Mysteries
Author: Knut Hamsun
Date: 1892-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Classics; Scandinavian Literature; Novels; Literature; 19th Century; Nobel Prize; Literary Fiction; Mystery; Psychology
Description: "Mysteries" (1892) is the story of Johan Nilsen Nagel, a mysterious stranger who suddenly turns up in a small Norwegian town one summer-and just as suddenly disappears. Nagel is a complete outsider, a sort of modern Christ treated in a spirit of near parody. He condemns the politics and thought of the age, brings comfort to the insulted and injured and gains the love of two women suggestive of the biblical Mary and Martha. But there is a sinister side of him: in his vest he carries a vial of Prussic acid. The novel creates a powerful sense of Nagel's stream of thought, as he increasingly withd
Publisher: Penguin Group
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Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Introduction

I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII

EXPLANATORY NOTES
TEXTUAL NOTES
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MYSTERIES

Knut Hamsun was born in 1859 to a poor peasant family in central Norway. His early literary ambition was thwarted by having to eke out a living—as a schoolmaster, sheriff’s assistant, and road laborer in Norway; as a store clerk, farmhand, and streetcar conductor in the American Midwest, where he lived for two extended periods between 1882 and 1888. Based on his own experiences as a struggling writer, Hamsun’s first novel, Sult (1890; tr. Hunger, 1899), was an immediate critical success. While also a poet and playwright, Hamsun made his mark on European literature as a novelist. Finding the contemporary novel plot-ridden, psychologically unsophisticated and didactic, he aimed to transform it so as to accommodate contingency and the irrational, the nuances of conscious and subconscious life as well as the vagaries of human behavior. Hamsun’s innovative aesthetic is exemplified in his successive novels of the decade: Mysteries (1892), Pan (1894), and Victoria (1898). Perhaps his best-known work is The Growth of the Soil (1917), which earned him the Nobel Prize in 1920. After the Second World War, as a result of his openly expressed Nazi sympathies during the German occupation of Norway, Hamsun forfeited his considerable fortune to the state. He died in poverty in 1952.

Sverre Lyngstad, Distinguished Professor Emeritus of English and Comparative Literature at the New Jersey Institute of Technology, Newark, New Jersey, holds degrees in English from the University of Oslo, the University of Washington, Seattle, and New York University. He is the author of many books and articles in the field of Scandinavian literature, including Jonas Lie (1977) and Sigurd Hoel’s Fiction (1984), coauthor of Ivan Goncharov (1971), and cotranslator of Tolstoy’s Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth (1968). Among his more recent translations from Norwegian are Knut Fadbakken’s Adam’s Diary (1988), Sigurd Hoel’s The Troll Circle (1992) and The Road to the World’s End (1995), Knut Hamsun’s Rosa (1997) and On Overgrown Paths (1999), and Arne Garborg’s Weary Men (1999). Dr. Lyngstad is the recipient of several grants, prizes, and awards and has been honored by the King of Norway with the St. Olav Medal and with the Knight’s Cross, First Class, of the Royal Norwegian Order of Merit. He has recently completed a critical study of Knut Hamsun’s novels.

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First published in Penguin Books 2001

Translation, introduction, and notes copyright © Sverre Lyngstad, 2001 All rights reserved

Originally published in Norwegian as Mysterier
by P. G. Philipsens Forlag, Kobenhavn, 1892.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Hamsun, Knut, 1859—1952.
[Mysterier. English]
Mysteries / Knut Hamsun ; translated with an introduction and
explanatory and textual notes by Sverre Lyngstad.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.

eISBN : 978-1-440-67363-4

I. Lyngstad, Sverre. II. Title
PT8950.H3M913 2001
839.8’236—dc21
00-040651

http://us.penguingroup.com

For Karin and Ken
—S. L.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank the following persons for information concerning special usages, literary allusions, and biographical items in translating Mysteries and preparing the notes: Arnold and Kjellrun Lyngstad, Michael Rijssenbeek, Guy Rosa, and Dagfinn Worren. Special thanks go to Eléonore Zimmermann for her patience and encouragement during the period I was working on the translation and for reading the manuscript.

INTRODUCTION

At the time when Knut Hamsun was working on the novel that became Mysteries, he was also deeply, and busily, engaged in a critical crusade against the state of Norwegian literature. Already in 1890, the year his first novel, Hunger, appeared, he had published an essay in the journal Samtiden (The Contemporary) entitled “Fra det ubevidste Sjæleliv” (From the Unconscious Life of the Mind), in which he championed a new literary psychology, focused on the intangible, elusive aspects of consciousness, the very stream of thought, rather than its outcome or end results. Concurrently, he emphasized the unpredictable nature of the process of thought and its roots in the subconscious mind.

In 1891 he extended his crusade by going on a lecture tour of Norwegian cities, ending up in Kristiania (now Oslo) in October of that year. In these lectures, the contents of which were only known through newspaper reports until 1960, Hamsun repeated his call for a new literature while attacking the reigning deities on the Norwegian Parnassus, Ibsen, Bjørnson, Kielland, and Lie, the so-called Four Greats. Ibsen had received a special invitation to the Kristiania lecture and sat in the front row, beside Nina and Edvard Grieg. The lectures caused a sensation, but the reviews were mixed. Many critics found the attacks to be outrageously unfair as well as churlish and cast Hamsun as a Yankee self-booster, a reference to his recent sojourns in the United States.

This largely hostile public reaction is an essential part of the background to Mysteries, which appeared in 1892. As the reader will soon discover, the debate is continued on a wider scale in the novel. During the period of the novel’s genesis, Hamsun’s life was no less unsettled than that of Johan Nilsen Nagel, the book’s central character, as he kept moving between Kristiania and Copenhagen, between Copenhagen and the Danish island of Samsø, and from one Norwegian town to another. His finances were also precarious: the sales of Hunger were poor despite excellent reviews. These circumstances were bound to have a strong impact on the book he was writing. Indeed, in creating the central figure of Mysteries, Hamsun produced an aggravated or heightened version of his own provisional life: Nagel, whose rootlessness is global, represents the extreme limit of an existential condition with which his creator was intimately familiar. In effect, he can be seen as a virtual self of the author, whose artistic vocation helped prevent its real-life actualization.[1]

That vocation had not come cheaply. Hamsun’s beginnings as a writer had been slow and painful. By the time he appeared on the scene with a fragment of Hunger in 1888, he had served a literary apprenticeship of more than ten years and tried his fortune on two continents. His life, never an easy one, was often marked by severe hardship. Born to an impoverished peasant family at Garmotrxdet, Lom, in central Norway in 1859, Knut Pedersen, to use his baptismal name, had a difficult childhood. In the summer of 1862, when Knut was less than three years old, his father, a tailor, moved with his family to Hamarøy, north of the Arctic Circle, where he worked the farm Hamsund belonging to his brother-in-law, Hans Olsen. From the age of nine to fourteen Hamsun was a sort of indentured servant to his uncle, since the family was financially dependent on him. The boy’s beautiful penmanship made him particularly valuable to Hans Olsen, who suffered from palsy and needed a scribe for his multifarious business, from shopkeeper to librarian and postmaster. The uncle treated Knut with anything but kid gloves; at the slightest slip of the pen he would rap his knuckles with a long ruler. And on Sundays the boy was kept indoors, forced to read edifying literature to Hans and his pietist brethren while his friends were playing outside, waiting for Knut to join in their games. No wonder he liked to tend the cattle at the parsonage, where his uncle had his quarters. This allowed him to lie on his back in the woods, dreaming his time away and writing on the sky. Very likely, these hours of solitary musings away from the tyranny of his uncle acted as a stimulus to young Hamsun’s imagination. His schooling, starting at the age of nine, was sporadic, and his family had no literary culture. However, the local library at his uncle’s place may have provided a modicum of sustenance for his childish dreams.

During his adolescence and youth Hamsun led a virtually nomadic existence, at first in various parts of Norway, later in the United States. After being confirmed in the church of his native parish in 1873, he was a store clerk in his godfather’s business in Lom for a year, then returned north to work in the same capacity for Nikolai Walsøe, a merchant at Tranøy, not far from his parents’ place. There Hamsun seems to have fallen in love with the boss’s daughter, Laura. It is uncertain whether the young man was asked to leave because of his infatuation with Laura or because of the bankruptcy of Mr. Walsøe in 1875. In the next few years he supported himself as a peddler, shoemaker’s apprentice, schoolmaster, and sheriff’s assistant in different parts of Nordland. After the failure of his literary ventures in the late 1870s, the school of life took the form of road construction work for a year and a half (1880-81).

Hamsun’s dream of becoming a writer had been conceived at an early age, amid circumstances that left him no choice but to fend for himself. If it can be said of any writer that he was self-made or self-taught, it can certainly be said of Hamsun. Not surprisingly, the two narratives published in his teens, Den Gådefulde (1877; The Enigmatic One) and Bjørger (1878), were clumsy and insignificant. The former is an idyllic tale in the manner of magazine fiction, in a language more Danish than Norwegian. The latter, a short novel, was modeled on Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson’s peasant tales of the 1850s. In 1879, with the support of a prosperous Nordland businessman, E. B. K. Zahl, Hamsun wrote another novel, “Frida,” which he presented to Frederik Hegel at Gyldendal Publishers in Copenhagen. It was turned down without comment. The manuscript of this story, which was also dismissed by Bjørnson (1832-1910), has been lost. Bjørnson suggested he become an actor. And so, in early 1880, in his twenty-first year, the first period of Hamsun’s literary apprenticeship came to an end.

During the 1880s hard physical labor went hand in hand with renewed literary and intellectual efforts. While employed in road construction, he had made his debut as a public lecturer. But though his lecture on August Strindberg was enthusiastically reviewed in the Gjøvik paper, Hamsun lost money on the venture.[2] His next decision was not unusual for a poor, ambitious Norwegian in the 1880s: to emigrate to America. However, Hamsun was not primarily interested in improving his fortune; instead, he foresaw a future for himself as the poetic voice of the Norwegian community in the New World. Needless to say, the dream quickly foundered, though the lecturing activity was continued. To support himself he worked as a farmhand and store clerk, except for the last six months or so of the two-and-a-half-year stay, when he was offered the job of “secretary and assistant minister with a salary of $500 a year” by the head of the Norwegian Unitarian community in Minneapolis, Kristofer Janson (1841-1917).[3] This was Hamsun’s first significant encounter with an intellectual milieu. While he did not share Janson’s religious beliefs, he clearly enjoyed browsing in his well-stocked library. But his stay was cut short: in the summer of 1884 his doctor diagnosed “galloping consumption,”[4] and in the fall of that year Hamsun returned to Norway, apparently resigned to die. He was twenty-five years old. His illness turned out to be a severe case of bronchitis.

Back in Norway, Hamsun’s endeavors to support himself by writing stories, articles, and reviews for the newspapers, while working on a “big book,”[5] brought only a meager harvest financially, despite a considerable amount of publishing activity. Worthy of mention is his article on Mark Twain in the weekly paper Ny illustreret Tidende (New Illustrated Gazette) in March 1885, important because, by a compositor’s error, the d in his name, Hamsund, was dropped. Henceforth, the young aspiring writer would use no other spelling of his name.

After a couple of years in Norway, at times in severe want, Hamsun returned to America, but now for purely economic reasons: to finance his literary ambition. From New York he wrote to a friend in Norway that it had become “impossible” for him at home.[6] However, the challenges posed by America were still formidable. Only toward the end of his two-year stay, after supporting himself as a streetcar conductor in Chicago and a farm laborer in the Dakotas, was he able to turn his attention to literature. Having returned to Minneapolis in the fall of 1887, he delivered a series of lectures there during the winter of 1887-88. These lectures, which dealt with such literary figures as Balzac, Flaubert, Zola, Bjørnson, Ibsen, and Strindberg, demonstrate Hamsun’s painfully acquired familiarity with the literary culture of his time. By July 1888 we find him in Copenhagen. In a brief sketch of his early life recorded in 1894 he says that, when the ship reached Kristiania, he “hid on board a day and a half,”[7] bypassing the city that had so bitterly frustrated his literary dreams. A few months later, in November 1888, the Danish journal Ny Jord (New Earth) published a fragment of his breakthrough novel, Hunger, which marks the real starting point of Hamsun’s career as a creative writer.

Although the genesis of Mysteries, like Hunger, can be traced to a decidedly personal predicament, more than any other of Hamsun’s novels it was written with a particular aesthetic in mind. The book was intended to vindicate his new theory of literature, spelled out, however vaguely, in his lectures, as well as in his article “From the Unconscious Life of the Mind.” Thus, his lectures contained a broadside attack on the traditional novel, accusing it of applying a superficial psychology and showing a utilitarian concern with social problems. Furthermore, they derided what he called literary creation by dint of “science and numbers,” stressing that an author is a “subjectivity” whose depiction of life and people flows from his own feelings.[8] In particular, Hamsun criticized the work of his elders for its allegedly stereotypic character portrayal, expressing a preference for the changeable and divided mind, for individuals “in whom inconsistency is literally their fundamental trait.”[9] He wants to see the “soul illuminated and scrutinized every way, from all viewpoints, in every secret recess”; “I will,” he says, “transfix its vaguest stirring with my pin and hold it up to my magnifying glass,” prepared to examine “the most delicate vibrations.” Significantly, the emphasis on emotional nuances also includes a preference for depicting mental phenomena in a state of becoming: he wants to direct attention to the “first germ” of thought and feeling rather than the “final bud” or flower. This accounts for his relative neglect of external action, since elements of plot—balls, outings, and so forth—show nothing but the result of a psychic process rather than that process “in its first germ and in its unfolding.” “Thoughts,” he says, “rise and change at the slightest impressions, and decisions and actions ripen by means of thoughts.”[10]

Of particular importance for Mysteries is a statement in his 1890 article about the function of the unconscious in literature. If we want literature to give a more faithful representation of the mental life of contemporary people, he writes, it is necessary to know something about the “mimosa-like” sensitivities of the psyche,[11] the “secret stirrings” that take place “in the remote parts of the mind, the incalculable welter of emotions, ... the random wanderings of thought and feeling, the uncharted, trackless journeys of heart and brain, the mysterious activities of the nerves, the whisper of the blood, the entreaty of the bones, all the unconscious life of the mind.”[12] In the same article, Hamsun stresses the unconscious element in literary creation, following in this the German philosopher Eduard von Hartmann (1842-1906), whom he greatly admired.[13]

While these premises seem intellectually exciting, they may have presented Hamsun with a dilemma of selection. A writer bent on representing the process of thought, along with the subconscious stirrings behind it, finds himself between the devil and the deep blue sea. On the one hand, the necessity of an aesthetic design calls for formal discipline; on the other, the ambition to reproduce the “unconscious life of the mind” militates against that discipline. The logic of the undertaking would call for an uninhibited outpouring of psychic contents, however trifling or absurd, and readers may have felt in 1892—as some do today—that Hamsun sacrificed decorum and a satisfying form in favor of a misapplied notion of psychological mimesis. The extraordinary number and length of the cuts he made in subsequent editions of the book are a tacit admission of his dissatisfaction with the final product. Apart from the setting, which remains the same throughout, the novel’s sole unifying element seems to be the consistent presence—in every chapter except the last—of the central character, whose life and death struggle, interspersed with farce, allows the reader to forget about the book’s aesthetic lapses.

In the rest of this brief essay I shall suggest a way of reading Mysteries, a novel which has elicited a great deal of commentary, including a book-length study.[14] Critical evaluations varied widely from the start, Bjørnson calling it one of the “great books of literature,” whereas the distinguished critic Carl Nærup found it “crude.”[15] In the nineteen hundreds, the Danish critic Jørgen Bukdahl claimed that Mysteries was Hamsun’s “best and most honest novel,” in contrast to the judgment of his countryman Peter Kirkegaard that it is a “rather unsuccessful book,” and that of the contemporary Norwegian novelist Knut Faldbakken, in whose opinion it is an “abortive masterpiece.”[16] American opinions of the novel range from the rhapsodic praise of Henry Miller to the largely negative reaction of John Updike.[17] Whatever one thinks of the work, it is hard to disagree with the statement by another critic that Mysteries is “one of the most provocative works of late nineteenth-century fiction.”[18] If nothing else, these disparate appraisals are an indication of the complexity of Hamsun’s novel, as well as of Johan Nilsen Nagel, the book’s central character. They both transcend the Norwegian or Scandinavian context; as a Dutch critic has said, Nagel “belongs to European literature.”[19] One feels tempted to quote a statement by Charles Marlow in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness: “All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz,”[20] with the addition that, in Nagel’s case, one would have to add America as well.

Nagel’s story, that of a “mysterious stranger” who suddenly turns up in a small town and as suddenly disappears, conforms to the outsider plot. However, Nagel is an outsider not only socially, like Turgenev’s “superfluous men” to whom Hamsun’s early heroes, or antiheroes, have been compared,[21] but also meta-physically—“ an alien, a stranger on earth,” as he calls himself (chapter 18). At its deepest level, his story is archetypal: the sub-text traces the destiny of a modern Christ, presented in a spirit of near parody. Thus, Nagel voices a blanket condemnation of contemporary life and thought, befriends the poor and the despised, whom he helps “in secret” following the Scriptures,[22] and gains the love of two women suggestive of Mary and Martha, sisters of Lazarus. He is also in the habit of using stories to convey his thoughts. Though Nagel is a failed Christ, returning to the sea by which he came, he is resurrected on the novel’s last page as the two women commemorate his quasi-miraculous powers.

The near-parodic aspect of the Christ analogy is shown throughout, most explicitly perhaps in chapter 18, where Nagel reflects on his “beautiful dream of a mission” while at the same time envisaging his suicide “in the fullness of time.” Like Myshkin in Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot, Nagel feels a need to play providence to people.[23] But he also, like Ivan in The Brothers Karamazov, comes close to being a philosophical naysayer, articulating a kind of counter-theodicy. Ivan tells his brother Alyosha that, while he accepts God, he cannot accept “God’s world” or any “eternal harmony” that history might bring about. He will “respectfully return him [God] the ticket” of admission and, on reaching thirty, “smash the cup [of life] to the ground”—clearly hinting at suicide as one way out.[24] Nagel combines these contrary positions: on the spur of the moment, the providential role he wishes to play is brusquely negated, as he reflects, in a moment of nervous exhaustion: “What concern was it of his that the good Lord arranged a collision with loss of life on the Erie Railroad far inside America. None, to be sure! Well, he had just as little to do with Martha Gude, a respectable lady of this town” (chapter 9). In his moral elusiveness, Nagel seems most akin to another Dostoyevskian character, Nikolai Stavrogin, the mysterious figure in Demons whose ambiguous nature, divided between noble and vicious impulses, leads him to death by his own hand.

Within this overall pattern of Mysteries, namely, a parodic version of the Christ story with its associated motif of righting the wrongs of this world, Hamsun accommodates a novelistic structure consisting of two basic elements: romance and intellectual debate. The model may derive from Ivan Turgenev (1818-83), whose novel Rudin (1855) is referred to in the text. Like most Turgenev novels, Rudin combines a failed romance with veritable orgies of discussion, and as in Mysteries the discussion often takes the form of quasi-monologues. Since the debates, dealing with issues of the day, will seem less and less relevant as time goes on, the double structure tends to privilege the romance element. In the working out of that element, Hamsun is closer to Dostoyevsky than to Turgenev: like Myshkin, Nagel shuttles between two women, both of whom play a fateful role in his life.

The novel’s narrative progression is largely determined by the vicissitudes of the love stories. Since Nagel is consistently at the focus of the action, its dynamic depends chiefly on him; that dynamic proceeds from two contrary forces, contingency and fatality. Nagel’s mental reservation of suicide as a last resort places him in a world of contingency, one in which anything can happen. The problems caused by the total freedom this condition entails become evident at the very outset, by his difficulty in deciding whether to disembark from the steamer or not: for him, this is a Hamletic moment of to be or not to be. The acceptance of suicide removes all rational motives of action in favor of sheer caprice, turning the novel into a succession of gratuitous acts. On the other hand, once his passion for Dagny develops, the reader may begin to wonder: Will he follow in the wake of Karlsen, or will he succeed where Karlsen failed? Eventually, one perceives a growing sense of fatality as Nagel’s attempts to control his life fail, with the result that his clairvoyance turns into a fearful prefiguration of destruction.[25] Together, contingency and fatality produce a haunting feeling of suspense that goes far toward unifying the highly disparate materials of the work.[26]

The love of Nagel for Dagny Kielland, however it manifests itself, shows every sign of being an all-absorbing passion. A thinker who “never learned how to think,” a musician who fills his violin case with dirty laundry, in short, an artist manqué, Nagel in his yellow aesthete’s suit seems bent on investing his artistic talent and energies in the business of living. His love is a desperate attempt to give meaning to his life; a metaphysical eros, it is the means whereby he hopes to justify his very existence. That is why its failure brings such drastic consequences. By the time he starts wooing Martha, he is simply concerned to survive, however meagerly. The pastoral dream of life with Martha that he evokes in chapter 16 is symptomatic of the psychological regression that Nagel undergoes toward the end of the novel.

Despite the special circumstances of Nagel’s attachment to Dagny, his love conforms to a romantic archetype, best exemplified by Goethe’s Sturm und Drang novel The Sufferings of Young Werther (1774). Both Werther and Nagel go into ecstasies in their communion with nature and take a jaundiced view of the societies in which they find themselves; both fall in love with rather ordinary women who have been promised to someone else, and they end by taking their own lives. Though the would-be lovers respect the “injured third parties” whom they seek to supplant, they are powerless to desist from their impassioned wooing. On the contrary, the obstacles in the way of their love, the very impossibility of its fulfillment, seem to act as a stimulus to continued pursuit.[27]

In the working out of the archetype, especially the elements of irrationality and tragic suffering, Hamsun may have drawn upon three German philosophers who were in the forefront of public discussion at the time, Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Eduard von Hartmann, and Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900).[28] To Schopenhauer, love is “the source of little pleasure and much suffering.”[29] Hartmann calls it a “demon who ever and again demands his victim” and an “eternally veiled mystery” that wills an infinitude of “longing, joy and sorrow”; it is “eternally incomprehensible, unutterable, ineffable, because never to be grasped by consciousness.”[30] As for Nietzsche, his relevance in this context pertains as much to the temper of his thought as to its substance. Nagel possesses a heightened sense of life, a spirit of exuberance, that is very reminiscent of Nietzsche, as is his extolling of “His Eminence Excess” (chapter 18). Indeed, it has been suggested that Mysteries is an example of Dionysian tragedy, an essay on “agony and ecstasy—with Dionysian strains.”[31]

Perhaps the most distinctive feature of Mysteries is that the love plot is doubled by a kind of male romance, the bonding between Nagel and Miniman. This relationship operates on two levels, one realistic, the other symbolic. In protest against the claim of Edvard Brandes in his review of Mysteries that Miniman was “an entirely Russian figure,”[32] Hamsun retorted, in a letter to Philipsen, his publisher, that he was a real person, corresponding in every detail to the character in the novel.[33] However, the manner in which the relationship is developed betrays obvious Dostoyevskian traits. While at the outset Nagel appears as a rescuer, offering protection to one of the “insulted and injured,” the subsequent meetings between Nagel and Miniman increasingly assume the character of interrogations, much like the virtual duels between Raskolnikov and the police investigator Porfiry Petrovich in Crime and Punishment. Eventually Nagel admits his long-time suspicion that Miniman had murdered Karlsen. But even after admitting his mistake on that score, Nagel accuses Miniman, with his “mendacious blue eyes,” of being “an unclean, unctuous soul,” “a cowardly ... angel of the Lord” who might still infect Martha with his “sanctimonious depravity” (chapter 20). Here Hamsun’s literary repertoire has borrowed a trick from Nietzsche, ever suspicious of appearances, especially the mask of humility worn by followers of the so-called slave morality.

The confirmation of Nagel’s suspicion on the book’s last page reflects not only on Miniman but on the society of which he is a part. While the townspeople go on with their lives as if nothing had happened, the revelation of Miniman’s crime, possibly attempted rape, shows up the moral depravity lurking under the respectable surface. For despite his outsider’s status, Miniman’s unconscious hypocrisy metonymously involves all the other whited sepulchers of the town.

Nevertheless, it is as Nagel’s double that Miniman becomes truly fascinating, adding both complexity and depth to Hamsun’s novel and laying bare fateful contradictions in Nagel’s psyche. Hamsun himself was fully aware of Miniman’s status as Nagel’s “alter ego”; therefore, he says, “those mysterious clashes, therefore the dreams, therefore his visions of him when [he] wants to kill himself and so forth.”[34] Dostoyevsky tends to use the double to symbolize a central character’s moral underground, like Smerdyakov in relation to Ivan Karamazov. By contrast, the difference between Nagel and Miniman is chiefly a matter of class and temperament, not morality, the former being an excessively ebullient member of the middle class, the latter a shy and rather taciturn proletarian. However, it cannot be forgotten that Miniman is physically misshapen, a possible hint at a warped nature. Yet, despite the divide separating them, Hamsun suggests they are united by deep affinities. Thus, in his meetings with Miniman, particularly when in his cups, Nagel sometimes confuses his own persona with that of his interlocutor. Hamsun formulates the situation quite aptly, if somewhat obscurely, in a letter to Erik Skram: “The question is whether he [Nagel] hangs together, hangs together with his alter ego, Miniman, and hangs loosely enough together with himself to almost fall apart.”[35]

The deep bonds between these two figures, whose names echo one another—one being called Johan, the other Johannes—are shown most convincingly through Nagel’s dreams (chapters 6 and 22). Both dreams are agons, the first Miniman’s, the second Nagel’s; yet, these dreams are important chiefly for what they tell us about the dreamer, Nagel. In the first dream, Nagel is split in two, between the humble, barely human creature struggling to rise out of the primeval jungle and the arrogant intellectual whose taunts prefigure Nagel’s semisadistic interrogations of his friend. In the second dream—which Hamsun, taking his cue from Dostoyevsky, no doubt, presents as though it were an actual happening—the roles are reversed, Miniman being the savior, as well as the voice of reason, Nagel the victim of his own unreason. At this point all certainties have been relativized: moral principle—the categorical imperative or the Christian maxim of doing to your neighbor as you would be done to—is stood on its head as Nagel becomes a victim, rather than a beneficiary, of Miniman’s good intentions. The little man who a short time ago turned Nagel’s projected suicide into an embarrassing fiasco, once more interferes fatefully in his life, though this time by indirection, in Nagel’s dream. Ironically, he enacts in both instances the very principle obeyed by Nagel in saving the young man who jumped overboard on his way to Hamburg. Nagel’s world is collapsing; eventually he envisages himself in the role of a clown, dancing in the marketplace in his stocking feet just like his humble friend. It is as though the transvaluation of all values which underlies his attacks on, and parodies of, received ideas and current ideologies has come home to roost.

The subconscious dialectic revealed in Nagel’s dreams of Miniman shows that, however sharply he rejects society, he cannot escape it. Nor is he able to find a satisfactory replacement for it through nature. His rapture in the woods, with its lyrical afflatus, while transporting, is undercut by its associated images. In a state of “perfect contentment,” he “perceived music in his blood, sensed a kinship with all of nature, ... felt enveloped by his own sense of self as it came back to him from trees and tussocks and blades of grass. His soul grew big and rich, like the sound of an organ inside him ...” (chapter 6). The mystical sense of oneness with creation is accompanied by a self-inflation approaching apotheosis. Nagel even hears someone calling him, a putative divine presence, and he answers the call. The fancy of rocking about “on a heavenly sea, fishing with a silver hook and singing to himself” seems more disinterested, an instance of pure beauty. However, in the midst of his ecstasy he experiences a Weltschmerz and a sense of transience so keen as to be soothed only by the thought of “putting an end to it all!” The fetal position Nagel assumes, as he curls up, “hugging his knees and shivering with well-being,” similarly associates the experience with a death wish. The fact that, a moment earlier, Nagel had met a girl with a cat in her arms, followed by the vision of a white pigeon reeling “sideways down the sky,” shot dead by a hunter, is another foreshadowing of future disenchantment.

The ominous undertones of the experience in the woods are confirmed through subsequent events. The forest, the scene of “perfect contentment,” later becomes the scene of the abortive suicide, one of the most powerful passages in the book (chapter 19). The cat motif, introduced so innocently early on, turns into the gruesome story of a cat “writhing in the most terrible agony,” with a fish hook stuck in its throat (chapter 20). Two chapters later, in Nagel’s delirious monologue, it is Karlsen, with whom Nagel seems to identify, who is choking on a fish hook, and finally Nagel thinks he is himself “lying there with a fish hook in his throat....” The romantic image of fishing with a silver hook in a celestial ocean—with a possible allusion to the biblical notion of being “fishers of men”[36]—transforms into the motif of the hunter/hunted. In the end, after Nagel realizes he is no longer wearing the iron ring, the call in the woods recurs as a succession of demonic summonses from the sea. Similarly, though discarded by an act of free will, the ring—a pledge of loyalty to the earth—becomes the agency of inexorable fatality.

The “mysterious” aspects of Hamsun’s novel are epitomized in some of the inserted stories, in particular the story of the blind girl and that of the woman with the cross. The first, related on the spur of the moment, is called an eventyr, a word that means “adventure” as well as “fairy tale,” causing the story to hover on the borderline between dream and reality. It is a kind of fable of eros, charged with beauty, tenderness—and horror. An amateur Freudian reading is irresistible: there is the forbidding father, who yet lures Nagel on; there is the implicit promise of a night of passion, withdrawn when the girl abandons him. Instead, his night is filled with lovely sights and beautiful music: desire has been sublimated into art. However, the grisly dénouement the following day, with the blind girl’s body shattered on the ground, makes sublimation look like a crucifixion. Though the tale excites Dagny sexually, it presents erotic passion as a blind and ruthless force that wreaks havoc with people’s lives. It acts as a foreshadowing of things to come.

The anecdote about the woman with the cross is perceived as an omen of disaster already in the telling, when Nagel visits the Stenersens toward the end of the novel (chapter 21). The woman’s second apparition fills him with a kind of ontological anxiety. As in the “adventure” with the blind girl, the story’s horror is largely conveyed by an image of falling: the blind girl falls to her death from the top of the tower; the woman with the cross throws herself into the sea. More important, Nagel himself experiences a free fall as the opium trance wears off. While the experience itself, with its musical imagery, recalls his one-time rapture in the woods, his fall into the ocean, which confronts him with the spread-eagled body of the woman with the cross, is an obvious allusion to the crushed body of the young girl. Both stories are uncanny, hinting at the presence of hidden demonic forces. How else to explain the behavior of Nagel’s puppy, Jakobsen, who raises her hackles and barks furiously during the second apparition of the woman with the cross?

It has often been said that, toward the end, Nagel suffers a complete psychological disintegration, that, in fact, he becomes insane. Hamsun himself says in a letter that the book deals with a “strange fellow” who “ends up by going quite mad.”[37] But it is questionable whether Nagel possesses a core identity to begin with. Not only is he known by more than one name, but in the course of the novel he assumes a gamut of roles, somewhat brashly enumerated by Henry Miller: Nagel plays “the clown, the buffoon, the lover, the con man, the fixer, the patron, the phony detective, the intellectual, the artist, the enchanter, ”[38] to which might be added agronomist, globetrotter, collector, dogooder, friend, heir, self-slanderer, iconoclast, mystery man. The self as portrayed in Mysteries is reduced precisely to a collection of roles, played in succession or simultaneously. Nagel even acts out roles in solitude, as in an early scene in his room where he awakens from his mental absorption with a start, “so abrupt that it could have been feigned, as if he had contemplated making this start for a long time, though he was alone in the room” (chapter 1). Seen in this light, the novel illustrates the nullity of the self, turning Hamsun into a postmodernist ante rem, the creator of a “man without qualities.” Could the underlying reason for Nagel’s love of Dagny, and his dream of a pastoral existence with Martha, be his desire to escape from psychosocial serialism?

Hamsun’s literary technique in this book is equally unconventional. Much has been written about the angle(s) of narration in Mysteries. Though initially we sense the presence of an observer, a townsman perhaps, who tells the story, soon we find ourselves listening to Nagel’s thoughts, mostly by way of free indirect discourse or erlebte Rede, but also here and there in the form of stream of consciousness. Yet, the point of view is not that of an omniscient author, but rather limited omniscience. On the whole, Hamsun treats the handling of point of view rather cavalierly in Mysteries. The narrative persona seems to hover above the text like a sort of all-seeing eye, an eye that can feign partial sight at will, if the occasion calls for it. Wolfgang Kayser says that Hamsun’s narrator dissolves into “an aura” that “floats around and through the characters.”[39] By comparison with Hunger and Pan, both consistently first-person stories, Mysteries is narratologically loose, whether by design or from lack of skill. It looks as though Hamsun’s project, that of portraying a strong, complex mind drifting toward crackup, demanded the technical eclecticism that distinguishes this novel from its two classic companions.

Whether one likes the book’s narrative strategies or not, Hamsun seems to have achieved considerable success in applying his new aesthetic in a substantial work of fiction. As a whole, Mysteries succeeds in creating an intensely immediate sense of the day-by-day, hour-by-hour stream of thought of the central character, who is poised on the brink of annihilation. The social occasions, with their carousing and debates—including Nagel’s outrageous sallies at everything under the sun à la Mark Twain and the Dostoyevsky-inspired scenes of scandal—recede in the reader’s experience in favor of Nagel’s interior monologues. Gradually, the excoriator of so-called great men who puts himself forward as a champion of the great terrorist turns out to be a sensitive soul, speaking from weakness rather than strength. He withdraws more and more into the torture chamber of his own subconscious psyche, haunted by phantoms and driven to his death by the mysterious forces he so tirelessly defended against the inroads of science and reason, forces now turned destructive.

In Mysteries, Hamsun shows little concern with some of the most essential elements of the traditional novel: a coherent plot, causality, fullness and consistency of characterization, verisimilitude, and a sustained narrative perspective. Yet it cannot be called a modernist novel tout court. It does, however, display several modernist traits,[40] inevitably so, considering Hamsun’s intent: to probe the deepest layers of the psyche, where irrationality reigns and ordinary cause and effect appear to be suspended. This is also the realm of the uncanny, where depth psychology meets the mystery story. The bizarre relationship between everyday reality, dream, and fairy tale in the book borders on the surreal, or on magic realism. All these new elements, grounded in the irrational, forced Hamsun to come up with a novel set of criteria for aesthetic coherence. Perhaps a musical analogy will be helpful. Despite the seeming chaos of Nagel’s mind, his story falls into a definite pattern: the repetitions, variations, and recapitulations of situations and motifs that the text reveals generate an aesthetically satisfying rhythm and a sense of completion, while at the same time producing a plausible rendering of a mind at the end of its tether.

