So Milde had been chosen! That was the way Norway
rewarded her talents. Here he had hurled his inspired lyric in their
faces, and they did not even know what it was! _Whom_ had they
preferred? None other than oil-painter Milde, collector of ladies'
corsets!
Of course, he knew how it had happened; Paulsberg was behind it. Paulsberg
had supported Milde's application, and Milde had painted Paulsberg's
picture. A simon-pure advertising conspiracy! And when Irgens passed the
Arrow and saw the painting he spat contemptuously on the pavement. He had
seen through this hypocritical scurviness. However, he would find means to
make himself felt.
But why in the world should Lars Paulsberg be allowed to dispose of these
subsidies? True, he had never let slip an opportunity to ingratiate
himself with the newspapers; he had his press-agents; he took good care
that his name shouldn't be forgotten. But apart from that? Alas, a few
novels in the style of the seventies, a popular and amateurish criticism
of such a moss-grown dogma as the Atonement! What did it amount to when
one looked at it critically? But the fact that he had the press behind him
made his words carry weight.
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