapable of thinking clearly. Damn it all! He would not have dared protest against it under any circumstances, that he had to admit. And it wasn’t the first time – every time the class had got to the point where one or more of them burst out in that way, giving vent to their inward righteous indignation, he gave a start and pretended not to hear it. Because he feared it. That youthful, self-righteous groan. He was afraid of what it could trigger if he rose up against it. He simply had to realise that he was afraid of them and did not dare to criticise a pupil who groaned at his teaching. He simply had to realise that he did not dare look sharply at the pupil who had taken the liberty of heaving such a bitter, heartfelt sigh at their having yet once more, in the same class hour to boot, to reread the conclusion to
The Wild Duck
, and then coldly and condescendingly reprimand him with, Save your breath, pay attention! And it was not because of cowardice; rather, he saw his fear as an expression of the shaky structures he himself represented, necessitating a certain caution on his part, not least because his young pupils, for all their arrogance, had no clear idea of the social force
they
represented. Hence he could certainly allow himself to nettle them with his exemplary teaching, but he could not provoke them so deeply that they would rise in protest and tell him they were not going to put up with it any longer. He feared the moment they would stand up, slam their desks, and demand respect for their worth, because then he
would
be helpless. For it was beyond doubt, after all, in view of the existing circumstances, that they were the ones who were right and he was wrong. His teaching did not measure up, because the assumptions he started from did not apply to them, and it was only a question of time, he feared, until it would be equally clear to everyone that his mission, already today quite painful, would be made superfluous. But he allowed himself nevertheless to feel an intense unease at the fact that this was the case. He let the irritation rise to his head and paralyse his tongue at the least reminder of the real state of affairs, the source of his fear. Like now. When the eighteen-year-old girl had come to the end of her stammering reading, he merely sensed an intense irritation, knowing that he was no longer capable of pursuing the track he just minutes before thought he had discovered but found no precise language for. And so he looked at his watch and said, I’m afraid we’ll have to conclude our study of
The Wild Duck
for today, I have to use the rest of the class hour for some practical announcements. Experienced as he was, he managed to spin this out so that the school bell rang at the very moment the last announcement concerning homework, paper topics etc., was made, and the pupils could close their school editions of
The Wild Duck
with a bang and throw them back into their satchels, while he himself quietly closed his book. The pupils got up from their desks and stood there at ease, tall and ungainly or broad and blustery, twenty-nine young anarchical men and women who were now leaving their isolated classroom, looking forward to the break as they passed
him
, directly below the podium, some already with their ears plugged into their Walkmans and snapping their fingers. He, too, stood up, feeling tired, spent, and deeply disappointed. The pupils passed by in small groups, taking no notice of him as they chatted cheerfully, representing wholesome, fearless Norwegian youth to an all but overwhelming degree, now liberated from the unnatural and antiquated rituals of a double period. Suddenly he called after them: But … Till next Monday. Then we will finally get to the bottom of things. Then we will understand Gregers Werle’s shudderings. Those convulsive twitchings the text talks about. But they passed him without giving the least indication that they had understood what he was saying, and as for his last two remarks, they probably didn’t even hear them, because by then he could only see the backs of the last pupils disappearing, so that he, he had to admit, stood utterly alone in the classroom, calling after them, though that was not exactly a reason to feel annoyed – it is, after all, just a slightly comical posture I’ve got myself into and which they did not even notice, he added to himself.