Viewed in a different perspective, Mysteries can be seen as an absurdist work. Life in society is described as a kind of puppet show, in which the puppets dutifully repeat their lines. Some of the characters have generic names: the doctor, the lawyer, the teacher, as in an expressionist play. And in the end Nagel, who considers himself to be above the social comedy, also becomes a puppet as he is drawn to his death by his own subconscious obsessions. But by its very absurdity, Nagel’s predicament becomes tragic. The book envisages the human condition as a tragedy of mind: the more highly developed your consciousness, the more acutely you will suffer. The mind of Nagel, which perceives the before and after with a lacerated sensibility, is fraught with existential angst. The loathing instilled by life’s humiliations is akin to the nausea felt by Roquentin in Sartre’s famous 1938 novel La Nausée. However, unlike Roquentin, Nagel has renounced redemption through art.

Mysteries is a very rich novel, and a brief essay cannot do justice to it. In any case, the reader will want to work out his or her own interpretation of the book, which, despite its occasional quirks and perversities, presents a bracing challenge to one’s critical imagination.

NOTES

1 In regard to rootlessness, statements in the first edition of Mysteries echo Hamsun’s letters of the time. In a passage subsequently deleted, Nagel reflects nostalgically, “One ought to ... get on, have a house, a wife, and a dog.” (See Textual Notes, ch. 4, note 5.) In a letter to Bolette and Ole Johan Larsen of March 7, 1892, Hamsun says, “... one shouldn’t write for people, one should ... settle down in a forest, acquire a house, a wife, and a dog.” (Knut Hamsuns brev, ed. Harald S. Næss, I [Oslo, 1994]: 247. Hereafter cited as Brev. The translations are my own unless otherwise indicated.) Nevertheless, Hamsun refused to be identified with Nagel, as shown in a letter to Erik Skram of November 5,1892, where he says he cannot be responsible for “all of Nagel’s opinions” (Brev, 284; Knut Hamsun, Selected Letters, ed. Harald Næss & James McFarlane, I [Norwich, England: Norvik Press, 1990]: 163-64. Hereafter referred to as Letters.)

2 Tore Hamsun, Knut Hamsun—min far (Oslo, 1992), 64.

3 Letter to Svend Tveraas of February 29, 1884, in Brev, 42; Letters, 42.

4 Harald Næss, Knut Hamsun (Boston, 1984), 12.

5 Letter to Nikolai Frøsland of January 19, 1886, in Brev, 63.

6 Letter to Erik Frydenlund of September 4, 1886, in Brev, 69; Letters, 58.

7 Letter to the Larsens in November 1894, in Brev, 431; Letters, 214.

8 “Psykologisk literatur,” in Paa Turné: Tre foredrag om litteratur, ed. Tore Hamsun (Oslo, 1960), 51.

9 Ibid., 66.

10 Ibid., 70-71.

11 “Fra det ubevidste Sjæleliv,” in Knut Hamsun, Artikler, ed. Francis Bull (Oslo, 1939), 60. In his article “ ‘Et dyb af mimoser, hvori vinden puster’: Om hvordan Knut Hamsun oppdaget Nathalie Sarrautes tropismer en natt i Lillesand,” Vinduet 46 (1992), nos. ¾, 97-101, Pal Norheim claims to find striking similarities between what Hamsun means by the mimosa metaphor in describing his aesthetic program and the meaning of tropisms in Nathalie Sarraute’s literary work.

12 “Fra det ubevidste Sjæleliv,” 61.

13 See “The Unconscious in the Aesthetic Judgment and in Artistic Production,” in Eduard von Hartmann, Philosophy of the Unconscious, trans. W. C. Coupland, with a Preface by C. K. Ogden (London & New York, 1931), I: 276ff.

14 Gregory Nybø, Knut Hamsuns ‘Mysterier’ (Oslo, 1969).

15 “Den moderne norske literatur” (1896), in Norsk skrivekunst, ed. Erling Nielsen (Oslo, 1958), 17, and “Knut Hamsun,” in Skildringer og stemninger fra den yngre litteratur (Kristiania, 1897), 28.

16 See “Sidste kapitel og det første: Hamsuns og Kincks sidste bøker,” in Norsk national kunst (Copenhagen, 1924), 147; Hamsun som modernist (Copenhagen, 1975), 197; and as quoted by Arne Falck, “Storm mot Mysterier,” in Ni artikler om Knut Hamsun, ed. Arild Hamsun (Arendal, 1976), 74, from Faldbakken’s article in Dagbladet, August 6, 1973.

17 See Henry Miller, The Books in My Life (London, 1952), 40, and Updike’s review of Gerry Bothmer’s translation of Mysteries in the New York Times Book Review, August 22, 1971, 1, 30.

18 Reinhard H. Friederich, “Kafka and Hamsun’s Mysteries,” Comparative Literature 28, no. 1 (Winter 1976): 34.

19 Nico Rost, “Aantekeningen bij het lezen van Knut Hamsun,” De nieuwe Gids 37 (1922): 40.

20 See “Heart of Darkness,” in The Portable Conrad, ed. Morton Dauwen Zabel (New York, 1952), 561.

21 Janko Lavrin, “The Return of Pan (On Knut Hamsun),” in Aspects of Modernism (Freeport, New York, 1968), 95.

22 Matthew 6:4.

23 Myshkin even hopes that his jealous rival, the fiery Rogozhin, will eventually become Nastasya Filippovna’s “providence.” See Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh, VIII (Leningrad, 1973): 192; The Idiot, trans. Constance Garnett (New York, 1935), 218.

24 Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh, XIV (Leningrad, 1976): 214-15, 223, 239; The Brothers Karamazov, trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (New York, 1991), 235-36, 245, 263.

25 Hamsun’s use of clairvoyance in Mysteries recalls The Visionary (1870) by Jonas Lie, who also grew up in Northern Norway, known for its uncanny tales of the supernatural.

26 Gregory Nybø’s study of Mysteries analyzes the work in terms of psychological detective fiction. His assertion that such a critical approach helps to bring out the organizing structures of the story (Knut Hamsuns ‘Mysterier,’ 16) is no doubt valid. However, the strategies of detective fiction do not by themselves unify the work. Nagel’s self-appointed exercise as a detective, in an apparent attempt to clear up the puzzling circumstances surrounding Karlsen’s death, shows up only sporadically and is abandoned well before the end of the novel.

27 The close kinship between the two heroes is suggested by several shared motifs: Nagel’s description of himself as a “stranger on earth” seems to echo Werther’s self-definition as a “wanderer, a pilgrim on earth”; Werther, like Nagel, fantasizes about meeting his beloved in the beyond; he is also associated with the color yellow, wearing a yellow vest (The Sufferings of Young Werther, trans. Harry Steinhauer [New York, 1970], 57, 90, 96). For further discussion, see Frank Thiess, “Das Werther-Thema in Hamsuns Mysterien,” in Heimat und Weltgeist: Jabrbuch der Knut Hamsun-Gesellschaft, ed. Hilde Fürstenberg (1960), 133-52. The classic study of the history of passion love is L’Amour et l’Occident (1939; Love in the Western World, 1957).

28 Hamsun had close contacts with the circle associated with the Copenhagen journal Ny Jord, which published the fragment of Hunger in 1888. Its first three volumes, 1888-1889, featured selections from Schopenhauer’s most popular book, Parerga and Paralipomena, as well as critical discussion of his philosophy, and from Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra. Georg Brandes’ study of Nietzsche appeared in another Danish journal during the same period: “Aristokratisk Radikalisme: En Afhandling om Friedrich Nietzsche,” Tilskueren 6 (1889), 565-613; Friedrich Nietzsche: An Essay on Aristocratic Radicalism, trans. A. G. Chater (New York, n.d.). In an 1889 article on Strindberg, from whom, according to Harald Næss, Hamsun may have acquired what Georg Brandes called his “touching blind faith in Eduard von Hartmann’s profundity” (Brev, I: 135; 136, note 1), Hamsun describes Hartmann as a “subtle, aristocratic author whose ... refined thoughts delight in ... losing themselves in a drunken orgy of suffering” (Hamsun, Artikler, 41).

29 “On the Sufferings of the World,” in Parerga and Paralipomena, trans. T. Bailey Saunders, in K. Francke & W. G. Howard, eds., The German Classics, XV (New York, 1914): 84.

30 Op. cit., 229-30.

31 See E. C. Barksdale & Daniel Popp, “Hamsun and Pasternak: The Development of Dionysian Tragedy,” Edda 76 (1976): 343.

32 Brandes’ review of Mysteries appeared in Politiken, September 21, 1892.

33 Brev, I: 280. A story published in August 1890, “Small Town Life” (Samlede verker [Oslo, 1992], IV: 96-109), has a similar social setting to that in Mysteries. Based in all likelihood on Hamsun’s stay in Lillesand during the summer of that year, it contains a trenchant expose of small-town life. Tønnes Olai, a rather mysterious figure in the story, recalls Miniman by assuming the paternity of an illegitimate child, a proposition that the latter turned down.

34 Brev, I: 280.

35 Brev, I: 284; Letters, I: 164.

36 Matthew 4:19.

37 Letter to the Larsens of May 13, 1892, Brev, I: 250; Letters, I: 150.

38 Review of Mysteries (trans. Gerry Bothmer) in the New York Times Book Review, August 22, 1971, 1, 30.

39 Entstehung und Krise des modernen Romans, 4th ed. (Stuttgart, 1963), 35.

40 The most extensive treatment of Mysteries in relation to modernism is a section entitled “The Modernist Perspectivization of Narrative in Mysteries” in Martin Humpál’s narratological study of Hamsun’s early novels, The Roots of Modernist Narrative (Oslo, 1998), 89-104.

SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING

Buttry, Dolores. “Music and the Musician in the Works of Knut Hamsun,” Scandinavian Studies 53, no. 2 (1981): 171-82.

Downs, Brian. Modern Norwegian Literature 1860-1918. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1966. Pp. 174- 88.

Ferguson, Robert. Enigma: The Life of Knut Hamsun. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1987.

Humpál, Martin. The Roots of Modernist Narrative: Knut Hamsun’s Novels ‘Hunger,’ ‘Mysteries,’ and ‘Pan.’ Oslo: Solum Forlag, 1998.

Larsen, Hanna Astrup. Knut Hamsun. New York: Knopf, 1922.

McFarlane, James W. “Knut Hamsun,” in Ibsen and the Temper of Norwegian Literature. London, New York: Oxford University Press, 1960. Pp. 114-57.

—“The Whisper of the Blood: A Study of Knut Hamsun’s Early Novels,” PMLA 71 (1956): 563-94.

Næss, Harald. Knut Hamsun. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1984.

—“Knut Hamsun and America,” Scandinavian Studies 39 (1967): 305-28.

—“A Strange Meeting and Hamsun’s Mysteries,” Scandinavian Studies 36 (1964): 48-58.

—“Strindberg and Hamsun,” in Structures of Influence: A Comparative Approach to August Strindberg. University of North Carolina Studies in Germanic Languages and Literatures, vol. 98, ed. Marilyn Johns Blackwell. Chapel Hill, 1981. Pp. 121-36.

—“Who Was Hamsun’s Hero?” in The Hero in Scandinavian Literature, ed. John M. Weinstock & Robert T. Rovinsky. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1975. Pp. 63-86.

Popperwell, Ronald G. “Interrelatedness in Hamsun’s Mysterier,” Scandinavian Studies 38 (1966): 295-301.

Riechel, Donald C. “Knut Hamsun’s ‘Imp of the Perverse’: Calculation and Contradiction in Sult and Mysterier,” Scandinavica 28 (1989): 29-53.

Wood, James. “Knut Hamsun’s Christian Perversions,” in The Broken Estate: Essays on Literature and Belief. New York: Random House, 1999. Pp. 75-88.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

This is the first complete translation of Knut Hamsun’s second novel, Mysteries. Arthur G. Chater’s rendition of 1927 was bowdlerized, presumably because the deleted pages (an episode in chapter 10) were considered too robust fare for English and American readers of the 1920s. Gerry Bothmer’s version of 1971 (Farrar, Straus & Giroux) is less a translation than a free adaptation of Hamsun’s original. The text is not only drastically reduced but also simplified, depriving Hamsun’s language of its quirky uniqueness and verve. In some ways Bothmer’s rendering represents a more egregious betrayal of Hamsun’s work than Robert Bly’s translation of Hunger.

I

IN THE MIDDLE of last summer a small Norwegian coastal town was the scene of some highly unusual events. A stranger appeared in town, a certain Nagel, a remarkable, eccentric charlatan who did a lot of curious things and then disappeared as suddenly as he had come. What’s more, the man was visited by a mysterious young lady, who came on heaven knows what business and left after only a few hours, afraid to stay any longer. But this is not the beginning....

The beginning is as follows: When the steamer docked around six o’clock in the evening, there appeared on deck two or three passengers, including a man wearing a loud yellow suit and a wide velvet cap. This was the evening of June 12, for flags were flying all over town in honor of Miss Kielland’s engagement, which had been announced that day. The porter from the Central Hotel immediately went on board, and the man in the yellow suit handed him his luggage; at the same time he surrendered his ticket to one of the ship’s officers. But then, instead of going ashore, he began pacing up and down the deck. He seemed to be greatly agitated. When the ship’s bell rang for the third time, he hadn’t even paid his bill to the steward.

As he was doing this he suddenly paused, noticing that the ship was already putting out. Taken aback, he hesitated a moment, then waved to the porter on shore and said to him over the railing, “All right, take my luggage to the hotel and reserve a room for me anyway.”

Whereupon the ship carried him farther out the fjord.

This man was Johan Nilsen Nagel.

The porter took his luggage away on a cart. It consisted of only two small bags and a fur coat—yes, a fur coat, though it was the middle of summer—except for a valise and a violin case. None of it was tagged.

Around noon the following day Johan Nagel arrived at the hotel overland, traveling by coach and pair. He could just as easily, well, far more easily, have come by sea, and yet he arrived by carriage. He brought some more luggage: on the front seat was a trunk and, beside it, a traveling bag, a coat, and a carrying strap with some articles in it. The carrying strap was marked J. N. N. in beads.

While he was still sitting in the carriage, he asked the hotel keeper about his room, and when he was shown up to the second floor he began examining the walls, to see how thick they were and whether any sound could penetrate from the adjoining rooms. Then he suddenly asked the chambermaid, “What’s your name?”

“Sara.”

“Sara. And one more thing: Could I have a bite to eat? So, your name is Sara, is it? Tell me,” he resumed, “was there a pharmacy in this building at one time?”

Surprised, Sara replied, “Yes. But that was several years ago.”

“Several years ago, you say? Anyway, it struck me the moment I entered the hall; I couldn’t tell by the smell, but I had a feeling of it all the same. Oh well.”

When he came down for dinner, he sat through the whole meal without uttering a word. His fellow passengers from the steamer the evening before, the two gentlemen sitting at the end of the table, made signs to one another as he came in, even joking quite openly about yesterday’s mishap without his seeming to hear them. He ate rapidly, shook his head at dessert, and abruptly left the table by sliding backward off his stool. He immediately lighted a cigar and disappeared down the street.

He wasn’t seen again until long past midnight, returning shortly before the clock struck three. Where had he been? It became apparent later that he had gone back to the neighboring town, walking to and fro the whole long distance he had traveled by carriage in the morning. He must have had some very urgent business. When Sara opened the door to him he was wet with perspiration, but he smiled repeatedly at the maid and was in excellent spirits.

“Good heavens, what a lovely neck you have, girl!” he said. “Did any mail arrive for me while I was away? For Nagel, that is, Johan Nagel? Oh dear, three telegrams! Say, do me the favor to take away that picture on the wall, will you? So I won’t have it staring me in the face. It would be so tiresome to lie in bed looking at it all the time. Napoleon III, you see, didn’t have such a green beard. Thank you!”

When Sara had left, Nagel came to a halt in the middle of the room. Standing perfectly still, he stared quite absently at a particular spot on the wall, and except that his head fell more and more to one side, he didn’t move. This went on for a long time.

Below medium height, he had a swarthy face with curiously dark eyes and a sensitive, effeminate mouth. On one finger he wore a plain ring of lead or iron. He was very broad-shouldered and might be twenty-eight or, at most, thirty years old. His hair was turning gray at the temples.

He awoke from his thoughts with an abrupt start, so abrupt that it could have been feigned, as if he had contemplated making this start for a long time, though he was alone in the room. Then he took some keys, some loose change, and a kind of lifesaving medal on a sadly abused ribbon out of his trouser pocket and put them on the table by his bed. Next, he stuck his wallet under the pillow and fetched his watch and a vial from his vest pocket, a little medicine bottle labeled “Poison.” He held the watch in his hand a moment before putting it aside, but returned the vial to his pocket at once. Then he removed his ring and washed, brushing his hair back with his fingers; he didn’t once look in the mirror.

He had already gone to bed when he suddenly missed his ring, which had been left on the washstand, and as though he couldn’t be without that wretched iron ring, he got up and put it on again. Finally he opened the three telegrams, but even before he had finished reading the first one he burst into a brief, quiet chuckle. He lay there all alone laughing to himself; his teeth were exceptionally fine. Then his face grew serious again, and a moment later he tossed the telegrams aside with the utmost indifference. And yet they seemed to concern a matter of great importance; it was an offer of sixty-two thousand kroner for a landed property, the entire sum to be paid in cash if the sale came about immediately. They were brief, dry business telegrams with nothing ridiculous about them, but they were unsigned. A few minutes later Nagel had fallen asleep. The two candles on the table, which he had forgotten to put out, illuminated his chest and his clean-shaven face, and cast an unwavering light on the telegrams lying wide-open on the table....

The following morning Johan Nagel sent to the post office for his mail; there were some newspapers, including a couple of foreign ones, but no letter. He placed his violin case on a chair in the middle of the room, as if wishing to show it off; but he didn’t open it, leaving the instrument untouched.

In the course of the morning he did nothing except write a few letters and pace the floor of his room reading a book. He did buy a pair of gloves in a shop, and when he visited the marketplace a little later, he paid ten kroner for a small carrot-colored puppy, which he at once gave to the hotel keeper. To everybody’s amusement, he had baptized the puppy Jakobsen, regardless of the fact that it was a female.

And so he did nothing the whole day. He had no business to take care of in the town, visited no offices, and paid no calls, not knowing a soul. The people in the hotel were rather surprised by his marked indifference to nearly everything, even his own affairs. Thus, the three telegrams were still lying on the table in his room, open to everyone; he hadn’t touched them since the evening they arrived. He also failed to answer direct questions at times. Twice the hotel keeper had tried to get out of him who he was and what had brought him to the town, but he had brushed the matter aside both times.[1] Another peculiar trait of his became evident in the course of the day: although he didn’t know a soul in the place and hadn’t made contact with anybody, he had nonetheless stopped in front of one of the young ladies in town at the entrance to the churchyard—had stopped to look at her and bowed very deeply without a word of explanation. The lady in question had blushed all over her face. Afterward the impudent fellow had strolled right down the highway, as far as the parsonage and beyond, which he also did, incidentally, on the following days. He would return so late from his rambles that it was after closing time, and they constantly had to open the door for him at the hotel.

Then, just as Nagel came out of his room the third morning, he was accosted by the hotel keeper, who greeted him and said a few amiable words. They went out on the veranda and sat down. The hotel keeper took it into his head to ask him about the shipment of a crate of fresh fish: “How should I send that crate you see there, can you tell me?”

Nagel looked at the crate, smiled, and shook his head. “Oh, I haven’t the least idea about that sort of thing,” he replied.

“You haven’t, eh? I thought perhaps you had traveled a bit and seen things here and there, how they do it in other places.”

“Oh no, I haven’t traveled much.”

Pause.

“Hm, maybe it’s rather with—well, with other things that you have occupied yourself. You’re a businessman perhaps?”

“No, I’m not a businessman.”

“So you’re not here on business then?”

No answer. Nagel lighted a cigar and puffed slowly, looking into vacancy. The hotel keeper observed him from the side. “Won’t you play for us some day? I see you have brought your violin,” he tried again.

Nagel replied nonchalantly, “Oh no, I’m through with that.”

He soon got up without further ado and left. A moment later he came back and said, “Oh, about the bill, I just had an idea; you can give it to me whenever you like. It doesn’t matter to me when I pay up.”

“Thanks,” the hotel keeper replied, “there’s no hurry. If you stay for any length of time, we’ll have to charge you somewhat less, of course. I don’t know, but do you plan to be with us for some time?”

Nagel suddenly became animated and replied at once; for no apparent reason, his face even showed a faint blush.

“Yes, I may very well decide to stay for some time,” he said. “It all depends. By the way, perhaps I haven’t told you: I’m an agronomist, a farmer. I’ve just returned from a trip, and I may settle down here for a while. But perhaps I even forgot to ... My name is Nagel, Johan Nilsen Nagel.”

With that he shook the hotel keeper’s hand very heartily, apologizing for not having introduced himself sooner. His face didn’t betray the least trace of irony.

“It just occurred to me that we might be able to offer you a better, quieter room,” the hotel keeper said. “You’re next to the stairs now, and that’s not always pleasant.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary, the room is excellent, I’m quite satisfied with it. Besides, I can see all of Market Square from my windows, and that’s very interesting, of course.”[2]

After a moment the hotel keeper went on, “So you’re taking a holiday now for a while? Then you’ll be around until well into the summer, at any rate?”

“Two or three months, perhaps even longer, I can’t say exactly,” Nagel answered. “It all depends. I’ll have to wait and see.”

At that moment a man walked by, bowing to the hotel keeper in passing. He was an insignificant-looking man, small of stature and very poorly dressed; he had such difficulty walking that you couldn’t help noticing, and yet he managed to move along pretty fast. Though he made a very deep bow, the hotel keeper didn’t tip his hat. Nagel, on the other hand, doffed his velvet cap.

The hotel keeper turned to him and said, “That’s someone we call Miniman. He’s a bit daft, but I feel sorry for him; he’s a very kindhearted fellow.”

Nothing further was said about Miniman.

“I read something,” Nagel suddenly says, “I read something in the papers a few days ago about a man who was found dead in the woods someplace around here. What sort of a man was he? A certain Karlsen, I believe. Was he someone from this town?”

“Yes,” the hotel keeper replies, “he was the son of a local bloodletter; you can see her house from here, that red roof out there. He was only home for the holidays, and then he quit this life while he was at it. But it’s a great pity, he was a gifted boy and soon to be ordained. Hm, it’s hard to know what to say about it, but it’s certainly a bit suspicious; for since both arteries were severed, it could hardly have been an accident, could it? And now they have found the knife too, a small penknife with a white handle; the police found it late last night. Apparently there was a love affair behind it.”

“Oh, indeed! But can there really be any doubt that he took his own life?”

“One hopes for the best—well, you know, there are those who believe he may have carried the knife in his hand and stumbled so awkwardly that he hurt himself in two places at once. Ha-ha, that seems very unlikely to me, very unlikely indeed. But he will definitely be buried in consecrated ground. No, he probably didn’t stumble, I’m afraid!”

“You say they found the knife only last night. But wasn’t the knife lying next to him?”

“No, it was lying several paces off. After using it, he threw it away, into the woods; it was found quite by chance.”

“Really. But what reason could he have had for throwing the knife away, since he was lying there with open cuts? It would be clear to everyone, wouldn’t it, that he must have used a knife?”

“Ah, God knows what he may have had in mind; but, as I said, there was probably a love affair behind it all. It’s quite unheard of; the more I think about it, the worse it looks to me.”

“Why do you think a love affair was behind it?”

“For several reasons. However, it’s hard to know what to say about it.”

“But couldn’t he simply have fallen, by accident? He was lying in such an awkward position; wasn’t he lying on his stomach with his face in a puddle?”

“Yes, and he had made an awful mess of himself. But that doesn’t make any difference, he may have meant something by that too. He may have wanted to hide the death agony in his face that way. Who knows?”

“Did he leave a note?”

“Supposedly he was writing something on a piece of paper; anyway, he would often be seen on the road writing things. And now they imagine he may have been using the knife to sharpen his pencil or something, when he took a tumble and cut open, first, one wrist at the artery and, next, the other wrist at the artery, all in the same fall. Ha-ha-ha! But he did leave a note, sure enough; he was holding a small piece of paper in his hand, and on that paper were these words, ‘May your steel be as sharp as your final no!’ ”

“What drivel.[3] Was the knife dull?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Why didn’t he sharpen it first?”

“It wasn’t his knife.”

“Whose knife was it, then?”

The hotel keeper hesitates a moment before he says, “It was Miss Kielland’s knife.”

“Was it Miss Kielland’s knife?” Nagel asks. And a moment later, “Well, and who is Miss Kielland?”

“Dagny Kielland. She is the parson’s daughter.”

“I see. How strange! Whoever heard the likes! The young man was that crazy about her, was he?”

“He must’ve been, sure. Anyway, they’re all crazy about her, he wasn’t the only one.”

Nagel became lost in thought and said nothing further. Then the hotel keeper breaks the silence and remarks, “Well, I’ve been telling you these things in confidence and I beg you to—”

“Righto,” Nagel replies. “You may rest easy on that score.”

When Nagel went down to breakfast a little later, the hotel keeper was already in the kitchen relating that, at last, he had had a regular chat with the man in yellow in Number 7. “He’s an agronomist,” the hotel keeper said, “and he’s come from abroad. He says he’ll be here for several months. God only knows what sort of man he is.”

II

THAT SAME DAY, in the evening, Nagel happened to come across Miniman all of a sudden. An endless and tedious conversation took place between them, a conversation that lasted well over three hours.

It all went as follows, from beginning to end:

Johan Nagel was sitting in the hotel café with a newspaper in his hand when Miniman came in. There were also some other people sitting around the tables, including a stout peasant woman with a black-and-red knitted kerchief over her shoulders. They all seemed to know Miniman; he bowed politely right and left as he came in, but was received with loud yells and laughter. The peasant woman even got up and wanted to dance with him.

“Not today, not today,” he says to the woman evasively, and with that he walks straight up to the hotel keeper and addresses him, cap in hand: “I’ve brought the coal up to the kitchen; I suppose that will be all for today?”

“Yes,” the hotel keeper replies, “what else should there be?”

“No,” Miniman says, quietly withdrawing.

He was exceptionally ugly. He had calm blue eyes, but horrible protruding front teeth and an extremely twisted gait because of a physical defect. His hair was quite gray; his beard on the other hand was darker, but so sparse that his skin showed through everywhere. The man had once been a sailor, but was now living with a relative who had a small coal business by the quayside. He hardly ever raised his eyes from the floor when he spoke to somebody.

They called to him from one of the tables; a gentleman in a gray summer suit eagerly beckoned to him, showing him a bottle of beer.

“Come and have a glass of mother’s milk. Besides, I’d like to see what you look like without a beard,” he says.

Respectfully, cap still in hand and with bent back, Miniman approaches the table. As he passed Nagel he gave him a special bow and moved his lips slightly. He takes his stand before the gentleman in gray and whispers, “Not so loud, Your Honor, I beg you. There are strangers present, as you can see.”

“But good heavens,” the deputy judge says, “I only wanted to offer you a glass of beer. And here you come and scold me for talking too loud.”

“No, you misunderstand me, and I beg your pardon. But since there are strangers present, I’d rather not start with those old tricks again. And I can’t drink beer, not now.”

“Oh, you can’t? So you can’t drink beer?”

“No, but thank you, not now.”

“So, you thank me, but not now? When will you thank me then? Ha-ha-ha, a fine parson’s son you are! Just look at the way you express yourself.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me; well, never mind.”

“There, there, no nonsense. What’s the matter with you?”

The deputy pulls Miniman onto a chair, and Miniman sits there for a moment but gets up again.

“No, leave me alone,” he says, “I can’t stand drink; nowadays I can stand it even less than I used to, God knows why. I get drunk before I know it and become all confused.”

The deputy rises, looks intently at Miniman, pushes a glass into his hand and says, “Drink.”

Pause. Miniman looks up, brushes his hair off his forehead and remains silent.

“All right, I’ll do as you wish, but just a few drops,” he says. “Only a little, to have the honor of drinking a toast with you!”

“Drink up!” shouts the deputy, having to turn away so as not to burst out laughing.

“No, not quite, not quite. Why should I drink up when I dislike it? Well, don’t take offense and knit your brows on that account; anyway, since you insist, I’ll do it this once. I just hope it won’t go to my head. It’s ridiculous, but I can take so little. Skoal!”

“To the last drop!” the deputy shouts again, “bottoms up! There now, that’s right. And now we’ll sit down and make some faces. First, you can grind your teeth a little, and then I’ll snip off your beard and make you ten years younger. But first you’ll grind your teeth, all right?”

“No, I won’t, not in front of these people I don’t know. You mustn’t insist, I really won’t do it,” Miniman answers, wanting to leave. “Besides, I don’t have time,” he says.

“Don’t have time? That’s too bad. Ha-ha, that’s really too bad. Not even time?”

“No, not right now.”

“Now listen: suppose I told you I’ve long been thinking of getting you a new coat, to replace the one you’re wearing right now—. Anyway, let me see; sure, it’s completely rotten, look! It comes unstuck at the touch of a finger.” And the deputy finds a little hole into which he bores his finger. “It gives way, it doesn’t hold the least bit—look at this, hey, look!”

“Leave me alone! For God’s sake, what have I ever done to you? And leave my coat alone, too!”

“But good Lord, I promise to get you another coat tomorrow, I promise it in the presence of—let me see: one, two, four, seven—yes, seven people. What’s the matter with you this evening? You put on airs and act rude, wanting to trample us all underfoot. Oh yes, you do. Just because I touched your coat.”

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to be rude. You know I would do you any favor whatsoever, but ...”

“All right, then do me the favor of sitting down.”

Miniman brushes his gray hair from his forehead and sits down.

“Good. And now, do me the favor of grinding your teeth a little.”

“No, that I won’t do.”

“You won’t, eh? Yes or no?”

“Good God, what harm did I ever do you? Can’t you just leave me alone? Why should I, of all people, be the laughingstock of everybody? That stranger over there is looking in our direction, I see; he’s keeping an eye on us and I dare say he’s laughing, too. Things never change; the very first day you came here as a deputy judge, Dr. Stenersen jumped on me and taught you right away to make fun of me, and now you’re teaching the gentleman over there to do the same. They learn it by turn, one after the other.”

“There, there now, yes or no?”

“No, I tell you!” Miniman screams, jumping up from his chair. But as if afraid he’d been too overbearing,[1] he sits down again and adds, “I can’t even grind my teeth, you must believe me.”

“You can’t? Ha-ha, surely you can. You’re a whiz at grinding your teeth.”

“Upon my word, I can’t!”

“Ha-ha-ha! You’ve done it before, after all.”

“Yes, but then I was drunk. I don’t remember, my head was spinning. I was sick for two days afterward.”

“Right,” says the deputy. “You were drunk at the time, I admit that. Anyway, why are you blabbering about this in front of all these people? You wouldn’t catch me doing anything like that.”[2]

At this point the hotel keeper left the café. Miniman is silent; the deputy looks at him and says, “Well, what do you say? Don’t forget that coat.”

“I’m not forgetting it,” Miniman replies. “But I won‘t, and I can’t, drink any more, now you know.”

“You will and you can, both! Did you hear what I said? You will and you can, I said. Even if I have to pour it down your throat....” At these words the deputy rises with Miniman’s glass in his hand. “Now, open your mouth!”

“No, by God in heaven, I won’t drink any more beer,” cries Miniman, pale with emotion. “No power on earth can make me do it! I’m sorry, but it makes me sick, you have no idea what it’s like. Don’t hurt me so, I sincerely beg you. I’d rather—rather grind my teeth a little without any beer.”

“Well, that’s another matter; damn it, yes, that’s quite another matter, if you’ll do it without beer.”

“Yes, I’d rather do it without the beer.”

At last Miniman grinds his terrible teeth, amid the loud laughter of the bystanders. Nagel is ostensibly still reading his paper, sitting quietly in his place by the window.

“Louder, louder!” cries the deputy. “Grind them more loudly, or we can’t hear you.”

Miniman sits stiffly upright, holding on to his chair with both hands as if afraid of falling off, grinding his teeth to make his head quiver. Everybody laughs, the peasant woman laughs so hard that she has to wipe her eyes; not knowing what to do for laughter, she witlessly spits twice on the floor in sheer delight.

“God save me from the likes of you!” she squeals, quite overcome. “Oh, that deputy!”[3]

“There! I can’t grind them any louder,” Miniman says, “I really can’t, as God is my witness. Believe me, I can’t anymore.”

“All right, take a rest for a moment and then start over. But you have to grind your teeth. Then we’ll snip off your beard. But taste your beer, will you; yes, you must. Here, it’s ready for you.”

Miniman shakes his head in silence. The deputy takes out his wallet and puts a twenty-five øre piece on the table. Then he says, “By the way, you usually do it for ten, but I won’t begrudge you twenty-five. I’m raising your wages. There!”

“Please, don’t torture me anymore, I won’t do it.”

“You won’t do it? You refuse?”

“God in heaven, won’t you ever stop and leave me alone! I’m not going to humor you anymore for the sake of that coat, I’m a human being, after all. What do you want with me?”

“Now let me tell you something. As you can see, I’m flicking this bit of cigar ash into your glass, right? And I take this ordinary match here and that trifle of a match there and drop them into the same glass as you watch. There! And now I guarantee you that you will drink your glass to the dregs, despite everything. Yes, you will.”

Miniman jumped up. Visibly trembling, his gray hair again falling over his eyes, he looked the deputy squarely in the face. This went on for several seconds.

“No, that’s too much, that’s too much!” the peasant woman cries out. “Don’t do it! Ha-ha-ha! Lord help me, the way you go on!”

“So you won’t? You refuse?” asks the deputy. He, too, gets up and remains standing.

Miniman made an effort to speak, but couldn’t utter a word. Everybody was looking at him.

Then, suddenly, Nagel rises from his table by the window, puts his paper down and walks across the room. He takes his time and makes no noise, and yet he attracts everybody’s attention. Stopping beside Miniman, he puts his hand on his shoulder and says in a loud, clear voice, “If you pick up your glass and throw it in the face of that cub over there, I’ll give you ten kroner in cash and save you from all possible consequences.” He pointed straight at the deputy’s face and repeated: “I mean that cub there.”

Suddenly there was dead silence. Terror-stricken, Miniman looked from one to the other and said, “But—oh, but—?” He got no further, but repeated his words in a trembling voice again and again, as if asking a question. Nobody else said anything. Bewildered, the deputy backed off a step and found his chair; he had turned white as a sheet and could say nothing, like the rest. He was all agape.

“I repeat,” Nagel went on, in a loud, deliberate voice, “that I’ll give you ten kroner if you throw your glass into that cub’s face. I’m holding the money right here, in my hand. You shouldn’t worry about the consequences.” And, in fact, Nagel did hold out a ten-krone bill so Miniman could see it.

