He happened to see a long
entry in the ledger which was lying open on his desk. It was Irgens's
account. Tidemand glanced at it indifferently; old loans, bad debts, wine
and loans, wine and cash. The entries were dated several years back; there
were none during the last year. Irgens had never made any payments; the
credit column was clean. Tidemand still remembered how Irgens used to joke
about his debts. He did not conceal that he owed his twenty thousand; he
admitted it with open and smiling face. What could he do? He had to live.
It was deplorable that circumstances forced him into such a position. He
wished it were different and he would have been sincerely grateful if
anybody had come along and paid his debts, but so far nobody had offered
to do that. Well, he would say, that could not be helped; he would have to
carry his own burdens. Fortunately, most of his creditors were people with
sufficient culture and delicacy to appreciate his position; they did not
like to dun him; they respected his talent. But occasionally it would
happen that a tailor or a wine-dealer would send him a bill and as like as
not spoil an exquisite mood.
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