He was going in to
Christiania this spring, to have an operation; then perhaps he might at
least be able to see well enough to walk; ay, all would be well in time,
no doubt. He was dull-witted, looked as if he ate a lot; was stout and
strong as a beast. But there was something unhealthy-looking, something of
the idiot about him; his acceptance of his fate was too unreasonable. To
be hopeful in that way implies a certain foolishness, I thought to myself;
a man must be lacking in sense to some degree if he can go ahead feeling
always content with life, and even reckoning to get something new, some
good out of it into the bargain.
But I was in the mood to learn something from all I chanced on in my
wandering; even this poor creature on his doorstep made me the wiser by
one little thing. How was it he could mistake me for a woman; the woman
Ingeborg he had called by name? I must have walked up too quietly. I had
forgotten the plodding cart-horse gait; my shoes were too light. I had
lived too luxuriously these years past; I must work my way back to the
peasant again.
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