But Miniman behaved very strangely. He immediately slipped away to a corner of the café, running with short, crooked steps, and sat down there without answering. His head bowed, he looked furtively in every direction, repeatedly pulling up his knees as if terrified.

Then the door opened and the hotel keeper came back in. He began puttering with his own things by the counter and paid no attention to what was going on around him. Only when the deputy jumped up and raised both his arms with a furious, nearly voiceless yell in front of Nagel, did he notice and ask, “What on earth—?”

But nobody answered. The deputy gave a couple of wild blows, but each time ran up against Nagel’s fists. He was getting nowhere. Goaded on by his bad luck, he foolishly beat the air as if trying to fight off the world, until he finally lurched sideways toward the tables, tumbled against a stool and fell to his knees. He breathed heavily, and his whole figure was altered beyond recognition by rage; what’s more, he had numbed his arms knocking against that pair of sharp fists shooting up wherever he gave a blow. At this point pandemonium broke loose in the café; the peasant woman and her party fled toward the exits, while the rest yelled in chorus and tried to intervene. Finally the deputy gets on his legs again and walks up to Nagel, stops and screams, his hands extended straight in front of him—screams in ludicrous despair at not finding the right words, “You confounded—you damn dude—oh, go to hell!”

Nagel looked at him and smiled, walked over to the table, picked up the deputy’s hat and handed it to him with a bow. The deputy snatched his hat and, in his rage, was about to fling it back, but thought better of it and slammed it on his head. Then he turned on his heel and left the room. There were two big dents in his hat as he left, giving him a comical appearance.

Now the hotel keeper pushed forward and demanded an explanation. Turning to Nagel, he grabbed his arm and said, “What’s going on here? What’s the meaning of all this?”

“Oh, please, don’t grab me by the arm,” Nagel answered, “I won’t run away. Besides, nothing is going on here; I insulted the man who just left and he tried to defend himself. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Everything is all right.”

But the hotel keeper was irate and stamped his feet. “No ruckus here!” he cried, “no ruckus! If you want to have a brawl, go out into the street, in here I just won’t have it. Have the people gone out of their minds?”

“That’s well and good!” a couple of the guests cut in, “but we saw the whole thing!” And with people’s inclination to agree with the victor of the moment, they unconditionally side with Nagel. They explained it all to the hotel keeper.

Nagel himself shrugged his shoulders and walked over to Miniman. Without any preliminaries, he asked the little gray-haired fool, “What’s the relationship between you and that deputy, since he can treat you that way?”

“Oh, forget it!” Miniman replies. “There’s no relationship at all between us, he’s a stranger to me. I only danced for him once in Market Square, for ten øre. Anyway, he always makes fun of me.”

“So you dance for people and charge a fee for it?”

“Yes, now and then. But it doesn’t happen very often, only when I need the money and can’t get my hands on ten øre any other way.”

“And what do you use the money for?”

“I need money for many things. In the first place, I’m a stupid man; I’m not very smart and it isn’t easy for me. When I was a sailor and supported myself, things were better in every way; but then I was injured—I fell from the rigging and ruptured myself, and since then I’ve had a hard time managing. I get my board and whatever else I need from my uncle, I also live with him, quite comfortably—in fact, we have plenty of everything, because my uncle makes his living as a coal dealer. But I do make a small contribution toward my support, especially now in the summertime when we sell hardly any coal. This is as true as I’m sitting here telling you. There are some days when ten øre comes in handy, I always buy something for the money and take it home. But as far as the deputy is concerned, he enjoys seeing me dance simply because I have a hernia and can’t dance properly.”

“So your uncle goes along with your dancing for pay like that in Market Square?”

“No, no, not at all, you mustn’t think that. He often says, ‘Away with that clown money!’ Yes, he often calls it clown money when I bring him my ten øre, and he scolds me because people make a laughingstock of me.”

“Well, this was the first thing. How about the second?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How about the second.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You said that, in the first place, you were a stupid man. Well, what comes next, in the second place?”

“Oh, if I said so, I apologize.”

“So you’re just stupid?”

“I sincerely beg your pardon!”

“Was your father a parson?”

“Yes, my father was a parson.”

Pause.

“Listen,” Nagel says, “if you have nothing else to do, let’s go to my place for a while, up to my room, would you like that? Do you smoke? Good! This way, please, I live upstairs. I’ll be very grateful for your visit.”

To everyone’s great surprise, Nagel and Miniman went up to the second floor, where they spent the whole evening together.

III

MINIMAN FOUND A CHAIR for himself and lighted a cigar.

“You don’t drink, do you?” Nagel asked.

“No, I don’t drink much, it makes me confused, and before long I see double,” his visitor replied.

“Have you ever had champagne? Yes, of course you have?”

“Yes, many years ago, at my parents’ silver wedding; then I drank champagne.”

“Did it taste good?”

“Yes, I remember it tasted very good.”

Nagel rang and got some champagne.

As they sip at their glasses while smoking, Nagel suddenly says, looking intently at Miniman, “Tell me—well, it’s only a question and maybe you will find it ridiculous; but could you, for a certain sum, assume paternity for a child whose father you were not? Just an idea that crossed my mind.”

Miniman gazed at him with wide-open eyes and remained silent.

“For a modest sum, fifty kroner, or let’s say up to a couple of hundred kroner?” Nagel asks. “The exact amount doesn’t really matter.”

Miniman shakes his head and is silent for a long time.

“No,” he then replies.

“You couldn’t? I would pay the amount in cash.”

“It makes no difference. No, I couldn’t do it, I can’t be of any service to you in this.”

“Why not, exactly?”

“Don’t ask me, let me be. I’m a human being.”

“Well, maybe I asked for too much. Why should you do anyone a favor like that? But I would like to ask you one more question: Are you willing to—could you, for five kroner, go around town with a newspaper or a paper bag fastened to your back, starting from the hotel and walking by way of Market Square and the quays—could you do that? For five kroner?”

Miniman bows his head in shame and repeats mechanically, “Five kroner.” That was all he answered.

“Oh well, ten kroner if you like; let’s say ten kroner. So you could do it for ten, could you?”

Miniman brushes his hair from his forehead. “I can’t understand why all those who come here know in advance that I am a laughingstock to everybody,” he says.

“As you see, I can hand you the money right away,” Nagel goes on. “It’s all up to you.”

Miniman glues his eyes to the bill, stares helplessly at the money for a moment, licking his chops for it, and exclaims, “Yes, I—”

“Pardon me!” Nagel says quickly. “Pardon me for interrupting you,” he says again to prevent the other one from talking. “What’s your name? I don’t know—I don’t think you told me what your name is.”

“My name is Grøgaard.”

“Grøgaard. Are you related to the Grøgaard who was a member of the Constitutional Assembly?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What were we talking about? Grøgaard, indeed? Well, in that case you obviously wouldn’t want to earn these ten kroner that way, would you?”

“No,” Miniman whispers, vacillating.

“Now, listen to me,” Nagel says, speaking very slowly. “I’ll gladly give you this ten-krone bill because you didn’t want to do what I proposed to you. And, besides that, I’ll let you have another ten-krone bill if you’ll give me the pleasure of accepting it. Don’t jump up; this small good turn doesn’t bother me, I’ve got lots of money right now, quite a lot of money, it won’t cause me any financial difficulty.” Having taken out the money, Nagel added, “It’s a great pleasure to do this for you. There you are!”

Miniman is speechless, his good fortune is turning his head and he begins to fight back his tears. He blinks his eyes and swallows. Nagel says, “You must be around forty?”

“Forty-three, I’m past forty-three.”

“Now, put the money in your pocket. You’re most welcome! —What’s the name of that deputy we talked to in the café?”

“That I don’t know, we simply call him the deputy. He’s a deputy in the judge’s office.”

“Oh well, it’s of no importance. Tell me—”

“Pardon me!” Miniman can’t hold back any longer, he’s overwhelmed and absolutely wants to explain himself, though he stammers like a child. “I beg your pardon, please forgive me!” he says. And for a long time he can’t utter another word.

“What did you want to say?”

“Thank you, thank you sincerely from a sincere ...”

Pause.

“That’s all done with.”

“No, wait a moment!” Miniman cried. “Pardon me, but it’s not done with. You thought I didn’t want to do it, that it was obstinacy on my part and that I enjoyed putting up a fight; but as sure as there’s a God—. How can we say it’s done with if you may even have gotten the impression that I had my eyes solely on the reward and wouldn’t do it for five kroner?[1] It was only this I wanted to say.”

“Very good. A man with your name and breeding can’t allow himself to play such foolish pranks, of course. I was just thinking—well, you obviously know this town inside out, do you not? You see, I mean to stay here for a while, to settle down here for several months this summer, in fact. What do you think of that? Are you from here?”

“Yes, this is where I was born. My father was a parson here, and I’ve lived here for the last thirteen years, since I became an invalid.”

“Do you deliver coal to people?”

“Yes, I take coal around to the houses in town. It doesn’t bother me, if that’s why you’re asking. I’m used to it, and it doesn’t do me any harm as long as I’m careful on the stairs. But last winter I fell, and it got so bad I had to use a stick for quite a while.”

“You did, indeed? How did that happen?”

“Well, it was on the steps of the bank, they were a bit icy. I’m coming up with a rather heavy sack. About halfway, I see Consul Andresen coming down high up. I want to turn around and go back down so the Consul can get by. He didn’t tell me to, it just came naturally and I would’ve done it regardless. But at that very moment I was unlucky enough to slip on the step and fall. I landed on my right shoulder.[2] ‘How are you doing?’ the Consul asks, ‘you didn’t scream, so you haven’t hurt yourself, have you?’ ‘No,’ I reply, ‘I guess I was lucky.’ But less than five minutes later I fainted twice in a row; besides, my abdomen swelled up because of my old ailment. By the way, the Consul remembered me generously afterward, though he was in no way to blame.”

“You didn’t suffer any other damage? You didn’t hurt your head?”

“Oh yes, I hurt my head a little. I was also spitting blood for a while.”

“And the Consul helped you during the time you were ill?”

“Yes, splendidly. He sent me all sorts of things, he didn’t forget me for a single day. But best of all, the day I was up and about again and went to the Consul’s to thank him, he had already hoisted the flag. He had expressly ordered the flag to be hoisted in my honor, though it was also Miss Fredrikke’s birthday.”

“Who is Miss Fredrikke?”

“She’s his daughter.”

“I see. Well, that was nice of him.... Oh say, you wouldn’t know why the flags were flying in town a few days ago, would you?”

“A few days ago? Let me see, was it a little over a week ago? Then it must’ve been because of Miss Kielland’s engagement, Dagny Kielland’s engagement. Sure, they get engaged, marry and leave town one after another. I’ve got friends and acquaintances all over the country practically by now, and there isn’t a single one among them I wouldn’t like to meet again. I’ve seen them play, go to school, get confirmed and grow up, all of them. Dagny is only twenty-three, and she’s the darling of the whole town. She’s handsome, too. She got engaged to Lieutenant Hansen, who once gave me this here cap. He’s also from here.”

“Is Miss Kielland a blonde?”

“Yes, she’s a blonde. She’s exceptionally beautiful and everyone’s fond of her.”

“I believe I saw her over by the parsonage. Does she usually carry a red parasol?”

“Exactly! And no one else here has a red parasol, as far as I know. If you saw a lady with a thick flaxen braid down her back, that was her. She’s like nobody else around here. But perhaps you haven’t talked to her yet?”

“Oh yes, I may have talked to her, too.” And Nagel adds pensively to himself, Was that Miss Kielland?

“Ah, but not properly; you didn’t have a long talk with her, did you? That’s something you can look forward to. She laughs out loud when she’s amused by something, and often she laughs at just about anything, she’s so lighthearted.[3] If you get to talk with her, you’ll see how attentively she listens to what you’re saying, until you’ve finished, and then she’ll answer you. And when she answers, her cheeks often turn red. That’s how she is, it goes to her head; I’ve often noticed this when she’s been talking to someone, and then she becomes very beautiful.[4] But with me it’s different; she chats with me when it so happens and doesn’t stand on ceremony. For example, if I walked up to her on the street, she would pause and give me her hand even if she was in a hurry. If you don’t believe me, just pay attention sometime.”

“I can well believe it. So Miss Kielland is a good friend of yours?”

“In the sense, simply, that she’s always patient with me. It cannot be otherwise. I go to the parsonage now and then when I’m invited, and as far as I can see I haven’t been unwelcome even when I went there uninvited. When I was sick Miss Dagny even lent me books; in fact, she brought them herself, carrying them under her arm all the way.”

“What sort of books could that have been?”

“You mean, what sort of books could it have been, since I was able to read and understand them?”

“This time you misunderstand me. Your question is very shrewd, but you misunderstand me. You are an interesting man. I meant, what sort of books does the young lady herself own and read? I would be happy to know.”

“Once, I remember, she brought me Garborg’s Peasant Students and two others; one, I think, was Turgenev’s Rudin. On another occasion she read aloud to me from Garborg’s The Irreconcilables.

“And they were her own books?”

“Well, they were her father’s. They had her father’s name in them.”[5]

“By the way, that time you went to Consul Andresen to thank him, as you were saying—”

“Well, I wanted to thank him for his help.”

“Certainly. But had the flag already been hoisted before you arrived that day?”

“Yes, he’d had it hoisted for my sake. He told me so himself.”

“Ah, there you see. So it wouldn’t be in honor of his daughter’s birthday that the flag was up?”

“Oh yes, I suppose it was. That might very well be, and that’s fine, too. It would’ve been a shame not to put up the flag on Miss Fredrikke’s birthday.”

“You’re certainly right there.... From one thing to another, how old is your uncle?”

“He’s about seventy, I think. No, maybe not, but he’s over sixty anyway. He’s very old, but vigorous for his age. He can still read without glasses in a pinch.”

“What’s his name?”

“His name is Grøgaard, too. He and I are both called Grøgaard.”

“Does your uncle have a house of his own or does he rent?”

“He rents the room we live in, but he owns the coal shed. We have no difficulty paying the rent, if that’s what you’re thinking. We pay it with coal; I also contribute a little sometimes, doing odd jobs.”

“Your uncle doesn’t carry coal around, does he?”

“No, that falls to me. He measures it out and is in charge of everything, and I do the carrying. It’s easier for me to do the deliveries, you know, because I’m stronger.”

“I see. And you have a woman to cook for you, right?”

Pause.

“Pardon me,” Miniman answers, “don’t take it amiss, but I’ll gladly leave if you want me to.[6] Perhaps you’re detaining me here to do me a kindness, since I don’t see how you can take any pleasure in hearing about my situation. Or maybe you’re talking to me for some other reason that escapes me, and if so it’s all right. But nobody would molest me if I were to leave now, you mustn’t think that. I don’t really meet any ill-natured people. The deputy won’t be lurking behind the door to take revenge, if that’s what you’re afraid of. And even if he were, I don’t think he would do me any harm.”[7]

“I would be delighted if you stayed, but you mustn’t feel obliged to tell me things just because I let you have a few kroner for tobacco. Please yourself.”

“I’ll stay, I’ll stay!” Miniman cries. “And God bless you!” he cries. “I’m very happy to offer you some diversion, though I’m ashamed both of myself and of sitting here in this getup. I could’ve been a bit more presentable, of course, if I’d had a little time to prepare myself. I’m wearing one of Uncle’s old coats and it barely holds together, that’s quite true; it can’t stand the touch of a finger. And then there is the long tear the deputy gave me, which I hope you’ll pardon—. No, as far as having a woman to cook for us, well, we don’t. We do all our cooking and cleaning ourselves. It’s not much trouble, and we make as little fuss about it as possible. For example, if we make coffee in the morning, we drink what’s left in the evening without warming it up, and it’s the same with dinner, which we cook once and for all, so to speak, whenever it happens. What more can we ask for in our situation? And, besides, I take care of the cleaning. And that can be a sort of pastime when I have nothing else to do.”

At this point a bell rings below in the hotel, and people can be heard walking down the stairs to supper.

“That’s the bell for supper,” Miniman says.

“Yes,” Nagel answers. But he doesn’t get up, nor does he show any sign of impatience; on the contrary, he settles back in his chair and asks, “Perhaps you also knew Karlsen, the man who was found dead in the woods recently? A tragic affair, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, a most tragic affair. I should say I knew him, all right. A fine person and a noble character. Can you guess what he said to me once? He sent for me early one Sunday morning, over a year ago now, in May of last year it was. He asked me to deliver a letter for him. ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I’ll do it, but I’m wearing such terrible shoes today, I can’t very well show myself to anyone in these shoes. If you don’t mind, I’ll go back home and borrow another pair.’—‘No, that’s not necessary,’ he answers, ‘I don’t think it matters, unless you’ll get your feet wet in those you’re wearing.’ He even thought of that—that I might get my feet wet in those shoes! Well, then he slips a krone piece into my hand and gives me the letter. When I was already in the hallway, he tears open the door again and comes after me; his whole face is so radiant that I pause to look at him, and his eyes are watering. He puts his arms around me, presses himself close and gives me a real hug, saying, ‘Now, go and deliver the letter, my old friend; I won’t forget you. When I’m ordained and get a living some day, you’ll come and stay with me all the time. So, go now, and good luck!’ Well, I’m afraid he never got a living, but had he lived, he would surely have kept his word.”

“And so you delivered the letter?”

“Yes.”

“And was Miss Kielland happy to get it?”

“How do you know it was for Miss Kielland?”

“How I know that? You just said so yourself.”

“Did I? That’s not true.”

“Heh-heh, it’s not? Do you think I’m lying to you?”

“I’m sorry, you may very well be right; but I shouldn’t have said it. It happened by mistake. Oh, but did I really say so?”

“Why not? Did he forbid you to tell, perhaps?”

“No, not he.”

“What about her?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all right, it will be safe with me. But can you understand why he went and died just now?”

“No, I can’t. He was unlucky.”[8]

“Do you know when he is to be buried?”

“Tomorrow at noon.”

No more was said about that. For a while neither of them spoke. Sara stuck her head through the door to announce that supper was being served. A moment later Nagel said, “And now Miss Kielland is engaged. What does her fiancé look like?”

“He’s Lieutenant Hansen, a fine and truly excellent man. Well, she won’t suffer any deprivation with him.”

“Is he wealthy?”

“Yes, his father is extremely wealthy.”

“Is he a businessman?”

“No, he’s a shipowner. He lives a couple of doors from here. By the way, his house is not very big, but he doesn’t really need a bigger one; when the son is away there is only the old couple there. They also have a daughter, but she’s married in England.”

“And how much do you think old Hansen is good for?”

“He may be good for a million. Nobody knows.”

Pause.

“Ah yes,” Nagel goes on to say, “things are badly distributed in this world. What if you, say, had a little of that money, Grøgaard?”

“God bless you, no, why should I? We must be satisfied with what we have.”[9]

“That’s what they say.... Oh, I just thought of something I wanted to ask you: You don’t have very much time for other work, do you, since you must carry all that coal around? That’s quite obvious. But didn’t I hear you ask the hotel keeper whether he had something more for you to do today?”

“No,” Miniman replies, shaking his head.

“It was down in the café. You told him you’d brought the coal into the kitchen, and then you said, ‘I suppose that will be all for today?’ ”

“That was because of something else. So you noticed that, did you? No, the fact of the matter is that I hoped to be paid for the coal right away, but I didn’t dare ask him directly.[10] That’s all. We are in financial difficulty right now and had hopes of getting this payment.”

“How much would you need to get out of your difficulty?” Nagel asks.

“God forbid!” Miniman cries in a loud voice. “Don’t mention it again, we’ve been more than amply helped out already. It was all a matter of six kroner, and here I sit with your twenty kroner in my pocket, may God reward you for it! True, we did owe those six kroner, to our grocer, for potatoes and some other things. He had sent us a bill, and we were both trying to figure out what to do about it. But now we’re no longer in need, we can sleep without a care in the world as far as that goes and face tomorrow quite contented.”

Pause.

“Well, perhaps we’d better drink up and say goodbye for now,” Nagel says, getting up. “Skoal! I do hope this won’t be the last time we see each other. In fact, you must promise to come again; I’m in Number 7, as you can see. Thanks, thanks for a nice evening!”

Nagel said this quite sincerely as he shook Miniman’s hand. He saw his visitor downstairs and walked him to the front door, where he bowed deeply, doffing his velvet cap as once before.

Miniman left. He bowed ever so many times as he walked backward up the street. But he couldn’t utter a word, though he kept trying to say something.

When Nagel entered the dining room he made an unduly polite apology to Sara for being late for supper.

IV

JOHAN NAGEL WAS AWAKENED in the morning by Sara knocking on his door to bring him his newspapers. He browsed through them, tossing them on the floor as he finished with them. A dispatch to the effect that Gladstone had been in bed with a cold for two days but was now on his feet again, he read through twice, followed by bursts of laughter. Then he crossed his arms behind his head and lapsed into the following train of thought, all the while talking aloud to himself from time to time:

It’s dangerous to walk in the woods with an open penknife in your hand. How easily one may stumble so awkwardly that the blade slashes not only one but two wrists. Just look what happened to Karlsen....[1] Come to that, it’s also dangerous to walk around with a medicine vial in your vest pocket. You may fall on the road, the vial breaks, splinters penetrate your body, and the poison enters the blood stream. There’s some danger wherever you go. And so what? There is one road, however, where nobody takes a tumble—the one that Gladstone walks. I can picture Gladstone’s shrewd householder’s expression as he walks down that road: avoiding missteps, joining hands with Providence to protect him. And now he has gotten over his cold, too. Gladstone will live until he dies a natural death from too much well-being.

Pastor Karlsen, why did you poke your face into a puddle? Should we let the question remain open, whether it was to conceal the death agony, or whether the convulsions forced you to do so? At any rate, you chose your time like a child afraid of the dark, a clear day, the hour of noon, and you lay there with a farewell note in your hand. Poor Karlsen, poor Karlsen!

And why did you take to the wood with your brilliant little enterprise? Did you know the wood, and did it mean more to you than a field, a road, or a lake? “The little boy walked in the wood the livelong day, la la la la.” There are the Vardal Woods, for instance, on the way up from Gjøvik. You lie there dozing, leaving the world behind; you stare at the sky, peering like hell into the heavens, heh-heh, so that you can almost hear the tittle-tattle they’re whispering about you up there: That one there, says my dear departed mother, why, if he comes here I’ll be leaving, she says, prepared to cast a vote of no confidence. I reply with a heh-heh and say, Pst, don’t let me disturb you, just don’t let me disturb you! And I say this sufficiently loud to attract a modicum of attention from a couple of she-angels, venerated Jairus’s daughter and Svava Bjørnson. Heh-heh-heh.

What the hell do I lie here laughing at? Is it supposed to show my superiority? Only children should be allowed to laugh, and very young girls, nobody else. Laughter is a survival from simian times, a disgusting and shameless sound that comes out the wrong way. It’s[2] expelled from some place or other in my body when I get chucked under the chin. What was it Hauge, the butcher, told me once, Hauge who had a robust laughter of his own and used it to throw his weight around? He said that nobody who was all there—

Ah, what a delightful child he had! It was raining the day I met her on the street; she had a pail in her hand and was crying, having lost the money to buy dinner in the Steam Kitchen. My dear departed mother, did you see from your heaven that I didn’t have a single penny to cheer up the child with? That I tore my hair in the street because I didn’t have an øre? Then the band passed by. A pretty nurse turned around and gave me a glistening look; then she went quietly home, her head bowed, probably lamenting that glistening look she had given me. But at that moment a bearded man in a soft felt hat grabbed my arm, or I would have been run over. I’ll say I would have—.

Sh-sh! One-two-three; how slowly it strikes! Four—five—six—seven—eight; is it eight already? Nine—ten. It’s already ten o’clock! Then I must get up.[3] Where did that clock strike? It couldn’t be in the café, could it? Well, it doesn’t matter, not at all, not at all. That scene in the café last night was quite amusing, wasn’t it? Miniman was trembling, I came in the nick of time. He would definitely have ended up drinking that beer with the cigar ash and matches in it. Well, so what? May I ask you, brazen brute that you are: so what? Why do I meddle in other people’s affairs? Why did I come to this town in the first place? Was it because of some cosmic disaster, because of Gladstone’s cold, for example? Heh-heh-heh, God help you, child, if you tell the truth: that actually you were on your way home but were suddenly so deeply moved at the sight of this town—small and miserable as it is—that you almost wept with a strange, mysterious joy when you saw all those flags. By the way, it was June 12, and the flags were flying in honor of Miss Kielland’s engagement. And two days later I met her in person.

Why did I have to meet her just that evening, when I was in such a distraught state of mind and didn’t care what I did? Whenever I think back over the whole thing, I feel thoroughly ashamed of myself:

“Good evening, miss! Forgive me, I’m a stranger here going for a walk, and I have no idea where I’ve ended up.”

Miniman is right, she immediately blushes, and when she answers she blushes even more.

“Well, where do you want to go?” she says, giving me the once-over.

I take off my cap and, standing there bareheaded, I come up with an answer, all the while holding the cap in my hand. “Would you, please, tell me how far it is to town, the exact distance.”

“That I don’t know,” she says, “not from here. But the first house you come to is the parsonage, and from there it’s a mile and a half to town.” With that she wants to go, without further ado.

“Thank you very much,” I say, “but if the parsonage is at the other end of the woods, permit me to walk with you if that’s where you’re going, or even farther. There’s no sun anymore, so let me carry your parasol. I won’t bother you, I won’t even talk if you like, as long as I may walk beside you and listen to the birds chirping. No, don’t go, not this minute! Why are you running away?”

But since she took to her heels anyway, refusing to listen to me, I ran after her so she could hear my excuse: “I’ll be damned if your lovely face hasn’t made a most powerful impression on me!”

But now she was rushing off at such a frantic pace that I lost sight of her in a couple of minutes. As for that heavy blond braid of hers, she simply held it in her hand as she ran. I never saw anything like it.

This is what happened. I wasn’t going to annoy her, I intended no harm; I bet she loves her lieutenant, it never occurred to me to force myself on her. But it’s okay, it’s quite okay; maybe her lieutenant will challenge me, heh-heh, he will join forces with the deputy, the deputy judge, and challenge me....

By the way, I wonder if that deputy will give Miniman a new coat. We can wait a day, maybe even two days, but if he hasn’t done it within two days we’ll give him a reminder.[4] Period. Nagel.[5]

I know of a poor woman here, she has looked at me so sheepishly, as if she wanted to ask for something but hasn’t yet dared to. I’m quite obsessed by her eyes, although her hair is white; I’ve gone out of my way four times to avoid meeting her. She’s not old, it’s not from age that she’s white; her eyelashes are still startlingly black, fearfully so, giving her eyes a smoldering look. She almost always carries a basket under her apron, which is probably what makes her feel so sheepish. When I turn around once she has passed me, I notice that she walks to the market, takes a few eggs out of her basket and sells those two or three eggs to the first comer, whereupon she returns home the way she came, the basket under her apron. She lives in a tiny little house by the quayside; it’s a one-story house and unpainted. I once saw her through the window—there are no curtains, only a few white flowers to be seen on the windowsill; she was standing far back in the room staring at me as I walked by. God only knows what sort of woman she is; but her hands are quite small. I could always give you a handout, my white maiden, but I would rather give you some assistance.

Incidentally, I know very well why I’m so obsessed by your eyes, I knew that right away. Strange how a youthful infatuation can linger for so long and crop up again every once in a while. But her lovely face is not yours, and you’re much older than she, alas. And yet she married a telegraph operator and moved to Kabelvag! Well, there is no accounting for tastes; I couldn’t expect to have her love, nor did I get it. There’s nothing to be done about that—. Listen, the clock is striking half-past ten—. There certainly isn’t, there’s nothing to be done about that. But if you only knew how dearly I have remembered you these ten or twelve years, not forgetting you for a moment—. Heh-heh, but that is really my own fault, she can’t help that. While other people remember someone for a year and that’s that, I go on remembering for ten.

I’ll give that white-haired egg-wife an assistance, well, both a handout and an assistance, for the sake of her eyes. I’ve got worlds of money to take from, sixty-two thousand kroner for a landed property, cash in hand at that. Ho-ho, I need only glance at the table to find three telegraphic documents of the greatest value before my eyes—. Ah, some joke that was, what a trick! One is an agronomist and a capitalist, one doesn’t sell just like that, at the first offer, one sleeps on it and thinks it over. That’s what one does, one thinks it over. And meanwhile not a soul is surprised, although one purposely made the joke as crude and the trick as thick as at all possible.[6] Man, your name is jackass! One can lead you by the nose wherever one likes.[7]

Over there, for instance, sticking out of my vest pocket, is the neck of a small bottle. It’s medicine, Prussic acid, that I’m keeping as a curiosity, not having the courage to use it. Why, then, do I carry it around with me, and why did I provide myself with it? Humbug again, nothing but humbug, the modern humbug of decadence, quest for publicity, and snobbery. Pfui—. As pure and fine as porcelain, she is my proper medicine—.

Or take an innocent thing such as my lifesaving medal. I earned it honestly, as they say; one dabbles in all sorts of things, one saves people’s lives. But whether I really deserve any credit for it, God only knows. Judge for yourselves, gentlemen and ladies: A young man stands at the ship’s rail, he’s crying, his shoulders are shaking; when I speak to him he gives me a distracted look and scurries down to the saloon. I pursue him—the man has already turned in. I examine the passenger list, find the man’s name and note that he’s going to Hamburg. That’s the first evening. From now on I keep a constant eye on him, taking him by surprise in unexpected places and looking him squarely in the face. Why am I doing it? Gentlemen and ladies, judge for yourselves! I see him cry, he’s horribly tormented by something and repeatedly gazes into the deep with a rapt, distraught expression in his face. What concern is it of mine? None, to be sure, and so judge for yourselves, go right ahead! A couple of days go by, there is a head wind and a high sea. At two o’clock in the night he comes aft, where I’m already hiding out and observing him; the moon gives his face a yellowish cast. What then? He turns here and there, flings up his arms and jumps overboard, feet first. But he is unable to hold back a scream. Did he regret his decision? Did he panic at the last moment? If not, why did he scream? Gentlemen and ladies, what would you have done in my place? I leave it entirely in your hands. Maybe you would have respected the honest, though faltering courage of the poor unfortunate and kept quiet in your hiding place; I, on the other hand, yell to the captain on the bridge and jump overboard in turn, and in my haste I even go head first. I splash about like crazy, floundering in every direction, all the while hearing shouts from thunderous voices on board. Suddenly I bump against his arm, outstretched and stiff, with splayed fingers. He kicks a bit with his legs, good! I grab him by the neck, but he gets heavier and heavier, turning lazy and no longer kicking; finally he even gives a tug, to get free. I wheel about with him—the heavy sea knocks our foreheads together and I black out. What should I do? I grind my teeth and curse like blazes, holding the fellow firmly and stubbornly by the scruff of his neck, until the boat finally gets to us. What would you have done? Behaving like a ruthless, brutal bully, I saved him, so what? Well, haven’t I already left it to you, gentlemen and ladies, to judge? You mustn’t spare anybody, it’s all one to me. But what if, say, it was very important to the man to avoid ending up in Hamburg? There’s the rub! Maybe he was supposed to meet someone he didn’t want to meet. Yet the medal was given for a meritorious deed and I carry it in my pocket—I don’t cast it before swine, no way! This, too, is for you to judge—go ahead and judge, what the hell do I care? I care so little about it that I don’t even remember the unfortunate man’s name, though he must still be alive. Why did he do it? Maybe because of a hopeless love, maybe there really was a woman involved, I don’t know; anyway, it’s nothing to me. Enough!

Oh, women, those women! Take Kamma, for instance, my little Danish Kamma. Lord help me! Gentle as a dove, sick as can be with tenderness and full of devotion to boot, but still capable of wheedling the last penny out of you, squeezing you to the point of destitution, just by leaning her wily little head sideways and whispering, “Simonsen, my sweet little Simonsen!” Well, God be with you, Kamma, you were full of devotion, so go to blazes, we’re quits—.

And now I’ll get up.

No, one has to watch out for that sort of thing. “My son, beware of women’s favor,” says a great writer—or whatever it is that a great writer says. Karlsen was a weakling, an idealist who died because of his strong feelings, that is to say, because of his weak nerves, which again is to say, because of the lack of a nourishing diet and outdoor work—heh-heh—and outdoor work. “May your steel be as sharp as your final no!” He ruined his entire earthly reputation by a quotation from a poet.[8] If I had met Karlsen in time, on his last day as lief as any, but still half an hour before the disaster, and he’d told me that he would quote someone when he was dying, I would’ve said something like this: Look at me! As someone of sound mind, I’m concerned on behalf of humankind that you do not blacken your last moments by quoting some great poet or other. Do you know what a great poet is? Why, a great poet is a person without shame, someone who never blushes.[9] Other fools have moments when they blush with shame by themselves, in private; not the great poet. Look at me again: if you want to quote someone, quote a geographer and don’t give yourself away. Victor Hugo—do you have a sense of humor? One day Baron Lesdain was talking to Victor Hugo. In the course of the conversation the artful baron asked, “Who, in your opinion, is the greatest French poet?” Victor Hugo made a face, bit his lip and finally said, “Alfred de Musset is the second greatest!” Heh-heh-heh. But perhaps you don’t have a sense of humor?[10] Do you know what Victor Hugo did in 1870? He wrote a proclamation addressed to the inhabitants of the earth in which, in the strictest possible terms, he forbade the German troops to besiege and bombard Paris. “I have grandsons as well as other family here, and I don’t want them to be hit by shells,” said Victor Hugo.[11]

Can you believe it, I still have no shoes. What has Sara done with my shoes? It’ll soon be eleven, and she hasn’t yet brought them.[12]

So we’re going to quote a geographer—.

Incidentally, that Sara has a delicious figure. When she walks, her hips quiver, they’re like the flanks of a really sleek mare. It’s perfectly splendid. I wonder if she has ever been married. In any case, she doesn’t squeal very loud if you poke her in the ribs, and she would probably be game for anything—. Oh, what a marriage I once witnessed, I might even say attended. Hm. Gentlemen and ladies, it took place on a Sunday evening at a railroad station in Sweden, the Kungsbacka station. I beg you not to forget that it was a Sunday evening. She had large white hands, he a brand-new cadet’s uniform and still no beard, that’s how young he was. They were traveling together from Göteborg—and she was very young, too, they were both mere children. I was observing them from behind my newspaper; they were quite helpless with me being there. They never took their eyes off each other; the girl was bright-eyed and couldn’t sit still. Suddenly the whistle blows for Kungsbacka and he grabs her hand—they understood one another: as soon as the train stopped they promptly jumped off. She runs toward “For women,” he strides after her, at her heels—by God, he makes a mistake, he too steps into “For women”! They quickly shut the door behind them. At that moment the church bells burst out ringing in the center of town, because it was a Sunday evening; their visit was accompanied by a full peal of bells. Three minutes, four minutes, five minutes go by, what has become of them? They’re still in there and the bells keep ringing—God knows whether they won’t be late! Finally he opens the door and peeps out. He is bareheaded, she stands right behind him putting on his cap, he turns to her and smiles. Then he jumps down the steps, followed by her, still fiddling with her dress, and when they reached the train and got back to their seats not a soul had noticed them, no, not a soul except me. The girl’s eyes were perfectly golden when she looked at me and smiled, and her little bosom was bouncing up and down, up and down. A few minutes later they were both asleep; they just faded away, so deliciously tired were they.

