The _Gazette_ had advised
against radical action at the last moment. The paper had talked about the
seriousness of assuming responsibilities, about the unwisdom of a
straightforward challenge.
"What the devil can we do--with our army and navy?" said Gregersen with
deep conviction. "We shall simply have to wait."
They went into the Grand. Ojen was there with his two close-cropped poets.
He was speaking about his latest prose poems: "A Sleeping City,"
"Poppies," "The Tower of Babel." Imagine the Tower of Babel--its
architecture! And with a nervous gesture he drew a spiral in the air.
Paulsberg and his wife arrived; they moved the tables together and formed
a circle. Milde stood treat; he still had money left from the first half
of the subsidy. Paulsberg attacked Gregersen at once because of the
_Gazette's_ change of front. Hadn't he himself, a short time ago,
written a rather pointed article in the paper? Had they entirely forgotten
that? How could he reconcile this with their present attitude? It would
soon be a disgrace for an honest man to see his name in that sheet.
Paulsberg was indignant and said so without mincing words.
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