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Thérèse had knelt down before the picture and was praying. Again and again she was the white dove. She said it from the depths ofher heart and kept her eyes fixed on the dove. She fluttered down into the hands of die superior young man; he caressed her softly, for had she not often saved his life, besides that's how people do treat doves.

When she got up, she was amazed to find she had knees. For a moment she doubted their reality and felt for them. When she left the church, it was her turn to laugh at the others. She laughed, in her own fashion, without laughing. People looked at her gravely and dropped their eyes, ashamed. What faces! a lot of criminals! The people who go to church these days! She managed to avoid the verger with the bag. Before the doors innumerable doves fluttered to and fro; not one of them was white. Thérèse was sorry she had brought nothing for them. At home there was so much stale bread and crumbs. Behind the cathedral a genuine white dove was perched on a stone statue. Thérèse looked at it: it was the Christ with Toothache. She thought to herself, what a bit of luck that the superior young man doesn't look like that. He'd be ashamed.

On the way home suddenly she heard music. Here come soldiers playing the loveliest marches. That's jolly, that's what she likes. She turns round about and glides along in time with them. The bandmaster never takes his eyes off her. The soldiers too, there's nothing in it, she looks back at them, she must thank them for the music. Other women join the crowd — she is the most beautiful of all. The bandmaster looks like something. That's a fine figure of a man, and how well he understands the music! The band wait for his wand. Without a sign from him not one of them moves. Now and again the music stops. She throws back her head, the bandmaster laughs and at once starts something new. If only there weren't all these children about. They get in her way. You ought to listen to music like this every day. The trumpets are best of all. Since she's joined the band, everyone has noticed how beautiful it is. Soon there s a huge crowd. She doesn't care. They make way for her. Not one forgets to look at her. Softly she hums in time with the music: like thirty, like thirty, like thirty.

CHAPTER XII

THE MILLION

Kien found the note on his door. He read it, because he read everything, and as soon as he sat down at his writing desk, forgot all about it. Suddenly somebody said: 'Here I am back again!' Behind him stood Thérèse and drenched him in a downpour of words.

'Yes indeed, such a huge legacy! Just three doors off there's a lawyer. You can't leave a legacy like that lying about. The will may get dirty. It's Sunday to-day. To-morrow's Monday. You'll have to give the lawyer something. Or he'll do it all wrong. It needn't be much. It would be a shame for the good money. All that stale bread and crumbs at home. Anybody may be a dove. Naturally they don't get a crumb to eat. The soldiers play the loveliest marches. Marching along and looking at everything at the same time, you've got to be superior to do that. And who did the bandmaster keep looking at? I wouldn't tell anybody. People don't understand a joke. 1,265,000. What big eyes Mr. Brute will make to be sure! He's got beautiful eyes. All the women are after him. Maybe I'm not a woman? Handsome is as handsome does. I'm the first woman with a fortune....'

Certain of victory, still flushed with the military music and the gaze of the bandmaster, she had come into the room. Everything to-day was beautiful. Days like this ought to happen every day. She had to talk. She drew the figure — 1,265,000 — on the wall, and tapped with her hand on the library in her skirt pocket. Who knows what that may not be worth. Maybe twice as much again. Her keys rattled. She puffed out her cheeks to talk. She spoke without pause because she had been silent for a week. In her ecstasy she betrayed her secret and most secret thoughts. She did not doubt that she had attained everything which could be attained; a determined woman. For all of an hour she talked at the creature in front of her. She forgot who he was. She forgot the superstitious fear with which, during the last few days, she had hung on every quiver of his features. He was human, she could tell him everything, she needed someone like that just now. She poured out the least little thing which had crossed her path or come into her mind that day.

He felt he had been out-manceuvred, something exceptional had happened. For a week she had behaved in an exemplary manner. That she should break in upon him in this uncouth fashion must obviously have a special reason. Her speech was confused, reckless and joyful. He tried to follow what she was saying; slowly he understood:

Some superior person had left her a million, apparently some sort of a relation, and in spite of his wealth a bandmaster, for that very reason, superior. A man who at any rate must have thought highly of her, or he would not have named her his heiress. With this million she wanted to start a furniture shop; she had learnt of her good fortune only to-day and had therefore hastened to church to give thanks, and had recognized in a painting of the Saviour the features of the dead benefactor. (Gratitude as a cause of hallucinations!) In the cathedral she had made a vow to feed the doves regularly. She objected to the practice of bringing them stale breadcrumbs from home. Doves have feelings like human beings (why not!); to-morrow she would like him to take the will to the lawyer with her, to have it proved. She was anxious lest the lawyer should ask too much, seeing that so huge a legacy was involved, and wished his fee to be settled before the consultation. Thrifty and a housekeeper to the million.