What do you think? Gentlemen and ladies, my story has come to an end. I pass over that excellent lady over there, the one with the pince-nez and the stand-up men’s collar, that is, the blue-stocking. I address myself to the two or three among you who don’t spend your lives with clenched teeth, engaged in socially beneficial activity. Pardon me if I’ve hurt anyone’s feelings; a special apology to the honorable lady with the pince-nez and the blue stockings. Look, there she rises, she’s getting up! Good grief, she will either go her way or quote someone. If she’s going to quote someone, she will probably refute me. And if she wants to refute me, she will say something like this: “Hm,” she will say, “that gentleman has the most uncouth masculine idea of life I’ve ever heard. Is that life? I wonder whether the gentleman is totally ignorant of what one of the world’s greatest thinkers has said on the subject: ‘Life is a war with trolls in the vaults of the heart and head,’ he says....”[13]

Life is a war with trolls, sure. In the vaults of the heart and head, that figures. Gentlemen and ladies, one day the Norwegian Per Coachman was driving a great poet. As they were riding along, the simple-minded Per Coachman says, “By your leave, what does it really mean to be a poet, in your opinion?” The great poet manages a pinched mouth, puffs his birdlike chest up to the utmost and brings forth the following words: “Being a poet means to stage your own doomsday.” Whereupon the Norwegian Per Coachman felt stricken in every joint of his body.

Eleven o’clock. My shoes, what the hell has become of my shoes? ... Well. But as for[14] raising one’s hackles about all and everything—

A tall pale lady, dressed in black and with the rosiest smile—she meant to be kind—pulled my sleeve and tried to stop me. “Why don’t you get a movement started like that poet,” she said, “then you will at least be entitled to participate in the discussion.”

“Heh-heh!” I replied. “I who don’t even know a poet and never spoke to one! I who am an agronomist and have lived among guano and bran mash since I was a child; I who couldn’t even write a poem about an umbrella, much less about life and death and universal peace!”

“Well, some other great man, then,” she says. “You go around giving yourself airs and running down all great men. But the great men are still on their feet, and they will be so as long as you live, you’ll see.”

“Madam!” I answered, bowing respectfully. “Great God, madam, how half-educated what you said just now sounds to me, how intellectually shabby. I’m sorry to speak so plainly, but if you were a man instead of a woman, I would say you were a liberal, as I hope to be saved. I don’t run down all great men, but I don’t judge a man’s greatness by the scope of the movement he has gotten started; I judge him for myself, by the discernment of my own little brain, my mental aptitude for evaluation. I judge him, so to speak, by the taste his activity leaves in my mouth. This is not arrogance on my part, it’s a manifestation of my blood’s subjective logic. The important thing is not to produce a movement, to have Kingo’s hymnal supplanted by Landstad’s in Høivåg township by Lillesand. It’s not at all a question of creating an uproar among a crowd of lawyers, journalists or Galilean fishermen, or of publishing a monograph on Napoleon le petit. The important thing is to affect and educate power, the superior, chosen few, the masters of life, the great ones, Caiaphas, Pilate, and the emperor. What good would it do to create a stir among the rabble if I were to be nailed to the cross, in spite of everything? You can make the rabble so numerous that they’ll manage to seize a scrap of power, fighting tooth and nail; you can put a butcher’s knife into their hands and order them to stab and slash, and you can whip them into gaining the upper hand in a vote. But to win a victory, a victory for fundamental spiritual growth, to win a hand’s-breadth of benefit for the world—that they cannot do, that the rabble cannot do. Great men are excellent topics of conversation, but the superior man, the superior men, the masters, the universal spirits on horseback, have to stop and search their memories merely to know who these so-called great men might be. And so the great man is left with the crowd, the worthless majority—lawyers, schoolmarms, journalists, and the emperor of Brazil—for his admirers.

“Well then,” the lady says ironically—. The chairman bangs the table and asks for silence, but the lady insists and says: “Well then, since you do not attack all great men, mention some, or at least one, who finds favor in your eyes. It would be most interesting to know.”

I answer as follows: “I would be glad to. But the fact is, you will take me all too brutally at my word. If I were to mention one or two or ten, you would simply assume that, apart from those, I knew of no others. Besides, why should I? If I gave you the choice between, say, Leo Tolstoy, Jesus Christ and Immanuel Kant, even you would hesitate before making the correct selection from among them. You would say that all these were great men, each after his fashion, and the entire liberal and progressive press would agree with you—”

“So who is the greatest of these, in your opinion?” she cuts in.

“In my opinion, madam, it’s not the one who has been best at creating exchange value who is the greatest, though he is the one who always produces most commotion in the world. No, the voice of my blood says that he is the greatest who has contributed most fundamental value, most positive profit, to human existence. The greatest one is the great terrorist, a towering magnitude, an unheard-of universal jack that balances planets.”

“But, of the three who were mentioned, it must be Christ who—?”[15]

“It’s Christ, sure,” I hasten to say. “You’re quite right, madam, and I’m pleased that we agree on this point, at least—. No, on the whole I have a low opinion of the ability to do business, to preach, that purely formal gift of always having a word ready on your tongue. What is a preacher, a professional preacher? Someone who serves the negative purpose of the middleman, an agent for merchandise. The more money he makes by his merchandising, the more world-wide his fame becomes! Heh-heh, that’s the way it is: the more he can ballyhoo, the more he can expand his business. But what is the point of preaching Faust’s opinions of human existence to my good neighbor, Ola Upnorth? Will that change the thought of the next century?”

“But what will become of Ola Upnorth if nobody—?”

“Let Ola Upnorth go to hell!” I cut in. “Ola Upnorth has nothing else to do in this world but to walk around waiting to die for all he’s worth, that is, to get out of the way, the sooner the better. Ola Upnorth exists to fertilize the soil, he’s the soldier that Napoleon rides down roughshod, that’s Ola Upnorth—now you know! Ola Upnorth, damn it, isn’t even a beginning, let alone a result of anything; he isn’t even a comma in the Great Book, but a mere blot on the paper. That’s Ola Upnorth—”

“Sh-sh! For God’s sake!” says the lady, terror-stricken, looking at the chairman to see if he’s going to show me the door.

“All right!” I reply, “heh-heh-heh, all right, I won’t say any more.” But at that very moment I notice her lovely mouth and I say, “I’m sorry, madam, for having taken up so much of your time with stuff and nonsense. But thank you so much for your kindness. Your lips are divinely beautiful when you smile. Goodbye.”

But now her face turns crimson and she invites me home. Simply home to her house, to where she lives. Heh-heh-heh. She lives on such and such a street, number so and so. She would like to talk to me a little more about this matter, she doesn’t agree with me and might have a great many objections. If I came tomorrow night, she would be all alone. So could I come tomorrow night? “Thanks. See you then.”

And yet, as it turned out, the only reason she wanted to see me was to show me a new soft rug, a national design, Hallingdal weave.[16]

Sing heigh-ho, the sun’s on the meadow! ...

He jumped out of bed, raised the blinds and looked out. The sun was shining on Market Square, and the weather was calm. He rang the bell for service.[17] He was going to use Sara’s negligence in the matter of his shoes to get on a slightly more familiar footing with her this morning. Let’s see what she’s made of, this wench from Trøndelag with eyes brimful of sex. It’s probably nothing but humbug.

In short, he put his arms around her waist.

“Ick, get lost!” she said angrily, pushing him away.

Then he asked coldly, “Why didn’t you bring me my shoes earlier?”

“Oh, I’m real sorry about the shoes,” Sara answers. “Today is wash day, there’s so much to do.”

He stayed in his room till noon, whereupon he went to the cemetery to attend Karlsen’s funeral. He was wearing his yellow suit as usual.

V

WHEN NAGEL GOT TO THE CEMETERY, no one was yet to be seen. He went over to the grave and peeked into it; there were two white flowers on the bottom. Who had tossed them there, and with what purpose? I’ve seen those white flowers before, he thought. Suddenly it occurred to him that he needed a shave. He looked at his watch and considered a moment before quickly walking downtown again. In the middle of Market Square he saw the deputy judge coming toward him; Nagel made straight for him, fixing him with a stare, but neither of them spoke, nor did they greet each other. Nagel entered the barbershop. At that moment the church bells began ringing for the funeral procession.

Nagel took his time; he didn’t speak to anyone, not a word, but spent several minutes examining the pictures on the walls, going from wall to wall and looking at each one. At last his turn came and he lay back in the chair.

Just as he was through and stepped back onto the street, he again saw the deputy judge, who appeared to have turned around and was now waiting for something. He was carrying a stick in his left hand, but as soon as he caught sight of Nagel he shifted it to his right hand and began brandishing it. They slowly approached each other. He didn’t have a stick when I met him a short while ago, Nagel said to himself. It’s not new; he hasn’t bought it but borrowed it. It’s a rattan cane.

The moment they came up with one another, the deputy stopped; Nagel also suddenly stood still; they stopped almost simultaneously. Nagel nudged his velvet cap, as if to scratch the back of his head, and then put it straight again; the deputy, on the other hand, thrust his stick hard against the cobblestones and leaned back on it. He stood thus for several seconds, still without speaking. Suddenly he straightened up, turned his back on Nagel and walked away. At long last Nagel saw his back disappear around the corner of the barbershop.

This pantomime took place in the sight of several people. Among others, a man selling lottery chances from a ticket dispenser had seen it all. A little farther on sat a man who was offering plaster figures for sale, and he had also observed the strange incident. Nagel recognized the plasterer as one of the customers who had been present at the scene in the café the evening before and afterward sided with him against the hotel keeper.

When Nagel got to the cemetery the second time, the pastor was already delivering his eulogy. The place was black with people. Nagel didn’t go up to the grave,[1] but settled by himself on a large new marble slab with the following inscription: “Vilhelmine Meek. Born 20 May 1873, died 16 February 1891.” That was all. The slab was brand new, and the sod it rested on had just been tapped down.

Nagel beckoned to a little boy. “Do you see that man over there, the one in the brown coat?” he asked.

“The one with the peaked cap, sure. That’s Miniman.”

“Go and ask him to come over here.”

The boy went.

When Miniman came, Nagel rose, gave him his hand and said, “How are you, my friend? I’m glad to see you again. Did you get the coat?”

“The coat? No, not yet. But I’ll get it, all right,” Miniman replied. “I would like to thank you so much for last night—thanks for everything! Well, here we are, burying Karlsen! Hm, it’s God’s will, we have to resign ourselves to it.”

They sat down on the new marble slab and talked together. Nagel took a pencil from his pocket and started writing something on the slab.

“Who is buried here?” he asked.

“Vilhelmine Meek. But we called her simply Mina Meek, for short. She was little more than a child; I don’t think she had turned twenty.”

“She wasn’t even eighteen, according to the inscription. And she, too, was a good person?”

“You said this so strangely, but—”

“It’s just that I’ve noticed your beautiful trait of speaking well of everyone, whoever they may be.”

“If you’d known Mina Meek I’m sure you would’ve agreed with me. She was an unusually kind soul. If anyone is an angel of God, she is one now.”

“Was she engaged?”

“Engaged? No, far from it. Not that I know. I don’t think she was engaged; she was always reciting prayers and talking aloud to God, often in the middle of the street where everyone could hear her. People would stop and listen; everybody loved Mina Meek.”[2]

Nagel put the pencil back in his pocket. There was something written on the stone, a verse—it didn’t look nice on the white marble.

Miniman said, “You’re attracting a lot of attention. As I was standing over there listening to the eulogy, I noticed that at least half the people had their eyes on you.”

“On me?”

“Yes. Several people were whispering, asking one another who you were. And now, too, they are looking this way.”

“Who is the lady with the big black feather in her hat?”

“The one with the white parasol handle? That’s Fredrikke Andresen, the Miss Fredrikke I told you about. And the one standing next to her, looking this way just now, is the daughter of the chief of police; her name is Miss Olsen, Gudrun Olsen. Oh, I know them all. Dagny Kielland is here too; she’s wearing a black dress today, and it’s almost more becoming than any other. Have you noticed her? Well, they are all wearing black today, that goes without saying; I’m just talking nonsense. Do you see the gentleman in the blue spring coat wearing glasses? That’s Dr. Stenersen. He’s not our district doctor, though; he has a private practice and was married last year. His wife is standing farther back; I don’t know whether you see the little dark-haired lady with a silk edging on her coat? Well, that’s Mrs. Stenersen. She’s rather sickly and has to be bundled up all the time. And there comes the deputy, too....”

“Can you show me Miss Kielland’s fiancé?” Nagel asked.

“Lieutenant Hansen, no. He’s not here, he’s cruising; he left several days ago. He left right after the engagement.”

After a brief silence Nagel said, “There were two flowers on the bottom of the grave, two white flowers—you wouldn’t know where they came from, would you?”

“Oh yes,” Miniman replies. “That is—are you asking me? Is it a question? ... I’m ashamed to tell you; maybe they would have let me place them on the coffin if I had asked, instead of throwing them away, so to speak, like that. But what good would two flowers do? And wherever I placed them, it would still be only two flowers. So instead I got up shortly after three this morning, or rather last night, and put them in the grave. I was even down there, on the bottom, and arranged them, and I said goodbye to him twice, out loud, while I was down in the grave. It affected me so deeply that I went into the woods afterward, burying my face in my hands with grief. It’s strange to part from somebody for ever, and though Jens Karlsen was way above me in every respect, he was still a good friend to me.”

“So the flowers were from you?”

“Yes, they were from me. But I didn’t do it to show off, as God is my witness. Anyway, it isn’t worth talking about a trifle like that. I bought them last night after leaving you to go home. It so happened that my uncle gave me half a krone for my own use when I brought him your money; he was so overjoyed that he almost knocked me over. He’s sure to come and thank you some day; oh yes, he certainly will, I know he will. But when he gave me this half-krone, I suddenly remembered I hadn’t gotten any flowers for the funeral, so I went down to the quayside—”

“You went down to the quayside?”

“Yes, to a lady who lives down there.”

“In a one-story house?”

“Yes.”

“Does the lady have white hair?”

“Yes, completely white hair; have you seen her? She’s the daughter of a sea captain, but is very poor. At first she wouldn’t accept my half-krone, but I left it on a chair anyway, though she protested and said no several times. She’s so shy, and I think she often suffers on account of her modesty.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Martha Gude.”

“Martha Gude.”

Nagel took out his notebook, wrote down her name and said, “Has she been married? Is she a widow?”

“No. She used to go with her father on his voyages for many years, as long as he commanded a ship; but since he died she has been living here.”

“Doesn’t she have any relations?”

“I don’t know. No, I don’t think so.”

“So what does she live on?”

“God knows what she lives on. Nobody knows anything about that. Come to think, she probably gets some poor relief.”

“Listen! You have been to the house of this lady, this Martha Gude, haven’t you? What does it look like in there?”

“What can it look like in a poor old cottage? There is a bed, a table, and a couple of chairs in there; on second thought, I believe there are three chairs, because there is also one in the corner by the bed. It’s one with red plush on it, but it has to lean against the wall or it won’t stand up, it’s in such bad shape. There’s nothing else, as far as I remember.”

“Is there really nothing else? Isn’t there a clock on the wall, an old picture or something?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“That chair which can’t stand on its legs, I mean the one with the red plush, what does it look like? Is it very old? And why does it stand there by the bed? One can’t sit on it, right? Is it a high-backed chair?”

“Yes, high-backed, I think, I don’t remember exactly.”

They started singing over by the grave. The ceremony was over. When the singing was over too, there was a moment of complete silence; then people began to disperse in all directions. Most of them walked down the churchyard to the main gate, others stopped to talk in low voices. A group of men and women headed toward Miniman and Nagel, all young people, the women looking bright-eyed and surprised as they scrutinized the two of them. Dagny Kielland’s face turned a deep red, but she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead and looked neither right nor left. Nor did the deputy judge look up as he talked quietly with one of the ladies.

Just as they were passing, Dr. Stenersen, who was also among them, paused. He beckoned to Miniman, who stood up. Nagel was left sitting there by himself.

“Please ask that gentleman ... ,” he heard the doctor say; that was all he heard. But a moment later his name was mentioned quite loudly, and he too stood up. He doffed his cap and made a deep bow.

The doctor apologized: he had been entrusted by a lady, one of the ladies who were with him at the moment, Miss Meek, with the disagreeable task of asking the gentlemen to be a bit careful with that stone, that burial slab, and not sit on it. The slab was new, it had just been put in place; the bed was still fresh, the sod quite soft, so the whole thing might give way before you knew it. The request was made by the sister of the deceased.

Nagel begged pardon more than once. It was sheer thoughtlessness on his part, a piece of carelessness, and he perfectly understood the young lady’s uneasiness about the stone. He also thanked the doctor.

Meanwhile they had started idling along. When they reached the gate Miniman said goodbye, and the doctor and Nagel were left alone. Only now did they introduce themselves to one another.

“You will settle down here for a while, perhaps?” the doctor asked.

“Yes,” Nagel replied. “One has to follow custom, you know, take one’s summer holiday in the country, gather strength for the winter, and then return to work.... You’ve got a pleasant little town here.”

“Where do you come from? I’ve been trying to figure out what dialect you’re speaking.”

“I hail from Finnmark originally, I’m of Finnish descent. But I’ve lived on and off in various places.”

“Have you just returned from abroad?”[3]

“Only from Helsingfors.”

At first they talked about a number of indifferent things, but soon the conversation drifted to other topics: the election, the crop failure in Russia, literature, and Karlsen’s death.

“What’s your opinion—did you bury a suicide today?” Nagel asked.

The doctor couldn’t say, refused to say. It didn’t concern him, and so he refused to get involved. People were saying all sorts of things. For that matter, why shouldn’t it have been a suicide? All theologians ought to do away with themselves.

But why?

Why? Because their role had been played out, because our century had made them superfluous. People had begun to think for themselves, and their religious feelings were fading away more and more.

A Liberal! Nagel thought. He couldn’t understand what human beings would gain by having life stripped of all symbols, all poetry. Besides, it was open to question whether the century had made theologians superfluous, as long as religious feelings were simply not on the decline....

Not among the lower social strata, to be sure, though more and more even there; but among enlightened people they were decidedly on the wane.[4]

“However, we won’t talk any more about that,” the doctor broke off sullenly, “our viewpoints are too far apart.” The doctor was a freethinker, he had heard these objections so many times before that he couldn’t keep track of them. And had it converted him? For twenty years he had remained the same. As a physician he had participated in extracting people’s “souls” by the spoonful! No, he had outgrown superstition.... “What is your opinion of the election?”

“The election?” Nagel laughed. “I’m hoping for the best,” he said.

“So am I,” the doctor said. “It would be a damn shame if the government didn’t win a majority on such a thoroughly democratic platform.” The doctor was a man of the left and a radical, had been so ever since he learned to use his head. He harbored great fear for Buskerud County; Smålenene he had given up on. “The fact of the matter is,” he said, “we’re short of money in the Liberal Party. You and others who’ve got the money ought to support us. After all, the future of the whole country is at stake.”

“I? Do I have money?” Nagel asked. “Alas, a mere pittance.”

“Well, you don’t have to be a millionaire. Someone could relate that you were a regular capitalist, that, for one, you owned a landed estate worth sixty-two thousand kroner.”

“Heh-heh-heh, I’ve never heard anything so absurd. What it comes down to is that I’ve just received a small inheritance from my mother, a few thousand kroner. That’s all. But I have no landed estate, that’s a mystification.”

They had reached the doctor’s place, a two-story house painted yellow, with a veranda. The paint had come off in several places. The gutters were in shambles. In the top story a window-pane was missing, and the curtains were far from clean. The untidy appearance of the house produced a feeling of antipathy in Nagel, and he wanted to leave at once; but the doctor said, “Wouldn’t you like to come in? No? Then I hope to see you later. My wife and I would be very happy if you paid us a visit. You won’t come in now then, to say hello to my wife?”

“Your wife was at the cemetery, wasn’t she? She’ll scarcely be back yet.”

“You’re damn right, she went with the others. Oh well, drop in later then, when you pass by.”

Nagel strolled back to the hotel, but just as he was about to step through the door something occurred to him. He snapped his fingers, broke into a short little laugh and said out loud, “It would be interesting to see if the verse is still there!” With that he went back to the cemetery and stopped before Mina Meek’s tombstone. No people were to be seen anywhere; but the verse had been wiped off. Who had done it? There wasn’t the least trace left of his characters.

VI

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Nagel found himself in an excellent, joyful mood. It had come upon him while lying in bed; it was as though the ceiling of his room were suddenly rising higher and higher, rising endlessly until it became a clear, far-away vault of heaven. All at once he felt a sweet, mild breeze blowing on him, as if he were lying in a green meadow. And the flies were buzzing about the room; it was a warm summer morning.

He got into his clothes in a jiffy, left the hotel without breakfast, and strolled into town. It was eleven o’clock.

Already the pianos were reechoing from house to house; from one block after another, different melodies could be heard through the open windows, and way up the street a nervous dog responded loudly with drawn-out howls. Filled with a sweet contentment, Nagel began instinctively to sing softly to himself, and when he passed an old man who greeted him he saw his chance to slip a coin into his hand.

He came to a large white house. A window is opened on the second floor, a slender white hand fastens the hook. The curtain is still stirring, the hand still resting on the hook; Nagel had a feeling that someone was watching him from behind the curtain. Pausing, he stared upward; he remained at his post for over a minute, but nobody appeared. He looked at the sign above the door: “F. M. Andresen, Danish Consulate.”

Nagel was just about to go, but as he turned Miss Fredrikke stuck her long, aristocratic face out of the window and gave him a surprised, searching look. He paused once more, their eyes met, her cheeks were coloring; but as if brazening it out, she pulled up her sleeves and rested her elbows on the windowsill. She stayed like this for quite a long time, without anything happening, and eventually Nagel had to make an end of it and go. At that moment a quaint question came into his head. Was the young lady kneeling behind the window? If so, he thought, the consul’s apartment didn’t have very tall ceilings, since the window was scarcely over six feet high and extended to a mere foot below the eaves. He had to laugh at himself for this fancy out of nowhere: what the hell did he have to do with Consul Andresen’s apartment!

And he wandered on.

Down by the quays work was in full swing. Warehouse workers, customs officers and fishermen were running helterskelter, each busy with his own thing; capstans were rattling, and two steamships blew their whistles for departure almost simultaneously. The sea was dead calm; the sun beat down, turning the water into a seamless sheet of gold in which ships and boats lay immersed up to the middle of their bellies. From a huge three-master in the distance came the sound of a wretched street organ, and when the steam whistles and the capstans were silent for a moment, its mournful melody sounded like a girl’s faint, tremulous voice on the point of giving up. Even those on board made merry with the street organ, starting to dance a polka to its maudlin songs.

Nagel caught sight of a child, a tiny little girl who was squeezing a cat in her arms; the cat hung straight down, quite patiently, its hind legs nearly touching the ground, and it didn’t stir. Nagel patted the girl’s cheek and spoke to her: “Is it your cat?”

“Yes. Two four six seven.”

“Oh, you can count too?”

“Yes. Seven eight eleven two four six seven.”

He walked on. In the direction of the parsonage, a sun-intoxicated white pigeon reeled sideways down the sky and disappeared behind the treetops; it looked like a shining silver arrow falling to the ground far away. A brief, nearly soundless shot was fired somewhere, and shortly afterward a wisp of blue smoke rose from the forest on the other side of the bay.

After reaching the last pier and wandering up and down the deserted jetty a few times, he walked unthinkingly up the hill and entered the forest. He walked for a good half hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, and at last came to a halt at a small path. All was still, not even a songbird to be seen, and not a cloud in the sky. He walked a few steps off the path, found a dry spot and stretched out. On his right was the parsonage, on his left the town, and above him an endless sea of blue sky.

What if one were up there, drifting about among suns and feeling the tails of comets fan one’s forehead! How small the earth was and how puny the people; a Norway of two million provincial souls and a mortgage bank to help feed them! What was life worth at such a rate? You elbowed yourself ahead in the sweat of your face for a few mortal years, only to perish all the same, all the same! Nagel tore at his head. Oh dear, it would end by his getting out of this world, putting an end to it all! Would he ever be able to carry it out? Yes. By God in heaven, yes, he wouldn’t flinch! At the moment he felt quite ecstatic at having this simple way of escape in reserve; his eyes watered with enthusiasm and his breathing grew all but loud. He was already rocking about on a heavenly sea, fishing with a silver hook and singing to himself. And his boat was made of aromatic wood and the oars gleamed like white wings; but the sail was of pale-blue silk and cut in the shape of a half-moon....

A quivering joy shot through him; forgetting himself, he felt transported, hidden inside the fierce sunshine. The silence filled him with a perfect contentment, nothing disturbed him; only, up aloft a soft, soughing sound could be heard, the sound of the vast stamping mill, God treading his wheel. Not a leaf, not a needle stirred in the woods round about. Nagel curled up with pleasure, hugging his knees and shivering with well-being. Someone called him, and he answered yes; he raised himself on his elbow and looked about him. Not a soul to be seen. He said yes once more and listened, but no one appeared. How strange; he had definitely heard someone calling him. But he didn’t give it further thought, perhaps it was just a fantasy; in any case, he wasn’t going to be disturbed. He was in an enigmatic state, brimming with inward pleasure; every nerve in his body was awake, he perceived music in his blood, sensed a kinship with all of nature, with the sun and the mountains and all the rest, felt enveloped by his own sense of self as it came back to him from trees and tussocks and blades of grass. His soul grew big and rich, like the sound of an organ inside him, and he would never forget how this soft music positively glided up and down in his blood.

He lay there a while longer, enjoying his solitude. Then he heard footsteps on the path, real footsteps that couldn’t be mistaken. Raising his head, he noticed a man coming back from town. The man was carrying a long loaf of bread under his arm and leading a cow on a rope; he kept wiping the sweat off his face and was in his shirtsleeves due to the heat, and yet he was wearing a thick red woolen scarf wound twice around his neck. Nagel lay quietly observing the peasant. There he was! There was the Setesdaler, the typical Norwegian, heh-heh, oh yes, there was the native, with the crust of bread under his arm and the cow in tow! Oh, what a sight! Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh, God help you, my noble Norse Viking! How about loosening your scarf a bit and letting the lice out? But you wouldn’t survive it, you would catch some fresh air from it and die. And the press would lament your untimely demise and make a big number out of it. But to guard against repetitions, Vetle Vetlesen, that liberal Storting representative, would introduce a bill for the strict protection of our national vermin.

Nagel’s brain threw off one merry piece of sarcasm after another. He stood up and went back to the hotel, dejected and angry. No, he was always right, there was nothing but lice and stinking “old cheese” and Luther’s catechism everywhere. And the people were medium-sized burghers in three-story shanties; they ate and drank as was needful, regaled themselves with toddy and electoral politics, and traded in green soap and brass combs and fish day in, day out. But at night, when there was thunder and lightning, they lay in their beds reading the homilies of Johann Arendt for sheer fright. Oh, give us a real exception, just one, let us see if it can be done! Give us, for example, an advanced crime, a first-rate sin! But none of your ludicrous petty-bourgeois ABC-misdemeanor—no, a rare, hair-raising debauchery, refined depravity, a royal sin, full of raw infernal splendor. No, the whole thing was pusillanimous. What is your opinion of the election, sir? I have the greatest fear for Buskerud....

But when he again passed the docks and saw the bustling activity around him, his humor gradually lightened somewhat; he was happy once more and started singing again. This was no weather for moping, it was fine, fair weather, a blazing June day. The whole little town lay gleaming in the sunshine like an enchanted city.

When he passed through the hotel entrance he had long since forgotten all his bitterness; his heart was without rancor, and his mind was again luminous with the image of a boat of aromatic wood and a pale-blue silken sail cut in the shape of a half-moon.

This mood stayed with him all day. Toward evening he went out once more and, taking the same road down to the sea, found anew a thousand little things that made him go into raptures. The sun was sinking, the brutal scorching light was softened and streamed gently over the water; even the noise from the ships was muffled. Nagel saw flags being hoisted here and there along the bay; flags were also fluttering at several houses in town, and shortly afterward work came to a standstill on all the piers.

Without giving it any thought, he wandered off into the woods again; after walking back and forth, he went as far as the outbuildings of the parsonage and looked into the yard. From there he went back into the woods, boring his way in at the darkest spot he could find, and sat down on a rock. He rested his head on one hand and tapped his knee with the other. He sat like this for a long time, maybe a whole hour, and when he finally got up to leave, the sun was below the horizon. The first shade of twilight had settled on the town.

A great surprise awaited him. Once out of the woods, he discovered lots of kindled fires on the hills round about, maybe as many as twenty bonfires, blazing like miniature suns in all directions. Out on the water there was a myriad of boats, and on board the boats they were lighting sparklers, which gave off red and green flares. From one of the boats, where a quartet was singing, they were even sending up rockets. A great many people were astir, the steamship landing was black with townsfolk, sitting and strolling.

Nagel gave a brief exclamation of surprise. Turning to a man, he asked him what the bonfires and the flags were supposed to mean. The man looked at him, spat, looked at him again and replied that it was June 23, Midsummer Eve. Ah, it was Midsummer Eve! That was quite correct, of course, there was no mistaking it; it also tallied with the date. Just imagine, it was Midsummer Eve tonight—one good thing came on top of another, and it was Midsummer Eve to boot! Nagel rubbed his hands with pleasure and strolled over to the steamship landing like the rest, repeating to himself several times how incredibly lucky he was.

At a distance, he noticed Dagny Kielland’s blood-red parasol in the middle of a group of men and women, and when he also discovered Dr. Stenersen among them, he walked up to him without hesitation. Tipping his cap, he shook hands with the doctor and continued to stand bareheaded for quite a while. The doctor introduced him to the company; Mrs. Stenersen also gave him her hand, and he sat down beside her. She was pale and had a grayish complexion, which gave her a sickly look; but she was very young, hardly over twenty. She was bundled up.

Nagel donned his cap and said, addressing them all, “I beg your pardon for intruding, for joining you like this, uninvited—”

“Goodness, no, it’s a pleasure,” Mrs. Stenersen broke in amiably. “Maybe you could start up a song?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t,” he answered, “I couldn’t be more unmusical.”

“On the contrary, it was good that you came; we were just talking about you,” the doctor remarked. “You play the violin, don’t you?”

“No,” Nagel replied again, shaking his head; he gave a smile as well. “I don’t.” But suddenly, apropos of nothing, he gets up and says, his eyes sparkling, “I’m so happy today. It has been so wonderful all day, from the moment I woke up this morning; for ten hours I’ve been walking around in a most beautiful dream. Can you imagine: I’m literally haunted by the idea of finding myself in a boat of aromatic wood with a sail of pale-blue silk, cut in the shape of a half-moon. Isn’t that pretty? I cannot describe the scent of the boat; no matter how hard I tried, or how skillful I was at finding the right words, I couldn’t do it. But just think, I feel as though I’m out fishing, that I’m fishing with a silver hook. Pardon me, ladies, but don’t you, at least, think[1] it is ... Well, I don’t know.”

None of the ladies answered; they looked at one another in embarrassment, asking each other with their eyes what to do. But finally they started laughing, one after the other; showing no mercy, they burst into loud laughter at the whole thing.

Nagel looked from one to the other, his eyes still shiny; he was obviously still thinking about the boat with the blue sail. But his hands trembled, although his face remained calm.

Coming to his rescue, the doctor said, “So it was a sort of hallucination that—”

“No, I beg your pardon,” he replied. “Well, if you like, why not? It doesn’t matter what you call it. I’ve been under a delightful spell all day, whether it’s hallucination or not. It began this morning while I was still in bed. I heard a fly buzzing, that was my first conscious thought after I awoke; then I saw the sunlight filtering in through a hole in the curtain, and at one stroke a delicate, light mood sprang up within me. I had a sensation of summer in my soul—try to imagine a soft rustle in the grass and that this rustle passes through your heart. Hallucination—well, maybe it was, I don’t know; but don’t forget that I must’ve been in a certain prior state of susceptibility, that I heard the fly exactly at the right moment, a moment in which I needed just that kind of light and in that amount, namely, a single ray of sunlight from a hole in the curtain, and so on. After I got up and went out, the first thing I saw was an attractive woman in a window” —he cast a glance at Miss Andresen, who lowered her eyes—“next I saw a great number of ships, then a little girl with a cat in her arms, and so forth, all of it things that made an impression on me. Shortly after I went into the woods, and that’s where I saw the boat and the half-moon, just by lying on my back and staring up at the sky.”

The women were still laughing, and the doctor, seemingly about to be infected by their snickering, said with a smile, “So you were fishing with a silver hook, were you?”

“Yes, with a silver hook.”

“Ha-ha-ha!”

Then all of a sudden Dagny Kielland flushed and said, “I can well understand that such an idea ... For my part, I can clearly see the boat and the sail, that blue half-moon—and just fancy, a white silver hook plumb through the water like that! I think it’s lovely.”

Unable to continue, she stammered and got stuck, her eyes on the ground.

Nagel immediately came to her rescue. “Yes, isn’t it? I said to myself straightaway: watch out, this is a white dream, an omen. It’s meant to be a warning to you: fish with clean hooks, clean hooks! You asked me, Doctor, if I play the violin? No, I don’t, not in the least. I’m dragging a violin case around with me, but there’s no violin in it; the case is full of dirty laundry, I’m sorry to say. I just thought it would look good to have a violin case as part of my luggage, that’s why I got it. This may give you a very poor impression of me, I don’t know, but it can’t be helped, though I’m truly sorry about it. Anyway, the silver hook is to blame for it all.”

The astonished ladies were no longer laughing; even the doctor, the deputy—Mr. Reinert, the judge’s deputy—and the secondary school teacher were agape. They all had their eyes on Nagel; the doctor clearly didn’t know what to think. What on earth was the matter with this total stranger? Nagel himself sat quietly down and didn’t seem to have anything further to say. The embarrassing silence appeared interminable. But then Mrs. Stenersen came to the rescue. Amiability incarnate, she acted like a mother to them all, making sure that nobody suffered harm. She deliberately wrinkled her brows to make herself look older than she was, so that her words would carry greater weight.