He entered the staff room. He had only this double class on Monday (being on a reduced schedule as the head teacher of Norwegian at the school), so his work for today was now over. He attempted a condescending smile, at life and at his own role in it, but could not bring it off. Phew, he thought, there are any number of execrable things one has to put up with in this world, God knows, trying in this way to push aside the morning’s unpleasant experiences before walking through the door to where his colleagues
were
relaxing before their next classes. He chatted with a couple of colleagues about this and that, while noticing that the effects of yesterday’s aquavit had not yet completely loosened their hold on his body and brain, and he caught himself wanting to have a beer, but for that, of course, it was far too early. He felt he had succeeded in calming down, and therefore he decided to leave the school for today, having nothing to do there any more, because he could make preparations for the day tomorrow much better at home, in his own apartment. When he reached the front door he discovered it had started to rain. Not much, just a light drizzle, but enough to make him ask himself whether he should open his umbrella, he would not get very wet during that short walk home if he didn’t. But since he had taken the umbrella with him in the morning, he decided to use it anyway. He opened it, but it didn’t work. He had pressed the button that would cause the umbrella to open automatically, but nothing happened. He pressed the button once more, harder, but nothing happened. Not that, too, he thought, indignant. He gave it a third try, but with no success. Then he tried to force the umbrella open with his hands, but that didn’t help either; the umbrella resisted, so that he just barely managed to make it spread out, and even that cost him a great effort. Then he couldn’t contain himself. He was standing in the school yard at Fagerborg Secondary School, in the break, trying to open his umbrella. But he could not do it. Hundreds of pupils at the school were standing round about, and some of them must have noticed him. Enough! He walked rapidly up to the water
fountain
and banged the umbrella against it in a wild fury. He struck and struck the umbrella against the fountain, felt how the metal in the shaft was beginning to give and that the ribs were breaking. Delighted, he struck and struck. Through a sort of haze he saw the pupils approaching, slowly and in profound silence, as if they were stealing towards him, and now they were standing around him in a semicircle, but at a respectful distance. He was beating the increasingly limp, cracking umbrella against the fountain in a savage fury. When he noticed that the ribs were beginning to loosen, he threw the umbrella on the ground and started jumping on it, before using his heel to try and crush the umbrella with it. Then he picked up the umbrella again and banged it once more against the fountain – the ribs were now broken and uncontrollably twisted, winding in all directions, some of them cutting into his hand and leaving little scratches in the skin where he could see the blood begin to trickle out. He was surrounded by pupils all around, lurking pupils, quiet, their eyes staring. They were staring open-mouthed, standing motionless around him, but always at a respectful distance. Several of them had lunch boxes in their hands, for it was the middle of the noon break. He could make out, as through a haze, the faces of the nearest ones and, strange to say, quite clearly. A tall blonde girl was looking at him in amazement, he noticed, as were a couple of boys from the graduating class, and their faces, which looked ridiculously astonished, made him even more furious. He stared at the tall blonde. Damn twat! he yelled. Eat your food! Fat snout! And in the same instant
he
grabbed the umbrella, black and smashed up, and went for them full tilt. When he reached them, they drew to one side, very quickly, allowing him to lurch along between them and continue on, through the empty, wet school yard and out of it and down Fagerborggate – free, finally free, away from them! He walked hurriedly, at a violently agitated pace that accorded with his agitated condition, and in this state of mind he now began to wail as it dawned on him what he had done.

He walked down Fagerborggate, which he had done so often, but this time he did not turn right at Jacob Aalls gate, as he always used to do, but continued on down the winding Fredensborggate, until it joined Pilestredet, and went on down Pilestredet, along Stensparken, down Norabakken towards Bislett, and although he chose this way instinctively, yet it was a clear expression of his misery, because the way he now walked did not lead home, like the road that automatically guided his steps into Jacob Aalls gate, but away, to the city centre, into the tumult down there, where he could disappear, he perhaps thought, vaguely, walking with jittery steps. But one thing was clear to him, namely, that this was the end of a twenty-five years’ occupation as an official educator in the Norwegian school system. This was his ultimate downfall. He knew that now he was leaving the Fagerborg school behind him for good and that he would never teach again. He had fallen, and so irredeemably that he did not even wish to rise again, not even if they pulled him up. To go back was impossible, regardless of whether the principal and his colleagues would attempt
to
trivialise the incident, as a collapse that could have happened to anyone. It had not happened to just anyone, it had happened to him. Had his colleagues observed the scene? The mere thought made him go rigid. For a moment he stood completely still. Good God, he exclaimed aloud, it cannot be true! But it could be true. He knew from experience that teachers sitting convivially in the staff room were, extremely alert to any impropriety taking place in the school yard, for even if they did not watch but sat and talked among themselves, they listened all the time, and if suddenly there was total silence out there instead of the steady buzz and occasional shrill voices calling, not the usual thing, laughter and such, but absolute silence, at least one of them would get up and walk over to the window to see what it could be, and then one more would come, and then a third, until the entire faculty were posted at the windows, staring out at the school yard, and there they had seen … No, no, he interrupted himself, there is no point even thinking about it. It’s the end. In any case, I have to get rid of that ill-fated umbrella, he thought, looking around in a tizzy for a rubbish bin where he could leave it. But they had not heard what he had yelled, he thought, in a moment of lightheartedness, though he dared say it would not be long before they learned about it, he added sombrely to himself. But this is a disaster, he thought in near wonder. It’s a real misfortune, there is no other name for it, he went on, preoccupied. What a mess I’ve got myself into! he burst out furiously. I must be a real idiot. But he came by no extenuating circumstances by calling himself an
