His colleague had been sitting, listening calmly to Professor Andersen’s outpourings, because he probably understood that they came from the heart, and therefore didn’t interrupt him. But now he could no longer hold his tongue, and a discussion arose between the two gentlemen about the patina of time. A discussion about the upheavals versus the quiet enjoyment afforded by art, and about whether it wasn’t their task as professors of literature to pass on this quiet enjoyment, and not the stirring aspects, to their students. His colleague strongly maintained that it was their task to convey a sense of quiet enjoyment, and not stirring emotions, which in any case, as Professor Andersen so rightly pointed out, had been lost long ago in the historic moments from which the work of art had once sprung. The essential thing to recognise, and enjoy, was the noble patina which rested on a work of art which had lasted beyond its own century. ‘That is also historical awareness. Nothing else is in our power, and that is enough,’ maintained his colleague. ‘That is answer enough with regard to our deep desire to have something that outlasts us.’ He wasn’t stirred by reading Dante’s The Divine Comedy, not even by its depictions of Hell, and it wasn’t something he missed. But he could quietly and genuinely enjoy reading this work written in Florence in the thirteenth century, both because it actually was accessible to him, a Norwegian at the end of the twentieth century, and because the conditions both he and Professor Andersen endured in life, when all was said and done, were such that it was possible for him, after painstaking study, to relate to the work itself, yes, even to understand it. That the freshness was gone wasn’t something he missed, the noble weight bestowed by the patina fully compensated for that. Professor Andersen maintained in reply that his colleague probably didn’t fully understand what he was attempting to say, nor to what extent it troubled him. He certainly didn’t underrate the noble patina, he merely wanted to point out the consequences of the fact that there is no great stir in the modern sense when studying and gaining insight into a canonical work, consequences which Professor Andersen suspected might be approaching the dreadful consequences that spring out of breaking a taboo, or tampering with one. The silent despair of someone who does something like that. Indeed, he had to be allowed to express himself in this way, even if it didn’t sound sufficiently stringent to his colleague, because the thoughts he had were rather vague, but were no less troublesome on that account. He was obliged to question whether the quiet enjoyment his colleague talked about was an expression of perplexity with regard to history, and our true relationship to it. That there is an element of resignation involved, that he fully understood and respected, indeed, he dared also say, shared; even so it alleviated an unease he was no longer capable of alleviating. The suspicion that human consciousness was not sufficient to create works of art fit to survive their own period. The futile battle of consciousness against time. ‘The patina is necessary to cover up this horrifying state of affairs, that is what I am afraid of,’ said Professor Andersen. ‘We have such a burning desire for something we are incapable of achieving, and we can’t bear to face up to this lack of ability. We can’t, because that will drown our consciousness, and with it human dignity. One may find the meaninglessness great enough as it is, even in a world which believes in immortality through great intellectual accomplishments which survive the ravages of time. Which the ravages of time do not affect. Oh, what a marvellous thought, what a pleasing concept that expresses. Indeed, perhaps we can compare this to our own individual lives and the bright expectations we have about our experiences. All of us would like to become wiser individuals as the years pass, but is it true that we do? In my case it definitely isn’t. I’m not a wiser person now than when I was twenty-five years old, I’m just older. The experiences I’ve had aren’t worth much to anyone but myself. My experiences are of no value so they can be passed on to others, and younger individuals; they are a burden I have to bear alone. I have to relate to my experiences, mainly as impediments that make me mindful of my age, so I don’t continue to act “youthful”, “young in spirit”, something which is distasteful, if I may say so.’ ‘Now I’m beginning to understand a little of what you mean,’ his colleague interjected. ‘And everything is pretty black, really. You cast doubt on everything you can cast doubt on, and I must simply admit my situation in life is not such that there is any attraction in letting myself be tempted by your points of view. No, Pål, old chap, if we want to get down to the car before it gets dark, we’ll just have to get a move on.’
They stood up. They had been sitting in the crowded ski cabin for several hours. It had already begun to grow dark outside, the daylight hours are so short up here in the north in December. They had a place at a large table for six at first, but moved over to a table for two when it became vacant. Throughout the tirades and the discussion which arose, Professor Andersen had got up twice and stood in the queue to buy them coffee; on one occasion he had also brought a plate with two Danish pastries back to the table. New skiers kept coming into the ski cabin, bringing with them a whiff of fresh snow and wind into the packed, slightly clammy premises. There was the tramp of boots, the smell of ski wax, and of caps and mittens and scarfs. However, when Professor Andersen and his colleague got up and left, it was beginning to thin out.
They fastened their skis on and took hold of their ski poles. His colleague sped off down the slope, in the tracks between the silver-grey and gloomy fir trees, and came to a halt down there to wait for Professor Andersen, who was still standing at the top and taking his time. He calculated his own route down with as long and wide turns as possible, before setting off downhill and completing the downhill slopes in accordance with his calculations, wobbling down-wards without falling, and not without a certain inherited mastery over his skis, unfit though he was. At the bottom his colleague was still waiting, and they continued together across the open, gently sloping ground, his colleague first and Professor Andersen after him, a little out of breath, despite the fact that his colleague went at as slow a pace as possible. It got darker and darker before they could catch a glimpse of the lit car park in the distance. Then his colleague said that he would like to speed up a little on the last part, and set off, agilely, while Professor Andersen continued at the same pace, perhaps a little slower. When he reached the car, his colleague had already fastened his skis on to the roof rack and stood stretching out. He said that now it would be good to come home to dinner, in a tone which made Professor Andersen wonder if he didn’t expect Professor Andersen to join him. So he mentioned in passing that he intended to eat dinner alone at the hotel today. His colleague protested energetically. ‘But Mette has been making food all day!’ he exclaimed. ‘She has really been looking forward to serving you genuine Trøndelag sodd. You can’t turn that down now!’ Professor Andersen realised this, and sat in the passenger seat beside his colleague and went home with him for dinner.