“You’ve come from abroad, haven’t you, Mr. Nagel?”

“Yes, madam.”

“From Helsingfors, I believe my husband said?”

“Yes, from Helsingfors. That is, most recently from Helsingfors. I’m an agronomist, I studied there for a while.”

Pause.

“And how do you like the town?” Mrs. Stenersen asked.

“Helsingfors?”

“No, our town.”

“Oh, it’s an excellent town, a charming place! I won’t ever leave, I really won’t. Heh-heh, well, don’t let it frighten you too much, I may still leave sometime, it all depends.... By the way,” he went on, getting up again, “if I intruded when I came, I sincerely apologize. The truth is, I would be very happy if you allowed me to sit here and share your company. Being a stranger to everybody, I don’t have many to associate with, so I’ve fallen into the habit of talking to myself too much. I’ll be very pleased if you completely ignore my presence among you and go on with your conversation as before I came.”

“You have certainly caused considerable diversion since you came,” Reinert said acrimoniously.

To this Nagel replied, “Well, to you, sir, I owe a private apology, and I’ll make all the amends you might require; but not now. Not now, all right?”

“No, this is not the place for it,” Reinert agreed.

“Besides, I’m happy today,” Nagel went on, a warm smile flitting across his face. This smile lighted up his face, so that for a moment he looked like a child. “It’s a wonderful evening, and soon the stars will come out. Bonfires are blazing everywhere on the hills, and from the sea comes the sound of singing. Just listen! Not bad at all. I’m no expert, but isn’t it rather good? It reminds me a little of a night in the Mediterranean, off the coast of Tunis. There were some hundred passengers on board, a choir hailing from somewhere in Sardinia. Since I wasn’t part of the company and couldn’t sing, I just sat listening on deck while the choir was singing in the saloon below. It went on nearly until morning; I’ll never forget how nice[2] it sounded in the sultry night. I surreptitiously closed the doors to the saloon, shutting the singing up, so to speak, and then it was as though the sound came from the bottom of the sea, as though the ship were about to sail into eternity to resounding music. Try to imagine something like an ocean filled with song, a subterranean choir.”

Miss Andresen, who sat next to Nagel, said impulsively, “Oh God, yes, how lovely it must have been!”

“Only once have I heard something more beautiful, and that was in a dream. But it was a long time ago, I was still a child when I had that dream. When you grow up, you no longer have beautiful dreams like that.”

“No?” said Miss Andresen.

“Oh no. Well, it’s an exaggeration, of course, but... I still remember my last dream so clearly: I saw an open marsh.... Oh, excuse me, I’m talking all the time, forcing you to listen to me. It may be tiresome in the long run. I don’t always talk so much.”

Then Dagny Kielland opened her mouth and said, “There’s nobody here, I think, who wouldn’t rather listen to you than relate something herself.” And leaning toward Mrs. Stenersen, she whispered, “Can’t you get him started? Please, do. Just listen to that voice!”

Nagel said, smiling, “I’ll be glad to jabber away. All in all, I’m minded to this evening, God knows what’s come over me.... Well, actually, that little dream wasn’t anything to talk about. True, I did see an open marsh, without trees, only with lots of roots lying about everywhere, like strangely writhing serpents. And then a madman who was walking around among all those crooked tree roots. I can still see him, he was pale and had a dark beard, but the beard was so small and sparse that his skin showed through everywhere. He was staring about him with wide-open eyes, and his eyes were full of suffering. Hiding behind a rock, I called out to him. Then he instantly looked at the rock, without seeming to wonder where the call was coming from; it was as though he knew I was lying exactly there, though I was well hidden. He kept staring at the rock the whole time. He won’t find me anyway, I thought, and if worst comes to worst and he does, I can take to my heels. And though I didn’t like to have him staring at me, I called out once more to tease him. He took a couple of steps toward me, his mouth open and ready to bite, but he couldn’t get going; the roots were piling up before him—he was weighed down by roots and couldn’t budge. I called out again, many times in a row, to get him thoroughly worked up, and he began tackling the roots to clear them away, tossing them aside by armfuls in his laborious struggle to reach me. But it was no use. Then he started groaning, so loud that I could hear him despite the distance, his eyes fixed in a painful stare. When I saw I was perfectly safe, I got up and swung my cap, showing myself in my full height, teasing him by continually shouting halloo to him, stamping the ground and shouting halloo. I even went closer so I could tease him more cruelly still, thumbing my nose at him and crying halloo insultingly close to his ears, to bewilder him even more, if possible. Then I retraced my steps, leaving him there to realize how close to him I had been. But he wasn’t quite giving up; he was still struggling with the roots, inured to pain as he toiled to clear them away, getting scratched till the blood came and hurting his face, then raising himself on tiptoe to scream at me. Yes, can you imagine, he stood bolt upright on tiptoe staring at me and screaming! His face was dripping with perspiration, distorted by terrible suffering because he couldn’t get hold of me. Wanting to goad him even further, I went closer still, snapping my fingers under his nose and calling ‘tee-hee-hee-hee-hee’ with the most awful mockery. I flung a tree root at him, hitting him in the mouth, and almost succeeded in knocking him down; but he simply spat out the blood, put his hand to his mouth and continued to struggle with the roots. Then, thinking I could risk it, I stretched out my hand to touch him; I wanted to put my finger on his forehead and withdraw again. But at that moment he caught me. Good Lord, what a fright it gave me to be caught like that! He made a furious grab at me and clutched my hand. I screamed, but he simply held my hand and followed me. We walked out of the marsh—the tree roots no longer hampered him once he’d gotten hold of my hand—and came to the rock where I had at first been hiding. When we got there, the man prostrated himself before me and kissed the ground I had walked on; bloody and bruised, he kneeled before me, thanking me for having been kind to him. Then he blessed me, and prayed to God to bless me as well. His eyes were candid and filled with good prayers to God for me, and he didn’t kiss my hand, or even my shoes, but the ground where my shoes had trod. ‘Why do you kiss the ground exactly where I’ve walked?’ I asked.—‘Because,’ he said, ‘because my mouth is bleeding and I don’t want to dirty your shoes.’—He didn’t want to dirty my shoes! Again I said, ‘But why do you thank me when I’ve done you harm and caused you pain?’—‘I thank you,’ he replied, ’‘because you didn’t cause me more pain, because you were kind enough not to torture me still more.’—‘All right,’ I said, ‘but why did you scream at me and open your mouth to bite me?’—‘I wasn’t going to bite you,’ he replied, ‘I opened my mouth to ask you for help; but I couldn’t utter a word and you didn’t understand. And then I screamed because I suffered so terribly.’—‘So that’s why you screamed?’ I asked.—‘Yes, that’s why!’ ... I looked at the lunatic—he was still spitting blood but prayed to God for me all the same. I realized I had seen him before and that I knew him; he was a middle-aged man with gray hair and a miserable little beard—it was Miniman.”

Nagel fell silent. His listeners were stunned. Mr. Reinert lowered his eyes and looked at the ground for a long while.

“Miniman? So it was him?” asked Mrs. Stenersen.

“Yes, that’s who it was,” Nagel replied.

“Ooh, you almost give me the creeps.”

“I knew it!” Dagny Kielland said of a sudden. “I recognized him the moment you said he kneeled down and kissed the ground. I assure you I recognized him. Have you talked to him at any length?”

“No, I’ve met him only a couple of times.... But come, I seem to have spoiled your good mood; Mrs. Stenersen, you’ve turned quite pale! What on earth—it was only a dream, you know!”

“Yes, this won’t do!” the doctor chimed in. “How the hell does it concern us that Miniman—. Let him kiss every tree root in Norway, for that matter. Look at Miss Andresen, though, she’s downright crying. Ha-ha-ha.”

“I’m not crying at all,” she retorted, “it wouldn’t occur to me. But I do admit that this dream made an impression on me. And I dare say it made an impression on you, too.”

“On me?” cried the doctor. “Of course not, not a bit! Ha-ha-ha, have you all gone mad? Now, let’s take a little walk. Up, all of you! It’s getting chilly. Are you cold, Jetta?”

“No, I’m not, let’s stay here,” his wife replied.

But the doctor was set on taking a walk, he insisted on it. It was getting chilly, he repeated, and he would get moving even if he had to go by himself. Then Nagel rose and went with him.

They strolled up and down the pier a few times, elbowing their way through the crowd, chatting and returning people’s greetings. After they had walked like this for about half an hour, Mrs. Stenersen called to them, “Get back here, will you! Can you guess what we’ve dreamed up while you were gone? Well, we’ve decided to throw a big party at our house tomorrow night. And you, Mr. Nagel, must definitely come! But I have to tell you that a big party at our house means a minimum of food and drink—”

“And a maximum of fun, of course,” the doctor cheerily broke in. “Believe me, I know. Well, that’s not a bad idea at all; you’ve come up with far worse things, Jetta.” Suddenly the doctor was in high spirits, his whole face wreathed in a good-natured smile at the prospect of the party. “Just don’t be late,” he said, “and cross your fingers that I won’t be called away.”

“But can I show up in these clothes?” Nagel asked. “I don’t have any other.”

Everyone laughed, and Mrs. Stenersen answered, “Of course. It will be quite amusing.”

On the way back Nagel found himself walking beside Dagny Kielland. He had made no effort to bring this about, it happened quite by chance; nor did Miss Kielland do anything to forestall it. She had just said how much she was looking forward to tomorrow evening, because it was always so pleasant and relaxed at the doctor’s; they were such excellent people, and they knew how to make their guests enjoy themselves. At that point Nagel blurted out in a low voice, “May I hope, Miss Kielland, that you’ve forgiven me that awful piece of folly in the woods a while ago?”

He spoke eagerly, almost in a whisper, and she was forced to answer him.

“Oh yes,” she said. “I now have a better understanding of your conduct that evening. You don’t seem to be quite like other people.”

“Thank you!” he whispered. “Oh, I thank you as I’ve never thanked anyone in my whole life! And why am I not like other people? I want you to know, Miss Kielland, that I’ve made an effort all evening to soften that first impression you must have received of me. I didn’t say a word that wasn’t meant for you. What do you say to that?[3] Remember, I had offended you terribly and had to do something. I confess I’ve been in a rather unusual state of mind all day, but I’ve made myself appear a good deal worse than I really am, and most of the time I’ve been playing a rather underhanded game. You see, it was important to me to make you think that I really was a bit unpredictable, that I committed bizarre transgressions in general; I hoped to make you pardon me more easily that way. This was also why I intruded with my dreams at the wrong time and place—well, I even crudely exposed myself concerning a violin case, voluntarily exposing my foolishness, which I wasn’t obliged to do—”

“Pardon me!” she broke in abruptly, “but why are you telling me all this, spoiling everything?”

“No, I’m not spoiling anything.[4] If I tell you I really gave in to a momentary malicious impulse when I ran after you in the woods that time, you will understand. It was only a sudden desire to scare you, because you ran away. Well, I didn’t know you then, of course. And if I now tell you that I’m just like other people, you will understand that too. This evening I made myself a laughingstock and astonished everyone by a most eccentric behavior, simply in order to soothe you sufficiently to make you at least listen to me when I came and explained myself. This I have achieved. You have listened to me and[5] understood everything.”

“No, frankly, I have to confess[6] I don’t quite understand you. But let be, I certainly won’t start brooding over that—”

“No, of course not; why should you trouble your head about that! But don’t you agree, this party tomorrow night was decided on because you all regarded me as an odd fellow who could be expected to dream up quite a few antics, wasn’t it? Maybe I’ll disappoint you, maybe I’ll just hem and haw, maybe I won’t even come. God knows.”

“Oh, but of course you must come!”

“Must I?” he said, looking at her.

She let that pass. They were still walking side by side.[7]

They had reached the Parsonage Road. Miss Kielland stopped, burst out laughing and said, “Who would ever believe it!” And she shook her head.[8]

She began to wait for the rest of the party, which had fallen behind. He wanted to ask her if he could walk her home; he was about to risk it, when she suddenly turned away from him and called to the teacher, “Come on, will you!” And she eagerly waved her hand to hurry him on.

VII

AT SIX O’CLOCK the following evening Nagel entered the doctor’s parlor. He thought he had arrived too early, but the party from the previous evening were already assembled. There were also a few other guests, a lawyer and a blond young student. At two tables they were already drinking cognac and club soda, at a third the ladies, Mr. Reinert, and the student were talking together. The teacher, a reticent man who seldom or never gave out a sound, was already quite drunk, and in the heat of the moment, his cheeks flushed, he was sounding off about one subject after another. There was Serbia, for example, where eighty percent of the population could neither read nor write, or did anybody maintain it wasn’t that bad? Well, he was just asking! And he looked about him with a grim expression on his face, though not a soul had contradicted him.

The hostess called Nagel and made room for him at the ladies’ table. What would he like to drink? They were just talking about Kristiania, she said. What a quaint idea of Nagel’s to come and settle down in a small town, when he was free to choose and could even be in Kristiania!

But Nagel didn’t find the idea the least bit quaint; after all, he had come to the country for a holiday. In any case, he wouldn’t want to be in Kristiania; Kristiania was one of the last places he would choose.

Really? Still, it was the capital. It was, after all, the meeting place for whatever the country had to offer of great and famous people, of art and theater, and everything under the sun.

“Yes; and what about all those foreigners who come flocking there!” Miss Andresen remarked. “Foreign actors, singers, musicians, artists of all kinds.”

Dagny Kielland just listened, without saying anything.

Well, that might be true enough, Nagel admitted; but somehow, for some reason he couldn’t explain, every time Kristiania was mentioned he saw a section of Grænsen Street before his eyes, and it smelled of clothes hung out to dry. It was really true, he didn’t invent it. What he envisioned was a snooty small town with a couple of churches, a couple of newspapers, a hotel and a town pump, but with the grandest people in the world. He had never seen people swagger as they did in Kristiania, and good grief, how many a time he had wished himself far away when he lived there!

Mr. Reinert couldn’t understand how it was possible to conceive such an antipathy—not toward an individual but toward a whole city, the country’s capital. In fact, Kristiania was not that small anymore, it was taking its place among other prominent cities. And the Grand Café was anything but a poor café.

At first Nagel made no protest apropos of the Grand. But a moment later he wrinkled his brows and remarked for all to hear, “The Grand is a unique café.”

“You don’t seem to mean that.”

“Oh yes.” The Grand was that notorious place[1] in the city where everything great foregathered. There sat the world’s greatest painters, the world’s most promising young men, the world’s most fashionable ladies, the world’s most able editors, and the world’s greatest authors! “Heh-heh!” There they sat and puffed themselves up for each other[2]—each delighted to be appreciated by everyone else. “I’ve seen everyman sitting there rejoicing because other everymen were watching him.”

This answer provoked general indignation. Mr. Reinert leaned over to Miss Kielland’s chair and said quite loud, “Did you ever hear such conceited talk!”

Waking up, she cast a quick glance at Nagel: he must have heard Mr. Reinert’s words, but didn’t seem to feel hurt by them. On the contrary, he was drinking with the student and began to talk about something else with a nonchalant air. She, too, was irritated by his superior manner; God knows what he thought of them all if he felt he could offer them such condescending talk! What conceit, what megalomania! When Mr. Reinert asked her, “And what do you think?” she replied in an affectedly loud voice, “What I think? I think Kristiania is good enough for me.”

Nagel’s composure remained unruffled. Hearing this loud voice half addressed to himself, he turned to look at her with a pensive air, as if trying to remember how he might have offended her. He rested his eyes on her for more than a minute, blinking his eyes and considering, his face meanwhile showing a sorrowful expression.

By now the teacher had also heard what it was all about and protested the view that Kristiania was smaller than, for example, Belgrade.[3] On the whole, Kristiania was no smaller than any other capital of a reasonable size....

This made everyone laugh; with his burning cheeks and unshakable conviction, the teacher looked too absurd. Mr. Hansen, the lawyer, a fat little man with a bald pate wearing gold-rimmed glasses, couldn’t stop laughing at him, slapping his knees and laughing.

“A reasonable size, a reasonable size,” he shouted. “Kristiania is no smaller than any other capital of the same size, of exactly the same size. Not much smaller. Oh, dear me! Skoal!”[4]

Nagel resumed his conversation with Øien, the student. Well, when he was younger he too—Nagel—had had a passion for music, especially Wagner. But with the years his interest had faded. Anyway, he had never got beyond learning the notes and striking a few chords.

“On the piano?” the student asked. The piano was his line.

“Ugh, no! On the violin. But as I said, I didn’t get anywhere and soon gave it up.”

By chance his eyes brushed Miss Andresen, who had been chatting with Mr. Reinert in a corner by the stove for at least a quarter of an hour. Her eyes met Nagel’s, though only fleetingly and inadvertently; still, it made her fidget on her chair and stop dead in what she was going to say.

Dagny was tapping her hand with a folded newspaper.[5] There were no rings on her long white fingers. Nagel scrutinized her on the sly. Good God, how lovely she was tonight! In this light, against the background of the dark wall, her thick blond braid looked even more blond. When she was sitting down, her figure had a touch of buxomness, which disappeared when she stood up. She had a light, swinging walk, as if she used to skate a lot.[6]

Nagel got up and walked over to her.[7]

She had allowed her deep-blue eyes to rest on him for a moment, and he exclaimed at once, without thinking, “Good Lord, how beautiful you are!”

She was completely bewildered by such directness; she was all agape and didn’t know where to turn. Then she whispered, “Please, be reasonable!”

Shortly afterward she rose and walked over to the piano, where she began to leaf through some music, her cheeks flaming red.

The doctor, who was itching to talk politics, suddenly asked the gathering, “Have you read today’s papers? Look at Morgenbladet —it’s a damn shame what they print these days! It’s not fit reading for educated people anymore, just vulgar talk and abusive language from beginning to end.”

But since he wasn’t contradicted, the doctor couldn’t get anywhere. Being aware of that, Hansen, the lawyer, remarked, slyly and genially, “Shouldn’t we say there are faults on both sides?”[8]

“Oh, but really!” the doctor cried, jumping up. “You aren’t saying, are you, that—”

The table was set. The company entered the dining room, while the doctor went on jabbering. The conversation continued at the table. Nagel, who had been seated between the hostess and Miss Olsen, the young daughter of the chief of police, didn’t take part in it. By the time they broke up from the table, they were already deep into European politics. They had expressed their opinions of the Czar, Constans, and Parnell, and when they finally came to the Balkan Question, the drunk teacher had another opportunity to throw himself upon Serbia. He had just read the Statistische Monatschrift; the conditions there were terrible, the schools completely neglected....

“There is one thing which makes me extremely happy,” the doctor said, his eyes quite moist, “namely, that Gladstone is still alive. Fill your glasses, gentlemen, and we’ll drink a toast to Gladstone, yes, to Gladstone, that great and pure democrat, a man of the present and the future.”

“Wait a moment, let us too be in on it!” cried his wife. And she filled the women’s glasses with wine, filled them to overflowing in her eagerness, and passed the tray around with trembling hands.

Then they all drank the toast.

“Well, isn’t he a real man, though!” the doctor went on, smacking his tongue. “Poor fellow, he has had a cold for a while, but hopefully it will pass. There’s no living politician I would be so reluctant to lose as Gladstone. Goodness, when I think of him he appears like a lighthouse in front of me, sending its beams all over the world! ... You look so preoccupied, Mr. Nagel, don’t you agree?”

“Beg your pardon? Of course, I completely agree with you.”

“Of course. Well, there are many things about Bismarck too that impress me,[9] but Gladstone!”

The doctor was still not being contradicted,[10] everybody knew about his blessed chatter. In the end the conversation so flagged that the doctor proposed a game of cards to pass the time. Who would like to play? But at that point Mrs. Stenersen called from the other end of the room, “Well, I never! Do you know what Mr. Ølien has just been telling me? Mr. Nagel, you haven’t always thought as highly of Gladstone as this evening, have you? Mr. Øien once heard you in Kristiania—was it in the Workers’ Association?—where you thoroughly reviled Gladstone. A fine one you are! Is this really true? Oh, just you dare, just you dare!”

Mrs. Stenersen said this in good faith, smiling and holding her finger up in jest. She repeated that he had to say whether it was true or not.

Taken aback, Nagel replied, “That must be a mistake.”

“I wouldn’t say that you reviled him,” Øien said. “You protested vehemently. For example, I recall your saying that Gladstone was a bigot.”

“A bigot! Gladstone a bigot!” the doctor yelled. “Were you drunk, man?”

Nagel laughed. “I don’t think so. Well, perhaps I was, I don’t know. It does sound like it.”

“It certainly does!” the doctor said, appeased.

Nagel refused to explain himself and wanted to drop the subject, but Dagny Kielland again asked Mrs. Stenersen to keep at it. “Get him to explain what he meant. It would be such fun.”

“Well, what did you really mean?” the hostess asked. “Since you protested, you must have meant something by it. So, let’s hear! Besides, you will be doing us a favor, because if you men start playing cards, we’ll all be so bored.”[11]

“If it will amuse you all, that’s quite another matter,” Nagel answers.

Did he intend, by this remark, to sneer at himself and the part he was playing? His lips curled slightly.

He started by saying he couldn’t recall the occasion Mr. Øien was talking about.... “Have any of you seen Gladstone or heard him speak? What is most impressive about him when he speaks is the man’s candid behavior, his great sense of justice. It’s as though any suggestion other than his having a clear conscience was out of the question. How could that man ever do this great wickedness and sin against God! And he himself is so deeply saturated with this idea of a clear conscience that he presupposes the same among his listeners, truly presupposes that his listeners too have a clear conscience—”

“But that’s one of his nice traits, isn’t it? It shows his integrity and his humane thinking,” the doctor cut in. “How absurd!”

“I’m of the same opinion; I simply mention it as part of his profile, a nice feature of his portrait, heh-heh-heh. Let me cite an incident that I just recalled; well, maybe I don’t need to relate the whole incident, I’ll just mention the name Carey. I don’t know whether all of you remember how Gladstone, in his time as prime minister, accepted denunciations from Carey, the traitor. Subsequently he helped him over to Africa, so he could escape the revenge of the Fenians. However, that’s not the question, that’s another story, I don’t give any weight to the sort of peccadilloes a prime minister may be forced to commit now and then. No, to get back to what we were talking about, the fact is that Gladstone as a speaker has the clearest conscience imaginable.... If you had seen or heard Gladstone speak, I would only have to call attention to his facial expressions during the speech. He’s so certain of his clear conscience that his certainty is mirrored in his eyes, his voice, his posture and his gestures. His speech is simple and easy to understand, slow and everlasting; oh, how everlasting it is, his barrel is never empty! You should see how he distributes his remarks around the hall—a few to the ironmonger over here, a few to that furrier over there—how he knows what he’s talking about to such a degree that he seems to appraise his words at a crown a piece. It’s quite a sight, truly entertaining! Gladstone, you see, is a knight of the indisputable right, and it’s the cause of that right he champions. It would never occur to him to make any sort of concession to error. That’s to say: if he knows he has the right on his side, he is ruthless in using it, displaying it, raising it to the skies, letting it flutter before the eyes of his listeners to put his opponents to shame. His morality is of the healthiest and most enduring kind: he’s working for Christianity, for humanism and for civilization. If someone offered that man so and so many thousand pounds to save an innocent woman from the scaffold, he would save the woman, refuse the money with contempt, and afterward take no credit for it. Not at all; he would take no credit for it, that’s the sort of man he is. He is a tireless fighter, perpetually on the go doing good on our planet, girding his loins every day for justice, truth and God. And what battles he wins! Two and two is four, truth has won the day, glory be to God! ... Oh well, Gladstone can go beyond two and two; I once heard him during a budgetary debate demonstrate that seventeen times twenty-three is three hundred ninety-one, and he won a huge, crushing victory. Once again he was right, and the rightness shone in his eyes, quivered in his voice, and elevated him to greatness. But then I really had to pause and look at the man. I understood that he had a clear conscience, and yet I paused. I stand there pondering the number he had arrived at, three hundred ninety-one, and find that it’s correct, and yet I turn it over in my mind and say to myself, No, wait a minute! Seventeen times twenty-three is three hundred ninety-seven! I know it is ninety-one, of course, but I still say, against my better judgment, it’s ninety-seven, to be on a different side than this man, this professional of rightness. There’s a voice inside me that demands, Rise up, rise up against this pedestrian rightness! And I rise up and say ninety-seven from a burning inner necessity, in order to prevent my consciousness of right from being trivialized and debased by this man, who stands so indisputably on the side of right—”

“I’ll be damned, but I never heard such nonsense in my whole life!” the doctor shouts. “Does it offend you that Gladstone is always right?”

Nagel smiled—whether from meekness or affectation was hard to say. “It does not offend me,” he continued, “rather, it demoralizes me.[12] Well, I don’t really count on being understood in this, but that doesn’t matter. Gladstone is a kind of knight errant of right and truth, his brain is rigid with acknowledged results. That two and two is four is, to him, the greatest truth under the sun. Shall we, then, deny that two and two is four? Of course not; and I say this to show that Gladstone is most certainly right. The question is whether you are sufficiently mad for truth to put up with it, whether your mind has become so blunted by truth that it can be bowled over by the bullwhip of a truth like that. That is the question.... Anyway, Gladstone is so right and his conscience so clear that it will never even occur to him to stop doing good for our planet. He must constantly be on the go, he’s in demand everywhere. And so he cuffs the world’s ears with his wisdom in Birmingham, in Glasgow, bringing a cork cutter and an attorney to the same political view, fighting like a Trojan for the cause he believes in, straining his old, faithful lungs to the utmost so that not one of his precious words will be lost on his listeners. And then, in the evening, when the performance is over and the people have cheered and Gladstone has taken his bows, he goes home and to bed; he folds his hands, recites a prayer and falls asleep, without the tiniest suspicion in his heart, without a hint of shame at having filled Birmingham and Glasgow—with what? He simply feels he has done his duty toward his fellow men and right by himself, and so he sleeps the sleep of the just. He wouldn’t be sinful enough to say to himself: Today you didn’t do very well, the two cotton spinners in the front row were bored, you made one of them yawn—he wouldn’t say this to himself, because he isn’t quite certain it’s true. And he refuses to lie, because lying is a sin, and Gladstone just won’t sin. No, he would say: I had the impression that a man yawned; strange to say, he seemed to yawn. But I must have been mistaken, the man probably didn’t yawn. Heh-heh-heh.... I don’t know whether it was something of the sort I said in Kristiania; but it doesn’t matter. At any rate, I confess that Gladstone’s so-called great mind has made anything but an overwhelming impression on me.”

“Poor Gladstone!” Mr. Reinert, the deputy, said.

Nagel made no reply.

“No, it wasn’t this you spoke about in Kristiania,” 0ien explained. “You raked Gladstone over the coals for his handling of the Irish and Parnell, and you said, among other things, that he was no great mind. I do recall your saying that. He was merely a powerful force, fairly good, but of an extremely ordinary kind, you said, Beaconsfield’s over-sized little finger.”

“I remember; I was denied the floor, heh-heh-heh. Good, I endorse that too, why not? It can’t get worse than it is already. But judge me leniently!”

Then Dr. Stenersen said, “Tell me, are you a member of the Conservative Party?”

Nagel opened his eyes wide in amazement; then he burst out laughing and replied, “Well, what do you think?”[13]

Just then the doorbell rang at the doctor’s office. Mrs. Stenersen jumped up; of course, now the doctor would have to go out again, worse luck. But nobody could break up yet, oh no, not before midnight anyway. Miss Andresen simply had to sit down again, Anna would bring more hot water, lots of hot water. It was only ten o’clock.

“Mr. Reinert, you aren’t drinking.”

Oh yes he was, he didn’t stint himself.

“Anyway, I won’t let you leave. You will stay, all of you. Dagny, you’re so quiet.”

No, Dagny was no quieter than usual.

At this moment the doctor came back from his office. They would have to excuse him, he had to be off; it was a serious case, a hemorrhage. Well, it was not so far away that he couldn’t be back in two or three hours; hoped to see them again then. “So long, everyone; so long, Jetta.”

The doctor left in great haste. A minute later he was seen with another man trotting down the road to the docks, he was in such a hurry.

“Now let’s dream up something,” Mrs. Stenersen said.... “Oh, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been bored staying here alone when my husband was away. It’s especially bad on winter nights, when I’m often not even sure he’ll ever get back.”

“You don’t have children, do you?” Nagel asked.

“No, we don’t.... Well, by now I’m more or less used to those long nights, but in the beginning it was terrible. I tell you, I was so afraid, so anxious and afraid of the dark—yes, I’m afraid of the dark too, I’m sorry to say—that sometimes I had to get out of bed and go lie down in the maid’s room.... But now you too, Dagny, must say something! What are you thinking about? Your sweetheart, of course.”

Dagny blushed, laughed shyly and replied, “Certainly I’m thinking about him. That’s only natural. But why don’t you ask Mr. Reinert what he’s thinking about? He hasn’t said a word all evening.”

Reinert protested; he had been chatting with the ladies, Miss Olsen and Miss Andresen, displaying considerable activity on the quiet, so to speak, being alert all the time and following the others’ political arguments; in short—

“You see, Miss Kielland’s fiancé has gone to sea again,” Mrs. Stenersen told Nagel. “He’s a naval officer, he’s gone to Malta—wasn’t it Malta?”

“Yes, Malta,” Dagny replied.

“Well, for such fellows getting engaged is quickly done! He drops by at his parents’ for two or three weeks, and then one evening ... Oh, those lieutenants!”

Fine men! Nagel thought. As a rule handsome, weather-beaten men with cheerful dispositions and open faces. And their uniforms were so nice, and they wore them with elegance. In fact, he had always been fascinated by naval officers.

Suddenly Miss Kielland turns around to Øien and asks with a smile, “That’s what Mr. Nagel says now. But what did he say in Kristiania?” Everyone laughed; Hansen, the lawyer, let out a drunken cry, “Yes, what did he say in Kristiania—in Kristiania? What did Mr. Nagel say there? Ha-ha-ha, oh dear! Skoal!”

Nagel clinked glasses with him and drank. Indeed, he had always been taken with naval officers. He would even go so far as to say that, if he were a girl, he would have a naval officer, or forget about it.

This brought renewed laughter; the lawyer enthusiastically clinked all the glasses on the table and drank. But suddenly Dagny said, “Lieutenants are supposed to be so ungifted. So you don’t believe that?”

“Nonsense.” But even if that were the case, he would still prefer a handsome man to an intelligent one, if he were a girl. Absolutely! And especially if he were a young girl. What could you do with a brain without a body? Well, one might say, what could you do with a body without a brain? Oh, there was a hell of a difference. Shakespeare’s parents couldn’t read. Why, Shakespeare himself probably couldn’t read very well, and yet he had secured a place in history. But however that might be, a girl would certainly get bored with an ugly learned man sooner than with a handsome dimwit.[14] No, if he were a young girl and could choose, a handsome man would be his first choice. The man’s opinions about Norwegian politics, Nietzsche’s philosophy, and the Holy Trinity were for the birds.

“Come, let me show you Miss Kielland’s lieutenant,” Mrs. Stenersen said, bringing an album.

Dagny jumped up. An “oh no!” escaped her, but shortly she sat down again. “The picture is so poor,” she said, “he’s much better-looking than that.”

Nagel saw a handsome young man with a beard. He was sitting at a table, erect and unconstrained, his hand on his officer’s sword. His rather thin hair was parted in the middle. There was an English air about him.

“Yes, that’s true, he’s much more handsome than that,” Mrs. Stenersen agreed. “I was in love with him myself once, in my girlish days.... But won’t you take a look at the man next to him? It’s the young theologian who just died, Karlsen—his name was Karlsen. He lost his life a couple of weeks ago. It was very tragic. What’s that? Well, yes, he was buried the day before yesterday.”

It was a sickly-looking creature with hollow cheeks and lips so thin and pinched that they appeared like a line drawn across his face. His eyes were large and dark, his forehead exceptionally high and clear; but his chest was flat and his shoulders no broader than a woman’s.

This was Karlsen. That’s how he looked. Nagel thought to himself that the face tallied with blue hands and theology. He was just about to remark that it was an uncanny face, when he noticed that Mr. Reinert moved his chair over to Dagny’s and began talking to her. So he continued turning the pages of the album, back and forth, and remained silent so as not to disturb.

“Since you have complained of my silence this evening,” Mr. Reinert said, “perhaps you’ll permit me to relate to you an experience from the visit of the Kaiser, a true story. I just happened to recall It—”

Dagny interrupted him and said softly, “Tell me, rather, what you’ve been having such fun with over there in the corner all evening. When I said you had been silent, you know, I simply meant to give you a warning. You were obviously being malicious again. It’s really mean of you to mimic and make fun of everything and everybody. True, it’s pretty awful the way he shows off that iron ring on his little finger, the way he holds it up, looks at it and polishes it. But it may well be he’s doing it quite unwittingly. At any rate, he didn’t carry on as badly as you made out he did. Still, he’s stuck-up and cracked enough to deserve it. But you, Gudrun, went too far, to laugh like that. He must have noticed that you were laughing at him.”

Joining them, Gudrun defended herself; she claimed it was all Mr. Reinert’s fault, he’d been so funny, quite irresistible. Just the way he had said, “Gladstone’s greatness has never impressed me—me!”

“Sh-sh, you’re talking too loud again, Gudrun. He heard you, yes, he did, he turned around. But did you notice—when he was interrupted, he never lost his temper, did he? He just gave us all an almost sorrowful look. Oh dear, I’m beginning to feel sorry that we’re sitting here gossiping about him.[15] So let’s hear your story about the Kaiser’s visit, Mr. Reinert.”

The deputy told the story. Since it was no secret but a quite harmless incident involving a woman and a bouquet of flowers, he spoke louder and louder, until at last everyone was listening. The story was long-winded and took several minutes. When he finished, Miss Andresen said, “Mr. Nagel, do you remember last night, that story you told us about the choir in the Mediterranean?”

Nagel quickly closed the album and looked out at the room with an almost frightened expression. Was he shamming, or was he sincere? Speaking softly, he replied that he might have been mistaken in a few details, but it wasn’t on purpose, and he hadn’t made up the story, it had really happened.

“Oh, please, I didn’t mean to suggest that you’d made it up,” she replied with a laugh. “But can you remember what you answered when I said it was so lovely? That only once before had you heard anything more beautiful, and that was in a dream.”

Oh yes, he remembered; he nodded.

“So, won’t you tell us that dream, too? Oh, please! You tell things so differently. We all beg you.”

