If not Paulsberg, who
then? Who among them had done better during the last two and a half years?
Irgens knew nobody; among the younger writers he was absolutely paramount.
Suddenly something struck him, and he said indifferently:
"Of course, it is a matter of absolute indifference to me who the person
is; but if it is that lout Coldevin--Lord, man! do you really pay any
attention to what such a freak says? A man who carries a cigar-holder and
a dirty comb in the same pocket! Well, I must be going; so long!"
Irgens walked off. If the enemy was this barbarian from the backwoods,
well and good! His mind was again relieved; he nodded to acquaintances and
looked quite cheerful. He had for a moment felt aggrieved that anybody
should be grumbling behind his back, but that was now forgotten; it would
be foolish to take offence at this old bushwhacker.
Irgens intended to take a walk around the harbour so as to be left in
peace; this more or less stupid talk about his book had really got on his
nerves. Were people now beginning to prate about working hours and
quantity in connection with poetry? In that case his book would be found
wanting; it was not so very ponderous; it did not outweigh one of
Paulsberg's novels, thank God!
When he reached the harbour he suddenly caught a glimpse of Coldevin's
head behind a pile of packing-cases.
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