idiot
, for however idiotic it was it was irrevocable. It’s the worst thing that could ever have happened, he exclaimed, as if he could not believe his own words for a moment. What shall become of me? he exclaimed desperately to himself. And what is going to happen to her who is my wife? Yes, how can I break it to her? That the ground has suddenly been ripped away from under our feet, and that it’s all my fault. What are we going to live on, in other words? he thought. And the shame of it! he added. No, life will not ever be the same, he reflected. All jittery, he walked down the quiet Fagerborggate and the equally quiet Pilestredet; there was a small rain falling, he noticed that his spectacles were getting misted and that his hair had got wet. The asphalt was black with moisture and the leaves were brown and wet, lying bunched-up along the asphalt and on the bonnets of the cars parked on this quiet residential street. The sky was a uniform grey, and sort of muzzy, now that the rain was finally falling. However, all he noticed as he passed Stensparken was a silent drizzle only, against his hair and on his spectacles. At the bottom of Norabakken he discovered a rubbish bin where at last he managed to dispose of that ill-fated umbrella, and he perceived with surprise that his body felt it as a relief to be rid of it, as if whether he was still carrying this ragged object should make any difference. He looked at his hands, from where the blood was still trickling out, and he wiped it off. Reaching Bislett, he stopped at the traffic circle there. Where should he go? He would go through the Homansbyen neighbourhood, along the lovely Josefinegate,
and
up to the traffic light at the Bogstadveien, where he could either continue on Josefinegate to the Uranienborg Church and Briskeby, or he could walk down Bogstadveien to Lorry (a beer, he thought, a beer would taste very good) and then down Wergelandsveien, past the Artists’ House and the house of the Association of Secondary School Teachers (no, no, not that) to the city centre, or through Slottsparken, the palace park, which is never as majestic as right now, when the leaves have fallen and the trees stand there with their naked branches silhouetted against the soggy sky, and with a strange greying light between the lowest branches and the ground – a thrilling sight. He could see himself wandering along the paths of Slottsparken down to the capital’s main street, Karl Johan, or he could walk up Bogstadveien to Majorstua and the well-known restaurant the Valkyrie (Valka, he thought, but then I will have made a long detour, and it will look ridiculous, even if no-one knows, when I walk through the door). Or he could continue on down Pilestredet and end up in those swarming streets in the heart of the city. But that I wouldn’t have believed if I had stood here for the first time in my life and had never been to Oslo before, he thought as he looked down Pilestredet. For it looked as though to continue down Pilestredet would land him in a dangerous blind alley which led in the end to dreary warehouses, a dumping ground for tyres and rusty jalopies down in the boggy area by the harbour, because what he saw from where he was standing was, on the left, a depressing factory building, a former brewery, and on the right a row of apartment
block
facades of the most seedy and run-down sort, and, furthermore, as Pilestredet was very narrow, it did not seem particularly reassuring to go on down, by contrast to walking up Thereses gate, which is a lively street, full of charm. Seen from here, from the viewpoint of someone who has gone astray, it would be natural to walk up Thereses gate, because, lured by the audacious liveliness of this street, you would think that Thereses gate was located in the densest downtown area, and you would look up the steeply climbing Thereses gate and think that, at the top of the street, the city centre would open up, with magnificent avenues, the Palace and the Parliament, the National Theatre and the Opera, a real capital for an enviable people of the wealthy Occident that has lived in affluence for almost a hundred years by now, so that when the blue tram comes up Pilestredet, enters the traffic circle at Bislett and begins slowly moving up Thereses gate, one tends to think that it comes from the bleak Oslo outskirts and is on its way to the glittering centre, whereas in reality it is the direct opposite – well, Adamstua is not exactly a bleak fringe, but it is the frontier of the central city, for beyond Adamstua rural life begins, with villas and sentimental row houses, he thought, before he suddenly became furious with himself. Was this the right moment to stand here fantasising, rather than figuring out how to let your wife know about it, he thought sarcastically, or how you can while away the time for the next fifteen years, until you will receive your first retirement cheque, he thought, in the same sarcastic way. Yes, where was he to go? Past
Bislett
and on, and then up Dalsbergstien to St Hanshaugen and the famous brown restaurant, the Schrøder. (A beer, he thought, and I haven’t been to the Schrøder for a long time.) He was about to cross the street, first over to the Bislett Baths and then along Bislett, when he was suddenly struck by sheer aesthetic pleasure at the sight of the Bislett Stadium on the other side of the street. It’s a really handsome stadium, he thought. Art Deco. An ornament to the city. Small to be the principal stadium of a European capital, but what pleasing dimensions. And how about those remarkable acoustics, with echoes from the concrete walls when the roars of enthusiasm strike them and ricochet back, he thought, before again going rigid at the thought of what he had done. Yes, what shall we live on? he asked himself in despair. What is going to happen to her? I’m afraid she will stick at nothing and humiliate both herself and me. I will not be able to take it, he thought darkly. But if this is true, and unfortunately it is, then it is all over, he exclaimed inwardly, shaking his head so forcefully in despair at himself that the passersby gave him inquisitive glances. Standing there by the traffic circle at Bislett, as uncertain as ever which direction to take, he looked in perplexity at his hands, which were still blood-stained, and got out his handkerchief, holding it over the deepish cut that was still bleeding.