But this time he refused. Offering many excuses, he said it was a mere trifle, a dream without beginning or end, a whiff of an idea during sleep. It couldn’t even be put into words; everyone knew those vague, fleeting sensations one could only feel like a flash, gone in an instant. Anyone could understand how stupid the whole thing was by the fact that the dream took place in a white silver wood—

“All right, a silver wood. And then?”

“No.” He shook his head.

He would gladly do anything in the world for her, oh yes, she was free to test him. But he couldn’t tell that dream, she must believe him.

“All right, then something else. We beg you, all of us.”

He wasn’t up to it, not tonight.[16] Sorry.

Then a few indifferent words were spoken, a couple of childish questions and answers, sheer nonsense. Dagny said, “So, you would do anything in the world for Miss Andresen? What exactly would you do?”

They laughed at this whim, as did Dagny herself. After a moment’s hesitation Nagel said, “For you I could do something really bad.”

“Something bad for me, then. Let’s hear. A murder, for instance?”

“Oh yes. I could kill an Eskimo and skin him to make a letter case for you.”

“You see! How about Miss Andresen, what could you do for her? Something frightfully good?”

“Perhaps I could, I don’t know. By the way, the thing about the Eskimo I’ve got from somewhere else. Don’t imagine it’s my own idea.”

Pause.

“You’re all very kind, wonderful people,” he went on. “You always want me to put myself forward, do my bit of chatter ahead of everybody else. Just because I’m a stranger.”[17]

The teacher stole a glance at his watch.

“Let me remind you,” said the hostess, “you won’t be allowed to leave until my husband gets back. Strictly forbidden. Do anything you like, but you can’t leave.”

Then coffee arrived, and the company grew livelier immediately. The lawyer, who had been arguing with the student about something, jumped up, light as a feather for all his corpulence, and clapped his hands in rapture; even the student rubbed his fingers, went over to the piano and struck a few chords.

“Aha,” cried the hostess, “how could we forget that you play the piano. Now go on. Yes, you must!”

And, sure enough, the student would be glad to play. He didn’t know much, but if they didn’t mind hearing some Chopin, or maybe a Lanner waltz...

Nagel applauded the music enthusiastically and said to Dagny,[18] “Listening to that kind of music, wouldn’t you like to be at some distance from it, in an adjoining room, say, holding hands with your beloved without speaking? I don’t know, but I’ve always imagined it would be so lovely.”

She gave him a scrutinizing look. Did he mean this nonsense? His face betrayed no irony, and so she fell in with his banal tone:[19] “Yes. But you wouldn’t want too much light, would you? And the chairs should preferably be rather low and soft. But outside it had to be rainy and dark.”

She was exceptionally attractive this evening. Those dark eyes in the fair-complexioned face left a strong impression. Though her teeth were not perfectly white, she often laughed, even at utter trifles; her lips were red and full, so you noticed them immediately. But perhaps the most remarkable thing about her was that tinge of red which invariably colored her cheeks every time she spoke and then quickly vanished.

“Oh, the teacher has disappeared again!” Mrs. Stenersen cries. “Of course, of course! That’s just like him, it’s impossible to keep an eye on that man. I hope at least that you, Mr. Reinert, will say good night before you leave.”

The teacher had gone out by the rear entrance; he had sneaked off quietly as always, tired after his intoxication, pale and exhausted from lack of sleep, and had not returned. At this piece of news, Nagel’s face suddenly changed. He was struck by the thought that he might be venturesome and offer to walk Dagny through the woods in the teacher’s place. What’s more, he asked her at once, without delay, beseeching her with his eyes and his bowed head, and ending with, “And I’ll be so good!”

She laughed and replied, “Well, thank you, as long as you promise me that.”

From now on he just waited for the doctor to be back so he could get going. At the prospect of this walk through the woods he became more vivacious, chatted with the guests about everything under the sun, making them all laugh, and was extremely amiable. He was so delighted, so filled with happiness, that he even promised to inspect Mrs. Stenersen’s garden and, in his capacity of a semi-expert, to examine the quality of the soil in the garden’s lower corner with the sick red currant bushes. He would get the better of the lice, all right, even if he had to read an incantation over them, exorcising them.

Did he know magic, too?

He dabbled in all sorts of things. For example, as they could see, he was wearing a ring, an ordinary iron ring with, however, the most miraculous powers. Would anybody think so from the looks of it? But if he should lose that ring some evening at ten o’clock, say, he would have to retrieve it by midnight, or he was in for trouble. It had been given him by a hoary old Greek, a storekeeper in Piraeus. Well, he had done the man a favor in return, and presented him with a tin of tobacco to boot, for the ring.

But did he really believe in it?

A little, sure. Truly! It had cured him once.

A dog could be heard barking in the direction of the seashore. Mrs. Stenersen looked at the clock—it was the doctor, all right, she recognized the dog. How nice! It was twelve o’clock, and he was already back! She rang for more coffee.

“That ring is so remarkable, is it? And you firmly believe in it, Mr. Nagel?”

“Quite firmly.” Or rather, he had good reasons not to be altogether skeptical of it. Anyway, what difference did it make what one believed in, as long as, in one’s heart, one considered one thing to be just as good as the next? The ring had cured him of nervousness and made him steady and strong.

Mrs. Stenersen had a good long laugh, but then began to protest vehemently. She just couldn’t stand that kind of cynical talk—sorry, but she called it cynical talk—and she felt certain that Mr. Nagel didn’t really mean what he said. When you heard educated people say such things, what could be expected of the ordinary joes? Where would we end up? Then even doctors might as well shut up shop.

Nagel defended himself. Sure, one thing was just about as good as any other. It was the patient’s will, his faith and disposition, everything depended on. Still, doctors didn’t have to shut up shop, they had their congregation after all, their faithful; they had the educated people, and the educated people were cured with medicines, while the heretics, the ordinary joes, were cured with iron rings, burned human bones and graveyard dirt. Weren’t there instances where patients got better by drinking ordinary water, as long as they were made to believe that it was a sophisticated remedy? And look at the experience gained from cases of morphine addiction! It was when he met with such strange happenings that the non-doctrinaire individual could say, “I’ll be damned!” and proclaim his independence as regards belief in medical science. However, he didn’t mean to leave the impression that he claimed to understand these matters, he was no expert and lacked the knowledge. Besides, when all was said and done, he was in such high spirits at the moment that he didn’t want to spoil anyone else’s. Mrs. Stenersen must really forgive him, they all must.

He kept looking at his watch and was already buttoning up his jacket.

In the midst of this conversation the doctor turned up. Nervous and gloomy, he said good evening with forced gaiety and thanked his guests for having stayed. Oh well, there was nothing to be done about the teacher, peace be with him, but otherwise the party was complete. Alas, life in this world was a perpetual struggle!

Then he began talking about the visit, as he was in the habit of doing. His sour mien was due to the fact that his patients had let him down; they had behaved like idiots and jackasses, and he could wish they were thrown in jail. Try to imagine the sort of place he had just come from! The wife ill, the wife’s father ill, the wife’s son ill—and the whole house was stinking! And yet, the rest of the family were healthy and rosy-cheeked, the small fry as fit as could be. It was incomprehensible, fabulous; he just couldn’t understand it: There lay the old man, the wife’s father, with a cut this big! They had sent for a woman who used household remedies, and she had stopped the bleeding, to be sure; but what had she stopped it with? Revolting, criminal; it was unspeakable, it smelled, you could choke on it, ugh! Besides, gangrene would set in at the first opportunity! God only knows what would have happened if he hadn’t turned up this evening! Why, they should strengthen the law against quacks, you bet they should, and put it into the hands of those people.... Well, the bleeding had been stopped. But then there was the son, a grown-up fellow, a tall s. o. b. who had caught a rash in his face. “I had given him the ointments before and expressly said: this yellow ointment for one—one—hour, and this white ointment, the zinc ointment, the rest of the time. What does he do? Takes the wrong ointment, naturally, applies the white one for an hour and the yellow one, which burns and draws like hell, he uses round the clock. He keeps this up for two weeks. But—and this is the most remarkable thing of all—the fellow recovered, recovered despite his stupidity; he became well! A bull, an ox, who gets well regardless, using anything he damn well pleases! He presented himself to me tonight with cheeks and chops without as much as a wrinkle. Just luck, a pure fluke! He could have ruined his face for ever so long, but do you think that made him blink? ... Then there is the boy’s mother, the mistress of the house. She’s sick, debilitated, weak, dizzy, nervous, with poor appetite and a buzzing in her ears. ‘Take a bath!’ I say. ‘Take a bath and wash yourself, get some water on your body, damn it! Roast a calf and get some meat on your bones, push open the windows and get some fresh air, don’t stay wet, go outside, throw away that book, Johann Arendt, burn it!’ and so on. ‘But above all, bathe and shower and bathe again, otherwise my medicine won’t do you any good.’ Well, she couldn’t afford the calf, which may have been true enough, but she bathes, she bathes and gets rid of some dirt, till she can’t take it anymore; she’s freezing cold, her teeth chatter from all that cleanliness, and so she says goodbye to the water! She simply couldn’t stand being clean any longer! What then! Well, she gets hold of a chain, an antirheumatic chain, a Volta cross or whatever it’s called, and hangs it around her neck. I ask if I may see the thing: a zinc disk, a rag, a couple of hooks, a couple of smallish hooks, that’s all. ‘What the hell are you using this for?’ I say. Oh, it had helped some, it had really helped her; it had soothed her headaches and given her back some warmth. Oh yes, those hooks and that zinc disk had made her better! What can you do with such people? I could spit on a stick and give it her, and it would do her just as much good. But try to tell her that! ‘Put that thing away,’ I say, ‘or I won’t do anything for you, I won’t touch you.’ And what do you think she does? She holds on to her zinc disk and lets me go! Hee-hee-hee, she lets me go! Good God! No, one shouldn’t be a physician, one should be a medicine man....”

The doctor sits down to his coffee in great agitation. His wife exchanges glances with Nagel and says, laughing, “Mr. Nagel would’ve done exactly the same as that woman. We were discussing the matter just before you came. Mr. Nagel doesn’t believe in your science.”

“So, Mr. Nagel doesn’t?” the doctor remarks curtly. “Well, Mr. Nagel can do as he likes in that regard.”

Annoyed and offended, filled with anger at these bad patients who had ignored his orders, the doctor drank his coffee in silence. He was indignant that everyone was watching him. “Dream up something, get a move on,” he said. But after the coffee he cheered up again, chatted with Dagny awhile, and made fun of his oarsman, the man who had taken him to his patients. Then he reverted to his troubles as a physician and lost his temper afresh. He still found it impossible to forget that mistake with the ointments; it was all just coarseness and superstition and idiocy and nothing else. All in all, the ignorance among the common people was atrocious.

“But the man got well, after all!”

The doctor could have dug his teeth into Dagny when she said this. He straightened up. The man got well, sure, and so what? That didn’t preclude the existence of scandalous stupidity out there among the common people. The man got well, all right; but what if he had burned up his chops? Did she mean to defend his bovine stupidity?

This ignominious run-in with a peasant lout who had acted in the teeth of his instructions and still been cured, irritated the doctor more than anything else and made his otherwise gentle eyes look perfectly furious behind his glasses. He had been taken in by the wiliest fluke, set aside in favor of a zinc disk, and only after a stiff toddy on top of the coffee was he able to forget about it. Then he suddenly said, “Jetta, look, I gave the man who picked me up five kroner, just so you know. Ha-ha-ha, I’ve never seen such a fellow; the whole seat of his pants was gone, but what strength there was in him, and what nonchalance! A helluva guy! He sang all the way rowing out. He was sure as sin he could reach the sky with a fishing rod if he stood on top of Mount Etje. ‘You would have to stand on tiptoe, then,’ I said. That he didn’t understand; he took it seriously and swore he could stand on tiptoe as well as anybody. Ha-ha-ha, would you believe it! But he certainly was amusing.”

Finally Miss Andresen got up to leave, whereupon everybody else did the same. When Nagel said good night, he thanked his hosts so warmly, so sincerely, that the doctor, who had been slightly cross with him the last quarter of an hour, was quite disarmed. “Come back soon! Say, have you got a cigar? Do light a cigar, will you.” And the doctor forced him to come in for a fresh cigar.

Meanwhile Dagny had put on her wraps and was waiting on the steps.

VIII

White nights

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL NIGHT.

The two or three people who were still to be seen in the streets looked radiantly happy; in the cemetery a man was still trundling a wheelbarrow, singing softly. Otherwise, everything was so quiet that nothing could be heard except this song. From the elevation by the doctor’s house, the town looked like a weird, splayed giant insect, a fabulous creature that had thrown itself flat on its belly, extending arms and horns and feelers in all directions; only here and there did it move a joint or withdraw a claw—such as down by the seaside, where a tiny steam yawl glided soundlessly along the bay, leaving a furrow in the black water.

The smoke from Nagel’s cigar rose in blue swirls. Already taking in the fragrance of the grass and the woods, he was seized with a keen sense of contentment, a special, intense joy that made his eyes water and nearly took his breath away. He was walking beside Dagny, who hadn’t yet spoken. After passing the cemetery, he had uttered a few words of praise for the Stenersens, but she hadn’t answered. By now the stillness and beauty of the night had intoxicated him so profoundly, imbued him with such ardor, that his breath quickened and his eyes grew dim. Oh, how lovely these white nights were! “Just look at those hills over there, how clear they are!” he said in a loud voice. “I’m so happy, Miss Kielland, I must ask you kindly to bear with me; tonight, you know, I could do something foolish from sheer happiness.[1] Do you see these pine trees, and the stones and tussocks and clusters of juniper? In this nocturnal light, they look like people sitting there. And the night is clear and cool; it doesn’t oppress us with mysterious forebodings, and no secret dangers are brewing anywhere. Or are they? Now, don’t be annoyed with me, you mustn’t! I feel as though angels were passing through my soul, singing a song. Do I frighten you?”

She had stopped, that’s why he asked whether he frightened her. She looked at him with her blue eyes and smiled, then became serious again and said, “I’ve been wondering what sort of person you are.”

She said this while continuing to stand still and looking at him. During the entire walk she spoke in a clear, tremulous voice, as if she were scared and glad at the same time.

Then the following conversation started up between them, a conversation that, no matter how slowly they walked, went on until they were at the other end of the forest, jumping from one thing to another, from mood to mood, with all the emotional restlessness they were both feeling.

“You’ve been thinking about me? Really? But I’ve probably thought much, much more about you. I already knew about you when I arrived, I overheard your name aboard the steamer; I happened to hear it by chance as I was listening to a conversation. And I went ashore here on June 12. June 12—”

“On June 12 of all days, you don’t say!”

“Yes. Flags were flying all over town, and I thought it was such a delightful little town, that’s why I stepped ashore here. And soon I heard more about you.”

She smiled and asked, “Well, I suppose you heard it from Miniman?”

“No. I heard that you were loved by everybody, by the whole town, and that you were admired by all.” ... Suddenly Nagel came to think of Karlsen, the theologian, who had taken his own life for her sake.[2]

“Tell me,” she said, “did you mean what you said about the naval officers?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, then we agree.”

“Why shouldn’t I mean it? I’m enthusiastic about them, I always have been; I admire their free life, their uniforms, their freshness and fearlessness. Most of them are also extremely agreeable people.”[3]

“But now let’s talk about you. What grievance do you have against Mr. Reinert, the deputy?”

“None at all. Against Mr. Reinert, did you say?”

“Last night you asked him to forgive you for something, and tonight you barely spoke a word with him. Are you in the habit of offending everybody and then apologizing for it?”

He laughed and looked down at the road.

“The truth is,” he replied, “that it was quite wrong of me to offend the deputy. But I’m quite certain that it will be all right again when I’ve had a chance to talk to him. I’m a bit hasty, a bit too plain-spoken, the whole thing was due to his jostling me as he passed through a door. A trifle, that is, a carelessness on his part; but like a fool I immediately jump up and call him names, shake my tankard under his nose and dent his hat. Then he left; as a gentleman he simply had to take himself off. But afterward I came to regret my conduct, and I’ve decided to make it up with him. Naturally, I may have had an excuse of sorts; I was all nerves that day, having had several disappointments. But nobody knows about that, you can’t tell people such things, so I’d better take the whole blame.”[4]

He had spoken without hesitation, in absolute sincerity, as if trying to be fair to both sides. Nor did his expression betray any trickery. But Dagny stopped short, looked him squarely in the face and said, astonished, “Oh, but—that’s not how it happened! I’ve heard a quite different story.”

“Miniman is lying!” Nagel cried, coloring up.

“Miniman? I didn’t hear it from Miniman. Why are you slandering yourself? I heard it from a man in Market Square, from the plasterer, he told me all about it. He saw it from beginning to end.”

Pause.

“Why do you have to slander yourself? That baffles me,” she went on, not taking her eyes off him. “I heard the story today and it made me so happy; that is, I thought you had acted in such an exceptionally beautiful way, in such a superior way. It suited you so well. If I hadn’t heard that story this morning, I would hardly have dared to walk here with you now. I’m telling you this in all sincerity.”

Pause.

Then he says, “And now you admire me because of this?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“Oh yes, you do.[5]

“Look,” he goes on, “this is a farce. You are an honest person, it goes against my grain to deceive you; I’ll tell you what the truth of the matter is.”

And he explains to her, brazenly and unblinkingly, how he calculated the whole thing.

“When I present this skirmish with the deputy in my own way, distorting the matter slightly, even slandering myself a little, I do so essentially—essentially—out of pure speculation. I’m trying to derive as much advantage from the affair as possible. You can see I’m quite candid with you. I take it for granted that someone or other will tell you the truth sometime anyway, and since I have from the start made myself look as bad as possible, I stand to gain by it, to win an immense prize. I acquire a tinge of greatness, of magnanimity, which scarcely has an equal—don’t you agree?—but it only comes about through a deception so common, so crude, that you’ll be shocked on learning about it. I feel bound to make this open confession, because you deserve that I treat you honestly. But what I’ll achieve by it is, of course, to drive you a thousand miles away from me, unfortunately.”

Her eyes still fastened on him, she pondered this man and his words, reflecting and trying to form an opinion. What was she to believe? What was he after with all his candor? Again she suddenly stops, claps her hands together and bursts into loud, ringing laughter.

“Oh, you’re the most impudent person I’ve ever known! Imagine saying such things, one nastier than the other, and all with a straight face, just to damage oneself! But you won’t get anywhere with it! The utter absurdity of it! What guarantee did you have that I would ever get to know the truth of the matter? Tell me that! No, stop, don’t say anything, it’ll only be one more lie. Phew, how mean of you, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. But listen: once you have calculated that it will go this way or that, arranged everything and achieved what you wanted, why do you go and spoil it all afterward by confessing your deception, as you call it? Last night you did pretty much the same thing. I just don’t understand you. How can you calculate all the rest while you do not calculate that you will end up exposing your own trickery?”

Far from throwing up the game, he thought for a moment and replied, “But I do calculate it, oh yes, I calculate that too, as you’ll come to realize. When I confess, as I’m doing right now, I really don’t risk anything by it, not much anyway. You see, in the first place I can’t be sure that the person I confess to will believe me. You, for one, don’t believe me at this moment. And what’s the consequence? Well, the consequence is that I make a double profit; I profit enormously, my prize grows like an avalanche, my greatness becomes mountain-high. Yes. But in the second place, I would come away from the speculation with profit in any case, even if you believed me. You’re shaking your head? Oh, please, don’t; I’ve acted on this assumption often enough, I assure you, and I’ve always gained by it. If you really believed that my confession was truthful, you would at least be quite struck by my candor. You would say, Well, he has fooled me, but he tells me so afterward, and without any need to; his impudence is mysterious, he shuns absolutely nothing, he positively bars my way with his admissions! In short, I force you to stare hard at me, I excite your curiosity to occupy itself with me, I make you bridle. No more than a minute ago you said yourself, ‘I just don’t understand you!’ Now, you said this because you had tried to puzzle me out—which again tickles me, feels directly sweet to me, in fact. So, at all events I bring my profit home whether you believe me or not.”

Pause.

“And you want me to believe,” she said, “that you’ve planned all this trickery in advance? That you’ve met every contingency, taken all precautions? Ha-ha-ha! Nothing you say can ever surprise me again, from now on I’ll be prepared for anything. Well, enough of that, you could’ve come off far worse as a liar, you’re quite clever.”

He stuck stubbornly to his point, remarking that after this decision on her part his high-mindedness must seem like a mountain. And he wanted to thank her so much, heh-heh-heh; he had achieved everything he had intended. But it was much too kind of her, much too good-natured—

“All right,” she broke in, “that will do.”

But now it was he who came to a stop. “I tell you once again that I’ve fooled you!” he said, fixing his eyes on her.

They looked at each other for a moment; her heart began to beat faster and she turned rather pale. Why, she wondered, was it so important for him to make her believe the worst about himself? Glad and willing as he otherwise was to give way, in this respect he couldn’t be made to budge. What a fixed idea, what foolishness! Exasperated, she exclaimed, “I cannot figure out why you’re turning yourself inside out for me. After all, you promised to be good.”

Her anger was, indeed, genuine. Her brain was starting to reel from his obstinacy, which was so cocksure, so unshakable that it made her waver. She felt insulted to have become muddled like this. In her agitation she was tapping her hand with the parasol as she walked.

He was very miserable[6] and made many helpless, droll remarks about it. At last she had to laugh again, giving him to understand that she didn’t take him seriously. He was simply impossible, would always remain impossible, and wanted to be impossible. Well, he could just please himself, if he thought it was such fun. But not another word about this fixed idea of his, not a word....

Pause.

“This is where we first met,” he said. “Do you remember? I’ll never forget how elflike you looked as you fled. Like a wood nymph, a vision—. But now I’m going to tell you about an adventure I once had.”[7]

Actually, it was a dull adventure, it shouldn’t take very long to tell. He was sitting in his room in a little town—it was not in Norway, never mind where it was; in short, he was sitting in his room one mild fall evening. It was eight years ago, in 1883. He was sitting with his back to the door reading a book.

“Were you using a lamp?”

“Yes; it was pitch-dark outside. I was reading. Then someone is walking outside, I can distinctly hear footsteps on the stairs; I can also hear someone knocking on my door. ‘Come in!’ No one comes. I open the door—nobody outside. There isn’t a sign of anybody outside. I ring for the maid. Had anyone climbed the stairs? No, nobody had climbed the stairs. ‘Very well, good night!’ The maid leaves.

“I resume my reading. Then I feel a puff of air, a brush as of someone’s breath, and I hear a whisper, ‘Come!’ I look around—no one there. I go on reading, but get annoyed and say, ‘What the hell!’ The same moment I notice, next to me, a pale little man with a red beard and dry, stiff, bristly hair; the man is standing to my left. He winks at me and I wink back; we had never seen each other before, but we winked at one another. I close the book with my right hand, and the man moves toward the door and disappears; I follow him with my eyes and see him disappearing. I rise and walk up to the door, and again I hear the whisper, ‘Come!’ All right, I get into my coat, snap my galoshes on and step out. Then I thought, You should light a cigar, and I turn back to my room and light a cigar. I also pocket some cigars. God knows why, but I did, and went out again.

“It was pitch-black and I couldn’t see a thing, but I felt that the little man was beside me. Groping to get hold of him, I made myself obstinate and decided not to budge unless he gave me clearer instructions. But he was nowhere to be found. I even tried to wink at him here and there in the dark, but to no avail. ‘Never mind!’ I said, ‘I’m not going for your sake, I go for my own sake, I’m taking a walk; please note that I’m simply going for a stroll.’ I spoke in a loud voice so he would hear me. I walked for several hours and was already in the countryside, inside a forest; I felt branches and leaves wet with dew slapping my face. ‘Well!’ I said at last, pulling out my watch as if to look at it, ‘well, I’m going back home!’ But I didn’t go back home, I just couldn’t turn around, something was still driving me on. Anyway, I said to myself, the weather is so wonderful, you can keep this up for a night or two, you have plenty of time! I said this, though I was tired and thoroughly wet with dew. I lighted a fresh cigar; the little man was still with me, I could feel him blowing on me. And I walked on and on, in every possible direction, but never back toward town. My feet were beginning to ache, I was wet with dew up to my knees, and my face was smarting from being grazed by the wet branches. It may seem somewhat strange of me to be walking around here at this hour, I said to myself, but it’s a habit of mine, a custom from my childhood, to hunt up the biggest forests there are and walk in them at night. And I forged ahead with clenched teeth. Then the tower clock in town strikes twelve—one, two, three, four, up to twelve; I count the strokes. That familiar sound braced me up considerably, though I was annoyed that we hadn’t yet gotten farther away from town after all our tramping around. Well, the tower clock struck the hour, and just as the twelfth stroke fell, the little man again stands vividly before me, looking at me and laughing. I won’t forget it as long as I live, he was so vividly present; he had two front teeth missing and was holding his arms behind his back....”

“But how could you see him in the dark?”

“He was luminous. He shone with a strange light that seemed to be behind him, radiating from his back and making him transparent; even his clothes became as clear as day, his trousers were worn and much too short. I saw all this in a second. The sight struck me with amazement, and I instinctively closed my eyes and backed away half a step. When I looked up again, the man was gone—”

“Ah—!”

“There’s more. I had come to a tower. There was a tower in front of me, I had bumped into it; I saw it more and more clearly: a black octagonal tower, like the Tower of the Winds in Athens, if you’ve seen a picture of that. I’d never heard of any tower in that forest, but the fact remains: I stand before this tower, I hear another ‘Come!’ and I go in. The gate was left open behind me, which I felt as a relief.

“Inside, in the archway, I again meet the little man. A lamp was burning on one of the walls and I could see him clearly; he came toward me as if he’d been in there all along, laughing silently as he stood there staring at me. Looking into his eyes, I felt they were full of all the terrible things which those eyes had seen in his lifetime. Again he winked at me, but I didn’t wink back, and I retreated from him as he approached me. Suddenly I hear light footsteps behind me and, turning my head, I see a young woman come in.

“Well, I look at her and feel delighted. She had red hair and black eyes, but she was not well dressed and walked barefoot on the stone floor. Her arms were naked, and without any spots.

“She scrutinizes us both for a moment, then makes a deep bow to me and walks up to the little man. Without a word, she begins unbuttoning his clothes and feeling him all over, as if she were looking for something, and presently she pulls a burning light, a small flashing lantern, out of the lining of his cloak and hangs it on her finger. The lantern shines so brightly that it completely eclipses the lamp on the wall. The man stood perfectly still, laughing silently as before while being searched. ‘Good night!’ the woman said, pointing to a door, and the man, that terrible, mysterious half-animal creature, went away. I was left alone with the newcomer.

“She came toward me, made another deep bow to me and, without smiling or raising her voice, she said, ‘Where do you come from?’

“‘From town, fair maiden,’ I replied. ‘I’ve come all the way from town.’

“‘Stranger, forgive my father!’ she said all of a sudden. ‘Don’t do us any harm because of him; he’s sick, he’s mad, you saw his eyes, didn’t you?’

“‘Yes, I saw his eyes,’ I answered, ‘and I felt their power over me, I followed them.’

“‘Where did you meet him?’ she asked.

“‘At home, in my room,’ I replied. ‘I was reading when he came.’

“She shook her head and lowered her eyes.

“‘But don’t feel sad because of that, fair damsel,’ I said; ‘I was glad to take that walk, I didn’t neglect anything by doing so, and I don’t regret having met you. Just look, I’m happy and contented, why don’t you smile, too?’

“But she did not smile. She said, ‘Take off your shoes. You mustn’t leave tonight, I’ll dry your clothes for you.’

“I looked down at my clothes—they were soaking wet, and water was oozing out of my shoes. I did as I was told, pulled off my shoes and handed them to her. But when I had done so she blew out the lamp and said, ‘Come!’

“‘Wait a moment,’ I said, stopping her. ‘If I’m not going to sleep here, why did you make me take off my shoes right away?’

“‘That I won’t tell you,’ she replied.

“And she didn’t tell me.

“She led me through a door, into a dark room; there was a sound as if someone were sniffing about for us. I felt a soft hand on my lips, and the girl’s voice came, aloud, ‘It’s me, Father. The stranger is gone—gone.’

“But again I could hear how the deformed madman was nosing about for us.

“We walked up a flight of stairs, she holding my hand and neither of us speaking. We stepped into another vault, where you couldn’t see a ray of light; it was black night everywhere.

“‘Quiet!’ she whispered, ‘here’s my bed.’

“And I groped for the bed and found it.

“‘Now, take off the rest of your clothes,’ she whispered.

“I took them off and handed them to her.

“‘Good night!’ she said.

“I tried to hold her back, begging her to stay: ‘Wait a moment, don’t go. Now I know why you made me take off my shoes downstairs. I’ll be very quiet, your father didn’t hear me—come!’

“But she didn’t come.

“‘Good night!’ she said again and left....”

Pause. Dagny had turned flaming red, her breast rose and fell, her nostrils quivered. “She left?” she asked quickly.

Pause.[8]

“Now my nightly adventure changes and becomes like a fairy tale, a rose-colored remembrance. Imagine a white, white night.... I was alone; the darkness around me was thick and heavy, like velvet. I was tired, my knees were shaking, and I felt rather dazed. What a scoundrel that madman was, to have led me around in circles in the wet grass for hours, led me like a dumb beast just by that look in his eyes and his ‘Come, come!’ The next time I would tear the lantern out of his hand and smash his chops with it! I was quite furious, lighted a cigar in my anger and went to bed. I lay there watching the light of my cigar for a while; then I hear the gate slam below, and all is quiet.

“Ten minutes went by. Keep in mind: I’m lying wide awake in bed smoking a cigar. All at once the vault is filled with a soughing noise, as though vents were opened all over the ceiling. Getting up on my elbow to put out my cigar, I stare about me in the darkness without discovering anything. I lie down again and listen; I seem to hear some sounds far away, a marvelous thousand-voiced music from somewhere outside me, from way up under the sky perhaps, thousand-voiced and soft. The music goes on and on, coming closer and closer until at last it surges above me, over the roof of the tower. Again I get up on my elbow. Then I experience something that even today intoxicates me with a mysterious, supernatural pleasure whenever I think of it: a stream of tiny little dazzling creatures suddenly descends upon me; they are perfectly white, angels, myriads of little angels streaming down from on high like an oblique wall of light. They fill the vault, there may be as many as a million; they float about the room in a wave-like motion, from floor to ceiling, and they sing, they sing, and they are perfectly naked and white. My heart stands still, there are angels everywhere, I listen and hear their song; they brush my eyelids and settle in my hair, and the entire vault is filled with the fragrance from their small open mouths.

“As I lie there leaning on my elbow, I hold out my hand to them, and some sit down on it; they look like a trembling seven-pointed star on my hand. But when I bend forward and look into their eyes, I see that their eyes are blind. I release the seven blind ones and catch seven others, and they too are blind. Alas, they were all blind—the whole tower was full of blind angels singing.

“Realizing this almost took my breath away, I couldn’t move; a sad lament glided through my soul for the sake of those blind eyes.

“A minute went by. Lying there listening, I hear a heavy, hollow stroke somewhere far away; the sound is so clear, it’s uncanny, followed by a long rumble: it was the town clock striking the hour again. It struck one o’clock.

“All at once the song of the angels ceased. I saw them get into formation and fly away, swarming up to the ceiling, pushing to be off. They were like an oblique wall of sheer light, and they all looked at me as they left. The last one turned to give me yet another look with his blind eyes before he disappeared.

“That is the last thing I remember, the one angel who turned to look at me, although he was blind. Then everything went dark. I fell back on the bed and slept....

“When I awoke it was broad daylight. I was still alone in the vault. My clothes were lying on the floor in front of me. I brushed them with my hand, they were still a little wet; but I put them on anyway. Then the door opens and the girl from the night before reappears.

“She comes straight up to me, and I say, ‘Where do you come from? Where were you last night?’

“‘Up there,’ she replies, pointing to the roof of the tower.

“‘Didn’t you sleep?’

“‘No, I didn’t sleep. I kept watch.’

“‘But didn’t you hear music last night?’ I asked. ‘I heard a music too wonderful for words.’

“‘Oh yes, that was me playing and singing,’ she replied.

“‘Was it you? Tell me, child, was it you?’

“‘It was.’

“She gave me her hand and said, ‘Come now, I’ll walk you part of the way.’

“And so we walked out of the tower and into the forest, hand in hand. The sun shone on her golden hair, and her black eyes were ravishing. I took her in my arms and kissed her twice on the forehead, and then I fell on my knees before her. With trembling hands she undid a black ribbon she was wearing and tied it around my wrist; but she cried as she did so, overcome by emotion. ‘Why are you crying?’ I asked. ‘Forgive me if I’ve done something to hurt you!’

“But she merely replied, ‘Can you see the town?’

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘I can’t. Can you?’

“‘Stand up and let’s go on,’ she said. She again led me onward. Stopping once more, I pressed her to my breast and said, ‘How dearly you make me love you, how you fill me with happiness!’

“I could feel her trembling in my arms, but still she said, ‘I must turn back now. You can see the town, can’t you?’

“‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘You can, too, I suppose?’

“‘No,’ she replied.

“‘Why not?’ I asked.

“Withdrawing from me, she gazed at me with her large eyes, and before she left she made a deep bow to me for goodbye. When she had walked a few steps away, she turned to look at me once more.

“Then I saw that her eyes, too, were blind....

“At this point there comes a period of twelve hours which I can’t give any account of, they are beyond recall. I have no idea what happened to them. I’ve pounded my head and said, ‘It’s a matter of twelve hours, they have to be in here somewhere, they’re simply hiding and I must find them.’ But I haven’t found them....

“Again it’s evening, a dark, mild fall evening. I’m sitting in my room with a book in my hand. I look down at my legs, they’re still a little wet; I look at my wrist, and it has a bit of black ribbon tied around it. It’s all quite true.

“I ring for the maid and ask her if there is a tower in the vicinity, someplace over in the forest, a black octagonal tower. The maid nods and says, ‘Yes, there is a tower.’—‘And does anyone live there?’—‘Yes, a man is living there, but he’s sick, he’s possessed; they call him Jack-o’-Lantern. And Jack-o‘-Lantern has a daughter, who also lives in the tower; there’s no one else living there.’—‘Very well; good night.’

“And so I go to bed.

“Early the next morning I make my way into the woods. I follow the same path and see the same trees, and I also find the tower. Approaching the gate, I see a sight that takes my breath away: on the ground lies the blind girl, crushed in a fall, dead, all smashed up. There she lies, her mouth wide open, the sun shining on her reddish hair. On the edge of the roof, a shred of her dress is still fluttering, having been caught there; and on the gravel path below walks the little man, her father, his eyes on the body. His breast is shaken by spasms and he howls aloud; he can’t think of anything to do but hover around the body, staring at it and howling. When he caught sight of me, I trembled before those uncanny eyes and fled back to town, terrified. I never saw him again....