But was this legacy such a very big one? 1,265,000 — how much was that? Let us compare it with the value of the library? The entire library had cost him the absurdly small sum of not quite 600,000 gold kroner. His father had left him 600,000 gold kroner, and there was a small fragment left over. What was this she wanted to do with her legacy? Set up a furniture shop? Nonsense! The library could be enlarged. He would rent the neighbouring flat and have the partition wall removed. In this way he would gain four more large rooms for the library. He would have the windows walled up and skylights inserted as he had already done in his own flat. In eight rooms there would be space for a good sixty thousand volumes. Old Silzinger's library had recently been offered for sale, it would hardly have been sold already, it contained about twenty-two thousand books, not to be compared with his of course, but one or two important things in it. He would take a round million then for his library, and she could do just what she liked with the rest. Possibly the remainder would be enough for a furniture shop, but he knew nothing about that; in any case he didn't care, he would have nothing to do with money and commerce. He would have to inquire whether old Silzinger's library had gone yet. He had all but lost an important acquisition. He buried himself too much in his studies. In this way he deprived himself of the means which were essential to learned researches. A sharp eye for the book-market was as much a part of a scholar's equipment as knowledge of the current rates to a gambler on the stock exchange.

Extension of the library from four rooms to eight. That would be an improvement. You must develop yourself, you mustn't remain static. Forty is no age to speak of. How can a man retire at forty? It is two years since your last important purchase. This is how you grow rusty. There are other libraries too, not only yours. Poverty is disgusting. How fortunate that she loves me! She calls me Brute because I have been a brute to her. She thinks my eyes are beautiful. She thinks that all women run after me. I am indeed too brutish to her. If she did not love me she would keep her legacy to herself. There are men who let themselves be supported by their wives. How repulsive. I would sooner commit suicide. She may do whatever she likes for the library. Do books need to be fed? I think not. I pay the rent. Support means free food and lodging. I will pay the rent of the neighbouring flat too. She is stupid and uneducated but she has a dead relation. Callous? Why? I never knew the man. It would be pure hypocrisy to regret him. His death is no misfortune, his death has a deeper significance. Every human being fulfils some purpose, be it only for a moment. The purpose of this man was his death. Now he is dead. No pity will bring him back again. Strange coincidence! Into my very house comes this wealthy heiress as housekeeper. For eight years she quiedy performs her duties, suddenly, just before she inherits a million, I marry her. Scarcely have I discovered how deeply she loves me, when her rich bandmaster dies! A fortunate chance, undeserved, breaking in like a thief in the night. Illness was the turning point of my life, the end of straitened circumstances, of the oppressive small library in which I have hitherto lived.

Is there then no difference between a man born in the moon and on the earth? Even if the moon were half as big as the earth — it is not merely a question of the gross sum of matter, the difference in size expresses itself in each single object. Thirty thousand new books! Each one a starting point for new thoughts and new work! What a revolution of present circumstances!

In this moment Kien abandoned the conservative interpretation offered by evolutionary theory, to which he had hitherto subscribed, and marched with pages flying in to the camp of revolution. All progress is conditioned by sudden changes. The necessary proofs, itherto buried, as in every system of the evolutionists, hidden away beneath fig leaves, sprang into his consciousness immediately. An educated man has everything to hand, as soon as he needs it. The soul of an educated man is a superbly furnished armoury. This is rarely noticed because such people, on account of diat very education, do not often possess the courage to use it.