“That was my fairy-tale adventure.”

A long silence followed. Dagny walked exceedingly slow, looking down at the road. Finally she said, “God, what a strange adventure!”

Then there was another silence, which Nagel tried to break a couple of times with a remark about the profound peace in the forest.[9] “Can you smell the fragrance of the forest right here? Please, let’s sit down a moment!”

She sat down, still quiet, still pensive, and he sat down facing her.[10]

He felt duty bound to cheer her up with his chatter again. It wasn’t really a sad fairy tale, but rather a merry one. Pooh! Whereas in India—in India the fairy tales were something altogether different; they took your breath away and chilled you to the bone with horror. There were two kinds of Indian fairy tales: the preternaturally glorious ones about diamond caves, princes from the mountains, alluring beauties from the sea, spirits of the earth and air, pearl palaces, castles west of the moon,[11] flying horses, forests of gold and silver. Others showed a preference for describing the mysterious, things grand and singular and miraculous. On the whole, no one could match the Orientals’ ability to hatch colossal delusions, feverish products of bridling brains. From the very beginning, their lives were lived in a fairy-tale world, and they spoke just as easily about the wild fairy palaces beyond the mountains as about the dumb giant in the sky, the great power that putters about up there in space munching on stars. It was all due to the fact that those people lived under a different sun and ate fruit instead of beef.[12] ”But haven’t we got excellent fairy tales of our own?” Dagny asked.

“Wonderful ones. Only of a different sort.” We had no idea of a sun that could shine and burn excessively. Our legends about the hulder, the wood nymph, stuck to the ground, stayed underground in fact; they were the products of a[13] fantasy wearing skin trousers, hatched on dark winter nights in log cabins with smoke vents in the roof. Had she ever read the fairy tales in Thousand and One Nights? The fairy tales from Gudbrandsdal with their peasant-saturated poetry and pedestrian fantasy—they belonged to us, they were our spirit. Our fairy tales didn’t make us shudder, they were good-humored and droll, they made us laugh. Our hero was not a splendid prince, but a wily parish clerk.[14] I beg your pardon? Well, the Nordland fairy tales—but weren’t they just the same?[15] What had we managed to make of the mysterious, rough beauty of the ocean? The Nordland sloop alone would be a fabled boat, a phantom ship, to the Oriental. Had she ever seen one of those sloops? No? It looked as if it were sexed, as if it were a large she-animal, its belly bulging with young and its rear quite flat, as if it could sit down. Its nose points skyward like a horn that could draw down the four winds.... “No, we live too far north.[16] Well, this is in all modesty intended only as an agronomist’s opinion of a geographical phenomenon.”[17]

She must have grown tired of all his chatter, for there was a hint of mockery in her blue eyes as she asked, “What time is it?”

“What time?” he said absentmindedly. “It’s a few minutes past one. The night is still young, time is nil.”

Pause.

“What’s your opinion of Tolstoy?” she asked.

“I don’t care for him,” he replied at once, jumping at the bait. “I do like Anna Karenina and War and Peace and—”

Then she asked, smiling, “And what’s your opinion of universal peace?”

That was quite a rap. His expression changed, he was bewildered. “What do you mean? ... Oh, I’ve been boring you to death, haven’t I?”

“It just occurred to me, I assure you,” she said hurriedly, turning red. “You mustn’t take it amiss. The fact is, we’re getting up a bazaar, an evening entertainment for the benefit of the National Defense. It was only this that flashed through my mind just then.”

Pause. Suddenly he looks up at her with beaming eyes.

“I’m happy this evening, you see, and so I’ve probably been jabbering too much.[18] I’m happy because of everything, first and foremost because I’m walking here with you;[19] but I’m also happy because this night seems the most beautiful I’ve ever known. I can’t explain it. It’s as if I were part of this forest or this field, a branch on a pine tree or a rock, yes, a rock, why not, but a rock imbued with all this delicate fragrance and peace that surround us. Look yonder, it’s getting light; there is a silver streak in the sky.”

They both looked in the direction of the white streak.

“I, too, am happy tonight,” she said.[20]

She said this without being obliged to, of her own free will, spontaneously, as if it were a pleasure to say it.[21] A close look at her face gave Nagel fresh grist for his mill. Nervously, impulsively, he began to expatiate on Midsummer Night, how the forest swayed and soughed, swayed and soughed, how the breaking day yonder was effecting a change in him, bringing other forces to ascendancy in his heart. Grundtvig sings: “As children of light we feel that now the night is over!” But, instead of talking too much, maybe he could show her a little trick with a straw and a twig, whereby the straw proved stronger than the twig. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.... “Look, let me just point to the smallest thing that makes an impression on me, that solitary juniper cluster over there. It positively bends toward us, and it looks kindly. And the spider stretches its webs from one pine to another; they look like an interesting piece of Chinese work, like suns spun from water. You’re not cold, are you? I’m convinced that we’re surrounded by ardent elfin maidens right now, laughing and dancing, but if you’re cold I’ll make a fire.... Something just occurred to me: wasn’t Karlsen found somewhere around here?”

Was this payment for the rap she had given him? He looked capable of just about anything.[22]

She started up with a look of displeasure and replied, “Please, let him be. How could you!”

“I’m sorry,” he hastened to say, backing off. “It’s just that people are saying he was so sweet on you, and I can’t blame him for that—”

“Sweet on me?[23] Aren’t they also saying that he killed himself because of me, with my penknife? Oh, let’s go.”

She got up. She had spoken in a rather mournful tone, without embarrassment or dissimulation. He was utterly astonished. Though aware that she had driven one of her admirers to his death, she made nothing much of it; she neither treated it as a joke nor exploited it to her own advantage, but spoke about it only as a deplorable incident and let it go at that.[24] Her long blond back curls fell over the collar of her dress, and her cheeks had a warm, fresh glow, with a dim patina of nocturnal dew. She swung her high hips slightly when she walked.

They had come out of the forest into a light open space. A dog barked, and Nagel said, “There we have the parsonage already. How charming it looks—those large white buildings with the garden, the kennel and the flagpole in the middle of the thick forest. Don’t you think, Miss Kielland, that you’ll be homesick for this place when you leave some day, I mean, when you get married? Well, it depends on where you’ll be, of course.”

“I haven’t thought about that yet,” she replied. And she added, “I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

“You’ll rejoice when the time comes!” he said.

Pause. She seemed to be pondering his words.[25]

“Look,” she said, “you mustn’t be surprised that I’m going for a walk so late at night; I trust you won’t. We do it all the time. You see, we’re just peasants around here, children of nature. The teacher and I have often walked this road till daybreak, talking.”

“The teacher? He strikes me as a person of very few words.”

“Yes, I must admit I did most of the talking; that is, I asked questions and he answered them.... What will you do when you get back to the hotel?”

“Do?” Nagel replied. “When I get back? I’ll go to bed and sleep till—well, till about noon, sleep like a log, like the dead, without waking up once and without dreaming. What will you do?”

“But don’t you think? Don’t you lie awake for quite a while thinking about different things? Do you really fall asleep right away?”

“Instantly. Don’t you?”

“Listen, a bird is singing already. Why, it must be later than you said; may I look at your watch? Good Lord, it’s three o‘clock, almost four! Why did you say a moment ago that it was only one o’clock?”

“Forgive me!” he replied.

She looked at him, without a hint of displeasure, incidentally, and said, “You didn’t have to fool me, I would’ve stayed out this late anyway, that’s the honest truth. I hope you won’t read more into it than you should. I don’t have many diversions, and I accept with open arms the few I can find. That’s the way I’ve conducted myself since we came here, and I don’t think it has scandalized anyone. Well, I can’t know that, of course, but it doesn’t really matter. Papa, at any rate, hasn’t said anything, and he’s the one I go by. Come, let’s walk a little farther.”

They went past the parsonage, into the woods on the other side. The birds were singing, and the white streak of daylight in the east was growing wider and wider. The conversation tapered off somewhat and concerned indifferent things.

Then they turned and walked in the direction of the parsonage gate.[26]

“Here I am, doggie!” she said to the dog, who was tugging at his leash. “Thanks for walking me home, Mr. Nagel; it has been a terrific evening.[27] Now I’ll have something to tell my fiancé when I write him. I’ll say that you are the sort of man who disagrees with everybody about everything, and he’ll be dumbfounded. I can see him poring over the letter, unable to make head or tail of it. You see, he’s so awfully kind, heaven knows he’s good! He won’t contradict anybody. It’s too bad you won’t meet him while you’re here. Good night.”

“Good night, good night,” Nagel answered, following her with his eyes until she had disappeared into the house.

Nagel took off his cap and carried it in his hand through the forest. He was extremely preoccupied; he stopped several times to look up from the road, and stared straight ahead for a moment before walking on with short, slow steps.[28] What a voice she had, what a voice! Whoever had heard anything like it, a voice quivering with song!

IX

THE FOLLOWING DAY, around noon.

Nagel had just arisen and gone out without having breakfast. He was already far downtown, lured on by the glorious weather and the lively activity at the quayside. Suddenly he turned to a man and inquired about the judge’s office. The man told him where it was, and Nagel went straight over there.

He knocked and stepped in, passed a couple of gentlemen who were writing at their desks, and walked up to Mr. Reinert, the deputy, with whom he asked to talk in private—it wouldn’t take long. Mr. Reinert rose rather reluctantly and took him to an adjoining room.

Once there Nagel said, “I beg your pardon for reverting to this matter once again—you know, that business concerning Miniman. I hereby offer you my most profound apology.”

“I consider that affair to be over and done with after your apology in the presence of an entire company on Midsummer Eve.”

“Well, that’s all very nice,” Nagel said. “But I’m not quite satisfied with that arrangement, sir. That is, I’m satisfied for my own part, but not as far as Miniman is concerned. I sincerely wish you would realize that Miniman must also be offered amends, and that it’s up to you to help him get them.”

“Are you saying I should go and apologize to that idiot for a few pranks, is that what you mean to say? Wouldn’t you do better to mind your own business, instead of—”

“Sure, sure, we’ve heard that before! But to get back to the matter in hand: You tore up Miniman’s coat and promised to replace it with a new one, remember?”

“Now, let me tell you something. You’re standing in a government office jabbering about a private affair which doesn’t even concern you. This is my turf. You don’t have to go back through the office, you can get to the street by this door as well.”

And the deputy opened a little door.

“Thank you.[1] But seriously, you ought to send Miniman that new coat you promised him without delay. He needs it, you know, and he took you at your word.”

Mr. Reinert flung the door wide open and said, “Please!”

“Miniman took you for an honest man,” Nagel went on, “and you shouldn’t swindle him.”

But now the deputy opened the door to the office as well and called to the two gentlemen in there. Nagel therefore tipped his cap and left immediately. He didn’t say another word.

How badly this business had turned out! It would have been much better if he had left things as they were. Nagel went back to the hotel, had breakfast, read the papers and played with Jakobsen, the puppy.

In the afternoon, looking out of the window of his room, he saw Miniman coming up the difficult graveled road from the dock with a sack on his back. It was a sack of coal he was carrying. He walked completely hunched over and couldn’t see where he was going, being weighed almost to the ground by his burden. He was so awkward on his legs and walked so crookedly that his trousers were worn to shreds on the inside. Going out to meet him, Nagel found him by the post office, where Miniman had put his sack down for a moment.

They made a deep bow to one another. When Miniman straightened up, his left shoulder sagged badly. Suddenly Nagel grabs him by this shoulder and, all worked up and without relaxing his grip, says offhandedly, “Have you been gossiping about that money I gave you, let anyone know about it?”

Astounded, Miniman replies, “No, I haven’t, definitely not.”

“Let me just advise you,” Nagel continued, pale with emotion, “that if you ever say a word about those few pennies, I’ll kill you—kill you! By God in heaven! You understand? And have your uncle hold his tongue, too.”

Miniman stood there all agape, stammering a word now and then: he wouldn’t say anything, not a word, he promised, it was a pledge.

As if trying to excuse his agitation, Nagel added at once, “This town is a real hole, a hornets’ nest, the pits! People stare at me wherever I go, I can’t budge. I won’t have this spying everywhere, I say to hell with everybody! Now you’ve been warned. And listen to this: I have reason to believe that this Miss Kielland from the parsonage, for one, is a little too good at taking you in and making you talk. But I won’t stand for her nosiness, I simply won’t. By the way, I was with her last night. She’s a big flirt. Well, that’s neither here nor there. Let me just ask you once more to keep mum about that little business of ours.[2] Incidentally, it’s a good thing I ran into you just now,” Nagel continued. “There is something else I wish to talk to you about. The day before yesterday we were sitting together on a tombstone in the cemetery.”

“Yes.”

“I wrote a verse on that stone, a poor and improper one, I admit, but that’s beside the point—well, I did write that verse. When I left, the verse was still there, but when I returned a few minutes later it had been erased. Was that your doing?”

Miniman looks at the ground and answers, “Yes.”

Pause. Uneasy at having been caught in this audacious act, which he had committed on his own, Miniman tries to explain, stammering, “I wanted to prevent—You didn’t know Mina Meek, that’s the whole trouble, otherwise you wouldn’t have done it, have written it. In fact, I said to myself right away: he’s excused, he’s a stranger in town, and it’s easy for me who lives here to correct it, so why shouldn’t I do it? I wiped the verse off. Nobody had read it.”

“How do you know that nobody had read it?”

“Not a soul had read it. After walking with you and Dr. Stenersen to the gate, I turned back at once and wiped it off. I hadn’t been away more than a few minutes.”

Nagel looked at him, took his hand and pressed it without saying anything. They looked at one another; Nagel’s lips trembled slightly.

“Goodbye!” he said.... “Come to think, did you get the coat?”

“Hm. I’m pretty sure I’ll have it by the time I need it. In three weeks—”

At that moment the white-haired egg-wife, Martha Gude, went by, the basket under her apron and her black eyes downcast. Miniman greeted her, as did Nagel, but she barely responded, walked quickly by and hurried over to the market, where she delivered her two or three eggs and left again with the pennies in her hand. She was wearing a thin green dress. Nagel didn’t take his eyes off that green dress. He said, “So you will need that coat in three weeks? What’s going to take place in three weeks?”

“There’s going to be a bazaar, a big evening entertainment, haven’t you heard? I’ll take part in the tableaux. Miss Dagny has already chosen me for that.”

“Is that so?” Nagel said, deep in thought. “Well, you’ll get the coat very soon, a new coat at that, in place of the old one. Mr. Reinert told me so today. The man isn’t really so bad.... But listen, be sure to remember you mustn’t thank him, no, never! You mustn’t under any circumstances mention that coat to him, he didn’t want any thanks. You understand? He would find it distressing, he said. I suppose you realize yourself that it would be tactless of you to remind him of the day he was drunk and walked out of the hotel with a dent in his hat.”

“Yes.”[3]

“And you’re not to tell your uncle where you have the coat from either; not a soul is to know, Mr. Reinert was explicit on that score. You surely understand how embarrassing it would be for him if it got about town that he was in the habit of forgetting himself with every Tom, Dick, and Harry and then had to make it up to them with a coat.”

“I do, indeed.”

“Say, something just occurred to me: why don’t you rather use a cart to take the coal around?”

“I can’t because of my handicap, I’m no good at pulling. I can withstand considerable weight, if I load myself with care, but I cannot go all out and pull and strain that way; if I did, I would overtax myself and fall flat on my face in great pain. But it doesn’t work so poorly with a sack either.”

“Good. Drop by again sometime.[4] Number 7, remember; just walk right in.”

With that he slipped a bill into Miniman’s hand and quickly walked down the street toward the docks. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the green dress ahead of him for a moment, and now he set off after it.

When he reached Martha Gude’s little house, he stopped for a moment and peered about him. Nobody was watching. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He had tried her door twice before without getting an answer, but this time he had clearly seen her going straight home from the market, and he refused to turn back without having been inside. He pushed the door open and stepped in.

She was standing in the middle of the room looking at him. Her face was pale and she appeared upset;[5] she was so timorous that she momentarily threw up her hands, being at her wits’ end.

“Please, forgive my intrusion,” Nagel said, making an unusually respectful bow. “I would be very grateful if you allowed me to talk to you for a moment. Don’t be uneasy, my business is soon taken care of. I’ve looked for you a couple of times before, but only today was I lucky enough to find you at home. My name is Nagel, I’m a stranger here, for the time being staying at the Central.”

She still didn’t say anything, but put out a chair for him and sidled toward the kitchen door. She was terribly bashful and kept fingering her apron as she looked at him.

The room was as he had pictured it: a table, a couple of chairs, and a bed was pretty much all it contained. In the windows were some plants with white flowers, but there were no curtains, and the floor wasn’t clean. Nagel noticed, besides, a poor old high-backed chair in the corner by the bed. It had only two legs and rested against the wall, decrepit and broken. The seat was covered with red plush.

“If only I could put you at ease, miss!” Nagel said once more. “You know, people don’t always get so frightened when I call on them, heh-heh-heh; this is not, you see, the first time I’ve been to someone’s house here. You’re not the only one I’ve inflicted myself on. I go from house to house, trying my luck everywhere. Well, perhaps you’ve heard about it? No? It’s true, though. It comes with my occupation, I’m a collector, you see; I collect all kinds of old things, buy antiquated articles and pay what they may be worth. Now, don’t get frightened, miss, I don’t sneak off with anything when I leave, heh-heh-heh, I certainly don’t have that bad habit. You may rest assured of that. If I fail to obtain an article by friendly means, that cannot be helped.”

“But I don’t have any old things,” she said at last, looking quite desperate.

“They always say that,” he replied. “Well, I admit there are things one may have become fond of and therefore is reluctant to part with, familiar things one has been surrounded with all one’s life, such as heirlooms from one’s parents or even one’s grand-parents. But on the other hand, these cast-off things just stand there without doing much good, so why should they take up space and tie up money? You see, these useless heirlooms keep many a shilling locked up, and in the end they fall to pieces and have to be taken to the attic. So why not rather sell them while there’s time? Some people get angry when I come, telling me they don’t hold on to old things. Fine, to each his own, I bow and go my way. There’s nothing to be done about that. Other people become embarrassed, feeling uneasy about showing me a frying pan without a bottom, for example. That shows how little they know about it. This is true particularly for those simple souls who have no idea how highly developed collection mania has become. I use the word mania on purpose, recognizing that it is a mania pure and simple that drives me, and so I call the thing by its right name. However, that concerns me alone, it’s my own affair. What I meant to say is this: the reluctance of these people to show an antique is both ridiculous and foolish. How about the looks of those weapons and rings they dig out of the ancient barrows? But does that mean they have no value? Right you are, miss! You should see my collection of cowbells, for instance! I have one bell—of simple sheet iron, by the way—which has even been worshiped as a deity by an Indian tribe. Just imagine, it hung for ever so many years on a tent pole in their camp, receiving prayers and sacrifices. What do you say to that! But I seem to be getting away from my errand. When I get going on the subject of my bells, I tend to speak overmuch.”

“But I really don’t have any old things like that,” Martha repeated.

“May I,” Nagel said slowly, with a knowledgeable air, “may I, for example, have a look at that chair over there? It’s only a question, naturally I won’t make a move unless I have your permission. [6] Incidentally, I’ve sort of had my eye on it from where I’m sitting ever since I came in.”

Bewildered, Martha replies, “That chair—. Please help yourself.... The legs are broken—”

“Quite right, the legs are broken! And so what? What does that matter! Just because of that, perhaps, just because of that! May I ask where you got it?”

By this time Nagel was holding the chair in his hand, twisting and turning it every way and inspecting it at every point. It had no gilding, only a single ornament on its back, a sort of coronet carved out of mahogany. Incidentally, the back had been cut up with a knife. The frame around the seat had been used for shredding tobacco in several places; the marks could still be seen.

“We got it somewhere abroad, I don’t know where. My grandfather once brought home several of these chairs, but this is the only one left. My grandfather was a sailor.”

“Really. And your father, was he also a sailor?”

“Yes.”

“Then, perhaps, you sailed with him? Excuse my asking.”

“Yes, I sailed with him for many years.”

“Really? How interesting! You’ve seen many lands, plowed the salty waves, as they say! Well, what do you know! And then you settled down here again? Yeah, sure, there’s no place like home, ah, home.... By the way, you have no idea where your grandfather picked up this chair, do you? You see, it’s very important to me to know something about an article’s history, to become familiar with its life story, so to speak.”

“No, I don’t know where he picked it up, it’s so long ago. In Holland, maybe? No, I don’t know.”

He was pleased to note that she was becoming more and more animated. She had moved to the front of the room and now stood almost right next to him, while he fussed with the chair as though he couldn’t look his fill at it. He talked on and on, remarking on the workmanship and going into raptures when he discovered, on the reverse of the back, a small inlaid disk, in which another disk had been inlaid in turn—simple work, tasteless child’s play that hadn’t even been accurately executed. The chair was rotten, and he handled it very carefully.

“Well,” she then said, “if you really—I mean, if it would give you pleasure to own that chair, I’ll gladly let you have it. I’ll bring it to the hotel myself if you wish. I have no use for it.” And suddenly she couldn’t help laughing at his eagerness to possess himself of this worm-eaten piece of furniture. “It has really got only one good leg!” she said.

He looked at her. Her hair was white, but her smile was youthful and spirited, and her teeth were fine. When she laughed her eyes grew moist and glistened. What a black-eyed old maid! Nagel didn’t move a muscle.

“I’m glad,” he said in a dry tone of voice, “that you have decided to let me have the chair. And now we’ll discuss the price. No, pardon me, wait a moment, let me finish: I don’t want you to give me a price, I always set the price myself. I appraise the article, offer so and so much for it, and that’s that! You might want to ask an exorbitant sum. You might try to overcharge me, why not? To this you may object that you can’t really look that greedy—fine, I readily acknowledge that; but still, I have to deal with all kinds of people and I like to set the price myself, then I know what I’m doing. It’s a question of principle with me. What could stop you, for instance, from asking three hundred kroner for that chair, if you had your way? You would be all the more likely to do so knowing, as you do, that we are, in fact, talking about a rare and precious piece of furniture. But I couldn’t possibly pay such a fabulous price; I say this straight out so that you won’t have any illusions on that score. After all, I have no wish to ruin myself, I would be crazy if I paid three hundred kroner for that chair. In short, I’ll give you two hundred kroner for it, not a penny more. I’ll pay what I find an article to be worth, but no more.”

She fixed him with a wide-eyed stare, without saying a word. Finally she decided he must be joking and gave another laugh—or rather a small bewildered smile.

Nagel calmly got the red bills out of his wallet and flashed them in front of her a few times. Meanwhile he didn’t let the chair out of his sight. “I won’t deny that you could possibly have gotten more from someone else,” he said, “I admit that in all honesty; you might have obtained a little more. But the fact is, I’ve come to think of two hundred, in round numbers, as a fair price for this article, and I don’t feel I can go any higher than that. You can do as you like, of course, but think it over first. Two hundred kroner is also money.”

“No,” she replied with her timid smile, “keep your money.”

“Keep my money! What do you mean? What’s wrong with this money, may I ask? Do you think it’s homemade? For you wouldn’t suspect me of having stolen it, would you, heh-heh-heh, what?”

She was no longer laughing. The man appeared to be in earnest, and she began to think it over. Did that lunatic wish to curry favor with her? Judging by his eyes, he was capable of anything. God knows if he wasn’t dreaming up something, if he wasn’t setting a trap. Why did he come to her, of all people, with his money? Finally she seemed to have arrived at a decision, and she said, “If you insist on giving me something for the chair, let me have a krone or two and I’ll be grateful to you. But I won’t take more.”

He appeared extremely surprised, went a step closer and looked at her. Then he burst out laughing. “But—have you considered—. In all the time I’ve been collecting, nothing like this has ever happened to me! Well, I can understand a joke—”

“It’s no joke. I never heard anything so absurd! That’s all I want, I don’t want anything. Take the chair if you like!”

Nagel laughed at the top of his voice.

“Again, I can understand and appreciate a joke; in fact, it tickles me, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t! I always laugh myself silly over a good joke. But how about coming to an understanding, eh? What if we simply settle the matter right now, before we lose our good humor again? In a minute you may put the chair back in the corner and ask five hundred for it.”

“Take the chair. I—. What are you thinking of?”

They stood there staring at each other.

“If you believe I’m thinking of something other than getting the chair at a reasonable price, you’re mistaken,” he said.[7]

“But for heaven’s sake, take it—take it!” Martha cried.

“I ought, of course, to be much obliged to you for your great courtesy.[8] But we collectors, too, have a scrap of honor, paltry as it may be many a time, and that sense of honor holds me back, gets up on its hind legs, so to speak, if I try to obtain a precious article by fraud. My whole collection would fall in my—the owner’s—estimation if I introduced such a smuggled article among the others; it would confer upon everything, however small, a certain false note.[9] Heh-heh-heh, I can’t help but laugh; you must admit it’s rather preposterous that I should stand here pleading your cause, instead of what I ought to do: consider my own advantage. But you’ve left me no alternative.”

She wouldn’t give in, no, he couldn’t get anywhere with her. She stuck to her point: either he took the chair for a trifle, a krone or two, or he could forget about it. Since her stubbornness resisted all appeals, to save face he finally said, “All right, we’ll let the matter rest for now. But promise me that you won’t sell the chair to anyone else without informing me, will you? I won’t give it up, just so you know, even if I should have to pay some more. At any rate, I’m willing to match anybody’s offer, and I did come first.”

When Nagel got outside, he started walking down the street with long, agitated strides. What a stiff-necked woman, and how poor and suspicious she was! Did you see that bed? he said to himself; not even straw on the bottom, not even a sheet on top, only two petticoats, both of which she probably had to wear in the daytime when the weather was cold. And yet so afraid to get involved in something unfamiliar that she turned down the best of offers![10] But damn it all, what concern was it of his anyway? None, really. She was a helluva woman, though, wasn’t she? Suppose he sent a man over to make a bid on the chair, drive up the price, would that also arouse her suspicion? What an idiot, a real idiot! But why did he have to go there, only to be so crushingly refused?

Immersed in his chagrin, he had reached the hotel before he knew it. He stopped short, turned around as steamed up as ever and went back down the street to J. Hansen’s tailor shop, where he entered. He saw the proprietor behind closed doors, ordered a coat in strict confidence, a coat of such and such a type, and en-joined the tailor to keep the order secret from everybody. When the coat was ready, it was to be sent to Miniman without delay, to Grøgaard, the crooked coal carrier, who—

Was the coat for Miniman?

Well, what of it? No nosiness! What sort of snooping was this?

Hm, how about the measurements?

So that was it! Yes, the coat was for Miniman. All right, Miniman could come and have his measurements taken, why not? But not an unnecessary word, not a wink—was that clear? And when would the coat be ready? In a couple of days, fine!

Nagel counted out the money at once, said goodbye and left. His annoyance gone, he rubbed his hands and sang. Yes, indeed, he would still—still! Just you wait! When he got back to the hotel he ran up to his room and rang the bell; his hands were shaking with impatience, and no sooner was the door opened than he called, “Sara, some telegram blanks!”

He had just opened his violin case as Sara came in, and to her great amazement she saw that this case, which she had always handled so gingerly, contained only dirty laundry and some papers and writing materials, but no violin. For a moment she couldn’t tear herself away, but stood there staring at it.

“Telegram blanks!” he repeated more loudly, “I asked for some telegram blanks.”

When he finally got the blanks he wrote out an order to an acquaintance in Kristiania to send, anonymously and secretly, two hundred kroner to a certain Miss Martha Gude, a local resident, two hundred kroner, without a word in writing. “Command the utmost silence. Johan Nagel.”

But it wouldn’t work. No, on second thought he had to discard the plan. Hadn’t he better give a few more particulars, and enclose the money to ensure that it would be sent? He tore up the telegram, burned it at once and dashed off a letter. Yes, that was better; a letter, however brief, was more complete, it might really do. Oh, he would show her, give her to understand....

But after he had put the money in the envelope and closed it, he still sat awhile thinking it over. She might still smell a rat, he said to himself; two hundred kroner was too round a sum, besides being the same sum he had recently flaunted under her nose! No, that wouldn’t work either! He took another ten-krone bill out of his pocket, opened the envelope and changed the amount to two hundred and ten kroner. Then he sealed the letter and sent it off.

A whole hour later he still regarded this trick as just great when he thought about it. The letter would descend upon her like a miracle from heaven, from up above, from on high, dropped down on her by unknown hands. Just imagine what she would say when she received all that money! But when he asked himself again what she would say, how she would react to the whole thing, he felt disheartened: the plan was dangerous, all too bold; it was a poor, stupid plan. The catch was that she wouldn’t say a sensible word but behave like a goose. When the letter arrived she would simply fail to understand and leave it to others to find out. She would spread it out on the post-office counter, making the whole town get in on it; she would leave the whole matter to the postal clerk’s discretion right then and there, maybe even act bullheaded and say: Keep your money! Whereupon the postal clerk puts his finger to his nose and cries, Wait a bit, half a mo, I have an idea! And he opens up his books and finds that the same sum was sent from here a few days ago, the very same sum, not to say the very same bills, two hundred and ten kroner to such and such an address in Kristiania. The sender proves to be a certain Johan Nagel, a stranger, who for the time being is staying at the Central.... Sure, such postal clerks had a nose that long to sniff around with....

Nagel rang once more and had the hotel porter bring the letter back immediately.

In the end, all the nervous agitation he had experienced throughout the day made him sick and tired of it all. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn about the whole thing! What concern was it of his that the good Lord arranged a collision with loss of life on the Erie Railroad far inside America? None, to be sure! Well, he had just as little to do with Martha Gude, a respectable lady of this town.

For two days he didn’t step outside the hotel.

X

ON SATURDAY NIGHT Miniman entered Nagel’s room at the hotel. Miniman was wearing his new coat and was radiantly happy.

“I ran across the deputy,” he said, “and he didn’t move a muscle; he even asked me who had given me the coat. He was so wily, to put me to the test that way.”

“And what did you reply?”

“I laughed and replied I wouldn’t say, not to anybody, he must excuse me, goodbye! ... He’ll get his reply, all right—. Look, it’s a good thirteen years since I had a new coat; I’ve checked it out....[1] I want to thank you for the latest money you gave me. Again, it was far too much money for an invalid, what am I going to do with it all? You make me so confused by all your kindnesses that it spooks me; it’s as if everything is loose inside me and can’t stay in place. Ha-ha-ha-ha! But, God help me, I’m behaving like a child. Sure, I knew well enough I would get the coat some day; what did I tell you? It often takes a while, but in the end I’m never let down. Lieutenant Hansen once promised me two woolen shirts which he didn’t wear anymore. That was two years ago, but I’m dead certain he’ll come through. It’s always like that: people remember it sooner or later and give me what I need when the time comes. But don’t you think I look like another person in decent clothes?”

“You haven’t been to see me for a long time.”

“The fact is, I was waiting for the coat, I’d made up my mind not to see you anymore in the old one.[2] I do have my eccentricities—it distresses me to appear in company wearing a torn coat, God knows why; it’s as though I lose my self-respect. Forgive me for speaking about my self-respect in front of you, as if it were worth anything. Well, it isn’t, it couldn’t be less, I assure you; but I still feel it now and then.”

“Would you like some wine? No? But you’ll smoke a cigar, won’t you?”

Nagel rang for wine and cigars. Once they were brought, he started drinking heavily right away, while Miniman smoked and looked on. Miniman kept talking incessantly and didn’t seem inclined to stop.

“Listen,” Nagel said all of a sudden, “you don’t have much in the way of shirts, do you? Pardon me for asking.”

“That’s not why I mentioned those two shirts,” Miniman replied hurriedly. “As sure as I’m sitting here, that’s not why.”

“Of course not! Why are you screaming? If you don’t mind, why don’t you show me what you’re wearing under your coat?”

“Gladly, oh, gladly, gladly! Here’s one side, just take a look. And the other side is no worse—”

“Oh, but wait a bit! I’m afraid that’s exactly what it is, the other side is worse.”

“But what else can you expect?” Miniman cries. “No, I don’t need any shirts right now, I really don’t. I’ll go so far as to say that a shirt like this is much too good for me. Can you guess who gave it to me? Dr. Stenersen, yes, Dr. Stenersen himself. I don’t think his wife even knew about it, though she too is generosity itself. I got it for Christmas at that.”

“For Christmas?”

“You think that’s a long time ago?[3] I don’t wear a shirt like that ragged, as if I were some animal, doing my worst to make holes in it; so I take it off at night and sleep naked, in order not to wear it out to no purpose when I’m sleeping. That way I make it last much longer, and I can go about freely among people without being put to shame because I don’t have a decent shirt. And now, with the tableaux, it’ll be a great help that I’ve still got a shirt I can show myself in. Miss Dagny keeps insisting that I have to turn out. I met her at the church yesterday. She also spoke about you—”

“I’ll get you a pair of trousers, too. It will be worth the money to see you appear in public. Since the deputy has given you a coat, I’ll give you a pair of trousers, that’s only fair. But I’ll do it on the usual condition—that you keep mum about it.”

“All right, all right.”

“I think you should have some wine. Oh well, do as you like. I’m going to drink tonight, I feel nervous and rather sad. Will you permit me to ask you a personal question? Are you aware that people have a nickname for you? They call you Miniman; do you know that?”

“Yes, of course, I know. It seemed hard at first, and I prayed to God for help on account of it. I wandered about in the woods for a whole Sunday, kneeling down all the time in the three places that were dry—this was in the spring, when the snow was melting.[4] But that was a long time ago, many years ago, and now nobody calls me anything but Miniman; and it’s good enough, for that matter. Why would you like to know if I was aware of it? How can I help it, however much I’m aware of it?”

“Do you know, too, how you were given such an absurd name?”

“Yes, I do. That is, it’s so long ago, before I became an invalid, but I remember it well. It happened one evening, or rather one night, at a bachelor party. Maybe you’ve noticed that yellow house down by the Customs House, on your right hand as you go down? Well, it was painted white in those days, and the justice of the peace lived there. He was a bachelor, and his name was Sørensen, a really jolly fellow. It was a spring night—I was returning from the docks, where I’d been strolling back and forth looking at the ships. When I came to this yellow house I could tell there were visitors inside, because there was an awful racket and lots of people laughing. As I pass the windows, they catch sight of me and tap on the panes. Once inside, I’m confronted by Dr. Kolbye, Captain William Prante and Folkedahl, the customs officer, and many more—well, by now they’ve all died or left town, but altogether there were seven or eight of them and everyone dead drunk. They had smashed up the chairs just for fun, that was what the justice of the peace wanted, and they had also broken all the glasses, so we had to drink from the bottle. After I joined them and got drunk as well, there was no end to the racket. The men stripped and ran around the rooms stark naked, although we hadn’t drawn the blinds, and when I wouldn’t play along with them, they grabbed me by force and undressed me. I put up a fight and did what else I could, but there was no getting out of it, so I apologized to them, I shook their hands and apologized—”

“What did you apologize for?”