One word, which Thérèse flung out with mingled joy and passion, wrenched Kien back to hard facts. 'Dowry' he heard and accepted the phrase with gratitude. Everything he needed for the historic moment seemed to fall into his lap. The legacy of capitalism, favoured and practised by his family for centuries, awoke in him with colossal strength, as though in a struggle of twenty-five years it had not been always the loser. Therese's love, the pillars of the approaching paradise, brought him a dowry. It was his right not to spurn it away. He had proved his honourable intentions by taking her to wife, without the slightest suspicion of this wealthy relative on the brink of the grave, when she was nothing but a poor girl. It would give her pleasure, now and again, but not too often, to take a brisk walk through the eight rooms of the newly arranged library. The feeling that a relation of hers had had his part in creating this magnificent institution would compensate her for the loss of her furniture shop.

Filled with joy at the natural course his revolution was taking, Kien rubbed his long fingers. Not one single theoretical wall built itself in his path. The actual one dividing his own from the neighbouring flat would be pulled down. Negotiations with the neighbours must be opened at once. Putz the builder must be informed. He would have to start work to-morrow. The will must be proved immediately. Surely the solicitor could be seen to-day. When was the auction at old Silzinger's? The caretaker must go on some errands at once. 

Kien took one step forward and commanded: 'Fetch the caretaker!' 

Thérèse had got round again to the hungry doves and the crumbled bread. She reaffirmed this example of wastefulness, which irritated her housekeeper's thrift, and further enhanced her indignation with the words: 'That would be a fine thing!' 

But Kien would have no resistance. 'Fetch the caretaker! At once!' 

Thérèse noticed that he had said something. What had he got to say? He should let her have her say out. 'That would be a fine fining!' she repeated. 

'What would be a fine thing? Fetch the caretaker!' 

She had a grudge against this man, anyway, because of the tip he got. 'What's he got to do with it? He's not going to have any of it!' 

'I shall decide on that. I am the master in this house. He said this, not because it was necessary, but because he thought it salutary to show her that his mind was made up.

'Excuse me, the money's mine.'

In his heart, he had expected this answer. She would always remain the same ill-bred, uneducated person. He would yield only so far as his dignity must concede to his projects.

'Nobody denies it. We need him. He must run some errands at once.'

'It's a shame for the good money. That man gets a fortune.'

'Keep calm. The million is assuredly ours.'

Therese's mistrust became acute. He was trying to do her out of a bit more. Two thousand schillings he had snitched already.

'And the 265,000?' said she, pausing at every figure with a meaning look.

Now she must be won over swiftly and finally. 'The two hundred and sixty-five thousand belong to you alone.' He masked his lean features in a benefactor's fat smile; he was giving her a present, he took his thanks in advance and with pleasure.

Thérèse began to sweat. 'It all belongs to me.'

Why did she insist so much? He disguised his impatience in an official statement: 'I have already made it clear that no one disputes your claim. The matter is not at present under discussion.'

'Excuse me, I know that myself. Black on white, that's what I say.'

'We must co-operate in the organization of responsibilities arising from your legacy.'

'Is that any business of yours?'

'I ask you formally to accept my assistance.'

'Ask, ask, ask. First bargaining, then begging, it's not right.'

'My only fear is that you may be outwitted.'

'People pretend they re saints.'

'With a legacy of a million, it is not unheard of for false relations to make an appearance.'

'But there's only the one.'

'No wife? No children?'

'I ask you, I'm not a fool!'

'An incredible stroke of luck!'

Luck? Thérèse was baffled. The creature gave his money away even before he was dead. What luck was there in that? Since he had been speaking she had a growing conviction that he was doing her. She watched his every word, a hundred headed Cerberus. She exerted herself to answer, sharp and crystal clear. A slip of the tongue and the rope was round your neck. The creature had read everything. He seemed to her at once the defendant and the counsel for the defence. Protecting her infant property, she developed forces which almost frightened her. All of a sudden she managed to put herself in someone else's position. She felt that his will, as far as he was concerned, was no stroke of luck. She suspected behind this word of his a brand new trap. He was hiding something from her. What do people hide? A property. The creature possessed more than he would admit. That third nought, the one she had missed, burnt the palm of her hand. She raised her arm as in sudden pain. She wanted to throw herself over the writing table, to pull out the will and with one forceful stroke clap that nought into its right place. But she knew how much was at stake and controlled herself. This was what she got for her modesty. Why was she such a fool? Modesty's stupid. Now she'd be clever again. She must get it out of him. Where has he hidden the rest? She'd ask him so that he wouldn't notice she was asking. Broad and vicious, the familiar smile reappeared on her face.