“In case I might have said something that made them jump at me.[5] I shook hands with them and apologized, so they would do me as little harm as possible. But it was no use, they stripped me completely. Also, the doctor found a letter in my pocket and began reading it to the others. Then I sobered up a bit, for the letter was from my mother, who used to write to me when I went to sea. In plain words, I called the doctor a sponge. Everyone knew he was a heavy drinker. ‘You’re a sponge!’ I said. That made him terribly angry, and he tried to grab me by the scruff of the neck, but the others stopped him. ‘Let’s make him drunk instead!’ said the justice of the peace, as if I wasn’t sufficiently drunk already. And they poured still some more into me from several bottles. Afterward two of the men—I can’t remember who they were anymore—but, anyway, they came in with a tub of water. They put the tub in the middle of the room and said I was to be baptized. In fact, they all wanted me to be baptized and greeted this caprice with a tremendous hullabaloo. Then they had the idea of mixing all sorts of things into the water to make it dirty, spitting into it and pouring in liquor, even going to the bedroom for the worst thing they could find and dumping it into the water. And on top of it all they scattered two shovelfuls of ashes from the stove, to make it still more muddy for me. Then everything was ready for the baptism. ‘Why can’t you just as well baptize one of the others?’ I asked the justice of the peace, embracing his knees. ‘We’ve been baptized already,’ he replied, ‘baptized in the very same way,’ he said. And I believed him, because that was always what he wanted of those he associated with, that they should be baptized. The next moment the justice of the peace said to me, ‘And now I shall let you come before my countenance!’ But I refused to go willingly; I stood pat, hanging on to the doorknob. ‘Come now, right this min—stir your stumps, mini man!’ he said. He was from upcountry and spoke like that. But no, I refused to budge. Then Captain Prante yelled, ‘Miniman, Miniman, that’s it! He shall be baptized Miniman, yes, Miniman!’ And everyone agreed to have me baptized Miniman, because I was so small. And now two of the men dragged me over to the justice of the peace and brought me before his countenance, and since I was so puny the justice of the peace ducked me under in the tub all by himself. He ducked my head all the way under and rubbed my nose against the bottom of the tub, which was covered with ashes and shards of glass; and then he pulled me out again and recited a prayer over me. Afterward the godparents were to do their thing, and that consisted of each of them lifting me high up from the floor and dropping me, and when they were tired of that they lined up in two teams and tossed me from one team to the other like a ball; this was done so I would dry again, and they kept it up until they were good and tired of it. Then the justice of the peace shouted, ‘Stop!’ And so they let me go and called me Miniman, every one of them, shook hands with me and called me Miniman to seal my baptism. But then I was again thrown into the tub, this time by Dr. Kolbye, who used such force that I fell with my whole weight and injured my side, because he couldn’t forget that I had called him a sponge.... My nickname has stuck to me ever since. The next day the whole town knew I’d been at the house of the justice of the peace and been baptized.”

“And your side was injured. But there was no damage to your head, was there, I mean inside?”

Pause.

“This is the second time you’ve asked me if there has been some damage to my head, so perhaps you mean something by it. But I didn’t hurt my head that time, there was no concussion, if that’s what you’re afraid of. But I bumped so hard against the tub that I broke a rib. It’s all healed again now, though; Dr. Kolbye treated me for the fracture free of charge,[6] and I’m none the worse for it.”

Nagel had been drinking steadily while Miniman was talking; he rang for more wine and went on drinking. Suddenly he says, “I would like to ask you something that just occurred to me: Do you think I am a fairly good judge of people? Don’t look so astonished, it’s only a friendly question. Do you consider me capable of seeing through the person I’m talking to?”

Miniman gives him a wary look, not knowing what to answer. Then Nagel goes on, “By the way, I owe you an apology. The last time I had the pleasure of seeing you in my place, I also upset you by asking some extremely stupid questions. You will remember that, for one thing, I offered you so and so much money to assume the paternity of a child, heh-heh-heh. But that blunder was committed because I didn’t know you then; now, however, I astonish you afresh, even though I know you extremely well and hold you in great esteem. Today, though, it’s happening solely because I’m nervous and already terribly drunk. That’s the whole explanation. Obviously, you can see I’m dead drunk. Of course you can, why pretend? But what was I going to say? Oh yes, I would really be interested to know to what extent you consider me capable of seeing through the human soul. Heh-heh! [7] For example, I think I can detect subtle undertones in the voice of the person I’m speaking to, I have an incredibly good ear. When I’m talking to someone, I don’t need to look at him in order to follow exactly what he’s saying, I can hear right away whether he’s shamming or pulling my leg. The voice is a dangerous instrument. Now, don’t misunderstand me: I do not mean the material sound of the voice, whether it be high or low, rich or raspy; I do not mean the physical voice, its tonal substance—no, I’m referring to the mystery back of it, the world from which it emanates.... Oh, to hell with the world back of it! Why should there always be a world behind everything? Why should I care a damn?”[8]

Nagel took another drink and went on talking. “You’ve become so quiet. Don’t let my brag about being a good judge of people turn your head so that you’re afraid to move. Heh-heh-heh, that would look nice, wouldn’t it? But now I’ve forgotten what I wanted to say. Oh well, I’ll just say something else, something that doesn’t concern me deeply but that I’ll say anyway, until I recall what I’ve forgotten. Good Lord, how I go on! What’s your opinion of Miss Kielland? Let me hear what you think of her. In my opinion, Miss Kielland is such an out-and-out flirt that she would be enormously pleased if others, too, preferably as many as possible—myself Included—went and took their own lives for her sake. That’s my opinion. She’s lovely, she most certainly is, and it must be a sweet pain, indeed, to feel trampled by her heel; one day, perhaps, I’ll ask her to do just that, I cannot promise I won’t. However, that’s not for now, I have plenty of time.... But good heavens, I believe I’m scaring you stiff with my talk tonight! Have I offended you, I mean personally?”

“If you only could have heard all the nice things Miss Kielland said about you! I met her yesterday, she chatted with me for quite a while—”

“Tell me—hm, beg pardon for not letting you finish what you were saying—don’t you too, perhaps, have a modest gift for picking up the quavers at the back of Miss Kielland’s physical voice? But now I’m talking utter nonsense, you can certainly hear that, can’t you? Well! Nevertheless, I would be delighted if you, too, knew something about people, so that I could congratulate you and say: there are two of us, two at most, who know something about this; come, let’s get together and form a partnership, a small association, and never use our knowledge against each other—against each other, understand—so that I, for example, will never use my knowledge against you, even though I can read you like a book. There, there, now you’re getting that wary look and start fidgeting again! You mustn’t let yourself be fooled by my brag, I’m drunk.... But now I happen to remember what I wanted to say a short while ago, when I began talking about Miss Kielland, who wasn’t of vital concern to me. Why should I blurt out my opinion of her anyway, as long as you hadn’t asked me for it! It seems I have completely spoiled your good mood; do you remember how happy you were when you came here about an hour ago? All this twaddle is because of the wine.... But let me not forget a second time what I was going to say. When you told me about the bachelor party given by the justice of the peace, at which you were baptized, remember, it occurred to me, strangely enough, that I would also like to give a bachelor party—yes, come hell or high water, a bachelor party for a few invited guests, I won’t budge on that, I’m going to arrange it; and you must come, too, I’m counting on you. You won’t be baptized all over again, you can set your mind at ease on that score; I’ll see to it that you’re treated with the utmost courtesy and respect. And there won’t be any smashing up of tables and chairs. But I would like to have a few friends over some evening, the sooner the better, let’s say toward the end of the week. What do you think?”

Nagel drank afresh, two big glasses. Again, Miniman didn’t reply. His initial childish glee was obviously gone, and he seemed to listen to his host’s talk only out of politeness. He still refused to drink anything.

“You became surprisingly quiet all of a sudden,” Nagel said. “It’s quite absurd, but do you know, at this moment you look as if you felt smitten by something, struck by a word, an insinuation. Yes, can you believe it, smitten by something! Didn’t I see you give a little start just now? No? Well, then I was mistaken. Have you ever wondered how a secret forger would feel if some day a detective put his hand on his shoulder and looked him straight in the eye without a word? ... But what can I do with you, you’re getting more and more gloomy and taciturn. I feel jittery today and keep worrying you to death, but I must talk, I always do when I’m drunk. You mustn’t leave, though, because then I would have to chat for an hour with Sara, the chambermaid, and that might not be proper, to say nothing of its being boring. Will you permit me to tell you about a little incident? My story is of no importance, but maybe it will amuse you, at the same time as it should demonstrate my aptitude for understanding people, heh-heh-heh. In fact, you will learn that if there ever was someone who couldn’t see through people, that one was me. Maybe this piece of information will cheer you up. In short, I once went to London—as a matter of fact, it was three years ago, no more—and there I made the acquaintance of an enchanting young lady, the daughter of a man I had some business with. I got to know the lady rather well, we were together every day for three weeks and became good friends. One afternoon she decided to show me London, and off we went, visited museums, art collections, magnificent buildings and parks, and by the time we started on our way home it was evening. Meanwhile nature had begun to assert its claim and, frankly speaking, I found myself in a certain quandary, which surely can happen after a whole afternoon’s walk. What was I to do? I couldn’t slip away, and I didn’t want to ask permission to make a detour. In short, I let myself go then and there, I simply brush aside my scruples and let myself go, and naturally get sopping wet, down to my shoes. But what the hell was I to do, tell me that! Fortunately, I was wearing an enormously long cloak, with which I hoped to conceal my plight. Now, by chance we had to pass a pastry shop in a brightly illuminated street, and here, by this pastry shop, my lady stops, God help me, and asks me to get her something to eat. Well, that would seem to be a reasonable request, we had been walking around for half a day and were dog-tired. And yet I had to excuse myself. She looks at me, thinking, I suppose, that it was mean of me to refuse her, and asks the reason why. You see, I then say, the reason is such and such, I have no money, I don’t have a penny on me, not a single penny! Well, that was a valid reason, there was no denying it, and, as it happened, the lady didn’t have any money on her either, not a penny. And so, there we stand, eyeing one another and laughing at our predicament. But then she hits on a way out. Casting a glance up at some houses, she says, ‘Wait a minute! Stay here a moment, I have a friend in that house, on the second floor, she can get us some money!’ And with that my lady rushes off. She was gone for several minutes, and all that time I was suffering the worst torments imaginable. What on earth was I to do when she came back with the money? I just couldn’t enter that pastry shop, with that terribly bright light and all those ladies and gentlemen! I would be thrown out at once and find myself in an even worse pickle. I had to clench my teeth and ask her to do me the favor of going in by herself, and I would wait for her. After another few minutes my lady returned. She was very pleased, well, downright delighted, while saying only that her friend hadn’t been home, which was just as well, all things considered; she could easily hold out another few minutes, it would take a mere quarter of an hour at most before she could sit down for supper in her own house. She also apologized for having kept me waiting. I was as happy as could be, though I was the one who was soaked to the skin and suffered hardship during the walk. But now comes the best part—well, perhaps you’ve already guessed? Yes, I positively believe you’ve already guessed the conclusion, but I’ll tell you anyway. Only this year, in 1891, did it dawn on me what a dumb ox I’d really been. Considering the whole episode afresh, I discovered the most profound significance in one trifle after another : the lady didn’t walk up any stairs, she hadn’t been on the second floor anywhere. Thinking back over it, I can recall she opened a connecting door to the backyard and slipped through it, and I suspect she returned from the backyard by the very same door, slipping quietly through. What does that prove? Nothing, of course. But wasn’t it curious, though, that she didn’t go up to the second floor but rather into the backyard? Heh-heh-heh, you understand this perfectly well, I see, but I didn’t catch on until 1891, three years later. You don’t harbor a suspicion, do you, that I contrived the whole thing in advance, dragged out the walk as long as possible to press the lady to the utmost? In particular, that I couldn’t tear myself away from a petrified cave hyena in a museum but went back to it three times, all the while keeping an eye on the young lady so that she couldn’t possibly slip out into some backyard? Of course, you don’t have any such suspicion, do you? I won’t deny that a man might be so perverse that he would prefer to suffer, even wet himself from the waist down, rather than forgo the mysterious satisfaction of seeing a lovely young lady writhe in agony. But, as I’ve said, it dawned on me only this year, three years after the incident took place. Heh-heh-heh, well, what do you think?”[9]

Pause. Nagel drank and continued. “Now, you may ask what this story has to do with you and me and the bachelor party. To be sure, my good friend, it has nothing whatever to do with it. But I decided to tell it to you anyway, to show my stupidity concerning the human soul. Alas, the human soul! For instance, what do you make of the fact that, the other morning, I catch myself—catch me, Johan Nilsen Nagel—walking in front of Consul Andresen’s house up there on the hill, wondering how high, or how low, the ceiling might be in his living room? What do you make of it? But here again we have—if I may so express it—the human soul. No trifle is irrelevant to it, everything is meaningful.... How would you feel, say, if one night, coming home late from some meeting or expedition having to do with your lawful business, you suddenly bump into a man who stands at a street corner watching you, turning his head to keep you in sight as you pass, all the while simply staring at you without a word? Suppose, further, that the man is dressed in black and that all you can see of him are his face and eyes. Well, what of it? Ah, who can fathom what takes place in the human soul! ... You join a company some evening, let’s say there are twelve of you, and the thirteenth—it may be a female telegraph operator, a poor law school graduate, an office clerk, or a steamship captain, in short, a person of no importance whatever—sits in a corner without taking part in the conversation, or making any other kind of noise; and yet, this thirteenth person does have a value, not only per se but also as a factor in the group. Just because he’s wearing this or that garb, because he remains so silent, because he looks around at the other guests with a rather stupid, inane expression, and because his role on the whole is to be so insignificant—just because of that, he helps to define the character of the group. Just because he says nothing, he has a negative effect and produces a faint, pervasive note of gloom in the room, which causes the other guests to speak just so loud and not louder. Am I not right? In this way, that person can literally become the most powerful member of the group. As I’ve said, I’m not a good judge of people, and yet I often find it amusing to notice the tremendous value trifles can sometimes have. Thus, I once witnessed how a total stranger, a poor engineer who absolutely refused to open his mouth ... But that’s another story and has nothing to do with this one, except insofar as they have both passed through my brain and left their traces. However, to pursue the matter in hand, who knows whether your silence this evening hasn’t given my words their special tone—with all due respect to my excessive intoxication—whether the expression of your face at this moment, that half wary, half innocent look in your eyes, doesn’t stimulate me to speak precisely the way I do! It’s quite natural. You listen to what I say—what a drunk man says—and somehow or other you feel smitten now and then, to employ a word I’ve already used; I feel tempted to go even further and throw another dozen words in your face. I refer to this simply as an example of the value of trifles. Don’t disregard trifles, my dear friend! Trifles have an enormous value, for Christ’s sake—. Come in!”

It was Sara who knocked, announcing that supper was ready. Miniman got up at once. Nagel was now visibly intoxicated and couldn’t even speak clearly any longer; besides, he was constantly contradicting himself and talking more and more nonsense. His preoccupied look and the swollen veins in his temples showed that his mind was grappling with many thoughts.

“Well,” he said, “I’m not surprised that you would like to take this opportunity to leave, after all the chatter you’ve had to put up with this evening. Still, there are several other things I would’ve liked to hear your opinion of; for instance, you never answered my question about what, in your heart of hearts, you think of Miss Kielland. To me, she is a most rare and unattainable being, full of loveliness, pure and white as the driven snow—try to imagine a really pure, deep snow, like silk. That’s how I think of her. If I gave you a different impression by what I said earlier, it’s erroneous.... So let me drink my last glass with yau. Skaal! ... But just now something occurred to me. If you have the patience to listen to me for another minute or two, I would be very much obliged to you, indeed. The fact is—come a little closer, the walls of this building are very thin[10]—well, the fact is I’m hopelessly in love with Miss Kielland. There, I’ve said it! These poor, cold words don’t say much, but God in heaven knows how madly I love her and how much I suffer because of her. Well, that’s another matter—I love, I suffer, that’s all right, it’s beside the point. So! But I hope you will treat my candor with all the discretion it deserves, do you promise me that? Thank you, my dear friend! But, you say, how can I be in love with her when I called her a big flirt a little while ago? In the first place, one can easily love a flirt, why not? But I won’t dwell on that. There is, however, something else. How was it now—did you acknowledge that you were a good judge of people or not? If you were, you see, you would also be able to judge the truth of what I’m going to say: I cannot possibly mean that Miss Kielland is, indeed, a flirt. I don’t mean that seriously. On the contrary, she’s extremely natural—what do you think, for instance, of her unrestrained laughter, seeing that her teeth aren’t even perfectly white! And yet I can do my best to spread the perception that Miss Kielland is a flirt, that doesn’t bother me. And I don’t do it to harm her or take revenge on her, but to keep myself afloat; I do it out of self-love, because she is unattainable for me, because she mocks all my efforts to make her love me, because she is engaged and already bound—she’s lost, quite lost to me. Now, with your permission, this is another aberration of the human soul. I could walk up to her in the street and tell her in dead earnest in front of several people, ostensibly just to express my disdain and do her harm—I could look at her and say, How do you do, miss! May I congratulate you on your clean shift! Can you believe it! But, yes, I could say that. What I then would do—whether I would run home and sob into my handkerchief or take one or two drops from the little bottle I carry in my vest pocket—that I’ll pass over. In the same vein, I could walk into the church one Sunday while her father, Pastor Kielland, was preaching the word of God, stroll up the aisle, stop in front of Miss Kielland and say out loud, Will you permit me to feel your puff? Well, what do you think? By ‘puff’ I wouldn’t have anything particular in mind, it would just be a word to make her blush. Please, let me feel your puff, I would say. And afterward I might throw myself at her feet and implore her to make me blissfully happy by spitting on me.... Now you’re getting scared in earnest; well, I must admit I’m indulging in rather blasphemous talk, the more so as I’m talking about a parson’s daughter to a parson’s son. Forgive me, my friend, it’s not out of malice, not out of sheer malice, but because I’m drunk as a coot.... Listen, I once knew a young man who stole a gas lamp, sold it to a junk dealer and blew the money going on a spree. It’s true, by Jove! In fact, he was an acquaintance of mine, a relation of the late Pastor Hærem. But what does this have to do with my relationship to Miss Kielland? Again, you’re quite right! You don’t say anything, but I can see your tongue is itching to say it, and it’s a quite correct remark. But as far as Miss Kielland is concerned, she’s altogether lost to me, and I don’t regret it for her sake, but for mine. You, standing there cold sober and seeing through people, will also understand if, some day, I simply started a rumor in town that Miss Kielland had sat on my knee, that I’d met her three nights in a row at a certain place in the woods, and that later she had accepted gifts from me. You would understand, wouldn’t you? Sure, because you are a damn good judge of people, my friend, you are indeed, it’s no use quibbling.... Has it ever happened to you to be walking along the street some day, lost in your own innocent thoughts, and before you know it having everybody stare at you, looking you up and down? It is a most embarrassing situation to find yourself in. Ashamed, you brush yourself front and back, you steal a glance down at your clothes to see if your fly happens to be open, and you are so full of misgivings that you even take off your hat to check if the price tag might still be on it, though the hat is old. It’s to no avail; you find nothing wrong with your clothes, and you must patiently put up with having every tailor’s apprentice and every lieutenant stare at you as much as they like.... But if that would be an infernal torment, what, my good friend, do you say to being summoned to a hearing? ... Now you gave a start again. You didn’t? My word, it definitely looked as if you gave a little start.... Well, then, to be summoned to a hearing, to be confronted by the wiliest devil of a police officer and cross-examined in open court, only to be brought back to the starting point by a dozen different secret paths—oh, what exquisite pleasure for someone who has nothing to do with the whole thing and just sits there listening! You’ll grant me that, won’t you? ... I wonder if there isn’t a glass of wine left, if I squeeze the bottle—.”

He tossed off what was left of the wine and went on talking.

“By the way, I apologize for constantly changing the subject. Partly, I suppose, all these sudden jumps in my thinking are due to my being roaring drunk, but partly also to a general fault of mine. The fact is, I’m only a simple agronomist, a student from a cow-dung academy; I’m a thinker who never learned how to think. Well, let’s not go into these special matters; they are of no interest to you, and to me they are downright repugnant, since I’m already aware of my situation. You know, when I sit here alone thinking about different things, taking a long, hard look at myself, it often gets to a point—well, it often happens that I call myself Rochefort in a loud voice, tap my noodle and call myself Rochefort! What will you say if I tell you that I once ordered a seal with a hedgehog on it? ... That reminds me of a man I knew at one time as a decent and quite ordinary and respectable student of philology at a German university. The man became a degenerate—two years sufficed to make him both a drunkard and a novelist. If he met strangers and was asked who he was, in the end he merely replied that he was a fact. ‘I’m a fact!’ he said, pursing his lips in sheer arrogance. Oh well, this is of no interest to you.... You mentioned a man, a thinker, who had never learned how to think. Or was it I who brought that up? I’m sorry; you see, I’m dead drunk. But that’s all right, don’t worry. However, I would very much like to explain to you this matter of the thinker who couldn’t think. If I understood you correctly, you wanted to attack the man. Oh yes, I definitely had that impression, you spoke in a scornful tone of voice; but the man you mentioned deserves to be seen more or less in perspective. First of all, he was a big fool. No, no, that I won’t take back, he was a fool. He always wore a long red tie and smiled out of pure vanity. In fact, he was so vain that time and again he would be buried in a book when someone came to see him, though he never read anything. Also, he never wore any socks, just so he could afford a rose in his buttonhole. That’s the way he was. But best of all, he had a number of portraits, the portraits of some modest but nice-looking artisan’s daughters, on which he had inscribed grand, high-sounding names to give the impression that he had such and such genteel acquaintances. On one of the pictures he had written, in clear letters, ‘Miss Stang,’ to make you believe she was related to the prime minister, though the girl’s name might be Lie or Haug, at the most. Heh-heh-heh, what can one say to such conceit? He imagined that people were occupying themselves with him, slandering him. ‘People are slandering me!’ he said. Heh-heh-heh, do you really believe that anyone would take the trouble to slander him? Then one day he walked into a jewelry store smoking two cigars! Two cigars! He had one in his hand, the other in his mouth, and both were lighted. Maybe he didn’t know he was sporting two cigars at once, and being a thinker who hadn’t learned how to think, he didn’t ask any questions—”

“I really have to go,” Miniman finally said in a soft voice.

Nagel rose instantly.

“You have to go?” he said. “You’re really going to leave me? Well, I guess the story is too long, if the man is to be seen in perspective. All right, let it wait until some other time. So you definitely want to leave, do you? Well, many thanks for a very pleasant evening! Do you hear? I can hardly believe that I got so drunk. How do I look? Take your thumb, put it under a magnifying glass and look; what a sight, eh? Oh, I understand your expression, you are an enormously clever man, Mr. Grøgaard, and it’s a treat to observe your eyes, they’re so innocent. Have another cigar before you go. When will you come to see me again? By Jove, I just remembered, you must come to my bachelor party, do you hear! Not a hair of your head shall be hurt.... You see, it will only be a cozy little evening party, a cigar, a drink, conversation, and nine times nine cheers for the Father-land, for Dr. Stenersen’s benefit—all right? It will work out fine, you’ll see. And you’ll get those trousers we’ve talked about, hell yes. But on the usual condition, of course. Thank you for your patience this evening. Let me shake your hand! Have another cigar, man.... Listen, one more word: isn’t there something you would like to ask of me? Because if there is, then ... Well, as you wish. Good night, good night.”

XI

THEN CAME JUNE 29. It was a Monday.

A couple of unusual things happened that day; there even appeared a stranger in town, a veiled lady who disappeared again after a two hours’ stay, following a visit at the hotel.

Early that morning Johan Nagel had been happily humming and whistling in his room. As he dressed, he kept whistling merry tunes as if he were extremely elated by something. All the previous day he’d been silent and quiet, after his big bender with Miniman Saturday night. He had paced the floor with long steps and drunk heaps of water. When he left the hotel Monday morning he was still humming and looked extremely contented; in a rush of exuberant joy he even accosted a woman standing at the foot of the steps and gave her a few pennies.

“Can you tell me where I could borrow a violin?” he asked. “Do you know whether anyone in town plays the violin?”

“No, I don’t,” the woman replied, surprised.

She didn’t know, but in his joy he gave her a few pennies anyway and hurried off. He had seen Dagny Kielland with her red parasol coming out of a shop and went straight after her. She was alone. He made a deep bow and spoke to her. She immediately turned scarlet as usual, and tried to hide it by tipping her parasol.

At first they spoke about their latest walk through the woods. She had been rather careless, despite everything; she had, in fact, caught a cold, although the weather was so warm, and still wasn’t quite well. She said this simply and sincerely, as if confiding in an old acquaintance.

“But you don’t regret it, do you?” he said, coming straight to the point.

“No,” she replied, looking surprised, “no, I don’t regret it. What makes you think that? It was an enjoyable night, I thought, though God knows I was scared stiff when you told me about that Jack-o’-Lantern. I’ve even dreamed about him. A terrible dream!”

They talked about Jack-o’-Lantern for a while. Nagel liked to chat today; he confessed that he, too, would have absurd attacks of dumb fear of one thing or another. Thus, he often couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without turning around at every step to see if someone might be following him. What was it? Ah, what it was! Something mysterious, something eerie which our miserable “omniscient” science was too square and too crude to grasp, a breath of some invisible power, an influence from the blind forces of life.

“You know something,” he said, “at this moment I feel like turning off this street into another one, because these houses you see, these guard stones on the left-hand side, and those three pear trees in the judge’s garden—it all instills a feeling of antipathy, filling me with a dull pain. When I’m alone, I never come by this street; I give it a wide berth, even if it takes me out of my way. So what would you call that?”

Dagny laughed. “I don’t know. Dr. Stenersen would call it nerves and superstition, I suppose.”

“Quite right, that’s what he would call it! Ah, what conceit, what stupidity! You come to a strange town one evening, let’s say this town, why not? The following day you walk about the streets to have a first look at the place. During your stroll you develop a certain obscure aversion for certain streets, certain buildings, while feeling attracted, made happy and delighted, by other streets. Nerves? But now I’ll assume that you have nerves of steel, that you don’t even know what it is to be nervous. Let’s go on! You still walk the streets, you meet hundreds of people and pass them by indifferently. But suddenly—as you come down to the docks and stop outside a poor little one-story house without curtains, but with white flowers in the window—a man comes toward you who somehow impresses you immediately. There is nothing unusual about him other than the fact that he’s poorly dressed and walks with a slight stoop; it’s the first time you’ve ever come across him, and you have a bizarre intuition that the man’s name is Johannes. Johannes, just so. Why, exactly, do you feel that his name is Johannes? That you cannot explain to yourself, but you can read it in his eyes, tell by his gestures, hear it in the sound of his footsteps; and it’s not because you have ever met someone else who looked like him and whose name was Johannes, no, it’s not because of that. For you never met anyone the man reminds you of. But there you are with your wonderment and your mysterious feeling, unable to explain any of it.”

“Have you met such a person here in town?”

“No, no,” he hastened to reply, “I just presuppose it—the town, the one-story house and the man, I presuppose them all. But it’s queer, isn’t it? ... And there are other mysterious things happening: You come to a strange town and enter a strange house, let’s say a hotel, one you’ve never been to before. All at once you have the distinct feeling that at one time, many years ago maybe, there was a pharmacy in this house. What gives you that idea? There are no indications of it, no one ever told you, there’s no smell of medicine, none, no marks on the walls from shelves and no track on the floor left by a counter. And yet you know in your heart that so and so many years ago there was a pharmacy in that house! You’re not mistaken, you are momentarily filled with a mysterious intimate knowledge that reveals hidden things to you. Perhaps it has never happened to you?”

“I haven’t thought about this before. But now that you mention it, I believe it has happened to me, too. At any rate, I’m often afraid of the dark, frightened for no reason. But maybe that’s something else.”

“God only knows what is one thing and what something else! There are so many things between heaven and earth, mysterious, delightful, unparalleled things, truly unexplainable presentiments, dumb terrors that make you tremble with uneasiness. Imagine that you hear someone prowling along the walls on a dark night. You’re wide awake, sitting at the table smoking a pipe, but your senses are off guard. Your head is full of plans you’re grappling with, and you are extremely anxious to master these plans to the last detail. Then you suddenly hear, quite distinctly, someone prowling along the walls outside, following the paneling, or even in your room, over by the stove, where you can see a shadow on the fire wall. You remove the lampshade to have more light and walk up to the stove. As you stand before the shadow, you see a person unknown to you, a man of average height with a black-and-white woolen scarf around his neck and with completely blue lips. He looks like the jack of clubs in a Norwegian deck of cards. I shall assume that you are more curious than scared, so you press the fellow hard, hoping to sweep him away with a glance; but he doesn’t budge, though you are so close to him you can see him blink, making you realize he’s just as alive as yourself. Then you try a humorous approach, and you say, though you’ve never seen him before, ‘Your name wouldn’t by any chance be Homan, would it, Bernt Homan?’ you say. And when he doesn’t answer, you decide to call him Homan and say, ‘Why the hell shouldn’t you be a Bernt Homan?’ And then you sneer at him. But he still doesn’t budge, and you are at your wits’ end what to do with him. Then you back away a step, jab at him with your pipe stem and say, ‘Bah!’ But he doesn’t crack a smile. Well, that does it! Annoyed, you give the man a regular poke. But although he appears to be someplace nearby, your poke doesn’t bother him in the least. Far from falling down, he puts both hands in his pockets, deep into his pockets, shrugs his shoulders and assumes an air as if to say, ‘So what?’ That’s how little he was bothered by that poke you gave him. ‘So what!’ you reply furiously, giving him another poke in the pit of his stomach. At this moment you experience the following: after the last poke the man begins to evaporate; you watch, with your own eyes, as he’s gradually blotted out, becoming more and more blurred, until at last there is nothing left of him but his stomach, whereupon that too disappears. But all along he kept his hands in his pockets, looking at you with that same defiant expression, which seemed to say, ‘So what?’ ”

Again Dagny laughed. “Oh, what quaint adventures you have! Well, so what? What happens afterward, in the end?”

“Why, when you sit down at the table again to get on with your plans, you discover that you’ve cracked your knuckles on the fire wall.... But this is what I wanted to say: Tell your acquaintances about it the next day and they’ll know what to say. ‘You were asleep,’ they’ll say. Heh-heh-heh, oh sure, you were asleep, although God and all his angels know that you were not asleep. It’s simply crude and sophomoric to call it sleep when, in fact, you were standing by the stove wide-awake, smoking a pipe while talking to a man. Then comes the physician. He’s an excellent physician, representing science with pinched lips and superciliousness. ‘That,’ he says, ‘that’s nothing but nerves,’ he says. Oh God, what a farce! Sure is. ‘This, you know, is a clear case of nerves,’ he says. To the physician’s brain, it’s a thing of such and such dimensions, so many inches high and so many inches wide, something you can take in your fist—a good, thick case of nerves. And so he notes down iron and quinine on a slip of paper and cures you right off. That’s the way it’s done! But what a squarehead, what peasant logic—to intrude with his dimensions and his quinine in an area where not even the finest and wisest minds have been able to come up with an explanation.”[1]

“You’re losing a button,” she said.

“I’m losing a button?”

With a smile, she pointed at one of the buttons in his jacket, hanging precariously by a thread.

“Why not remove it altogether? It’ll come off fairly soon.”[2]

Humoring her, he pulled a knife out of his pocket and snipped the button off. As he took the knife out, some change and a medal on a sadly abused ribbon fell out of his pocket. He quickly bent down and picked up the articles as she stood watching. Then she said, “A medal, is it? But how can you treat it like that, look at the ribbon! What sort of medal is it?”

“It’s a lifesaving medal.... Well, don’t get the idea that it was in my pocket due to any merit on my part. It’s just humbug.”

She looked at him. His face was perfectly calm, his eyes candid, as if lying never entered his head. She was holding the medal in her hand.

“Starting again, aren’t you?[3] If you didn’t earn it, how come you hang on to a thing like that, even wear it maybe?”

“I bought it!” he cried, laughing. “It’s mine, my property, I own it, just as I own my penknife, my jacket button. So why should I throw it away?”

“But how could you buy a medal?” she said.

“Sure, it’s humbug, I don’t deny it; ah, the sort of things one does oftentimes! On one occasion I wore it on my breast for a whole day, showing it off; I was even toasted for it, heh-heh-heh. One kind of humbug is as good as any other, don’t you think?”

“The name is scratched out,” she said.

His expression suddenly changed as he put out his hand for the medal.

“Is the name scratched out? That isn’t possible, let me see. It has only suffered from lying in my pocket. I’ve had it there together with my coins, that’s all.”

Dagny gave him a suspicious look. Then he snaps his fingers of a sudden and exclaims, “How thoughtless I can be! The name is scratched out, you’re right, how could I have forgotten it! Heh-heh-heh, I scratched it out myself, quite so. It wasn’t my name, after all, that was inscribed on it, but the owner’s, the name of the rescuer. I whittled it out as soon as I’d got hold of it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away, I didn’t mean to tell a lie. You see, I was thinking about something else: how come you suddenly became so nervous about that jacket button which was about to come off? What if it had come off? Was it supposed to be your answer to what I was saying about nervousness and science?”

Pause.

“I must say you’re always extremely candid with me,” she remarked, without answering his question. “I have no idea what it’s supposed to be for. Your views are rather unusual; a moment ago you would have me suppose that, in reality, everything is just humbug, nothing is noble, pure, great. Is that what you think? Does it make no difference whether one buys oneself a medal for so and so many kroner, or one earns it by some exploit?”

He didn’t answer. She continued, slowly and earnestly, “I cannot figure you out. Sometimes when I hear you talk I ask myself if you can be quite sane. Forgive my saying so! You make me a little more uneasy every time we meet, a little more shaken still; you confuse my ideas about everything, no matter what you talk about, turning things topsy-turvy for me. How can this be? I’ve never met anyone who contradicts all my innermost feelings as you do. Tell me, how much of what you say do you really mean? What is your deepest conviction?”

She had asked her question in such earnest, so warmly, that he was taken aback by it.

“If I had a god,” he then said, “a god I regarded as truly high and holy, I would swear by that god that I sincerely mean everything I’ve said to you, absolutely everything, and that I have the best intentions even when I confuse you. You said the last time we talked that I represented a contradiction to the views of everyone else.[4] Well, that’s true; I admit I am a living contradiction, and I don’t myself understand why. I simply cannot grasp why everyone else doesn’t share my view of things. That’s how plain and transparent all problems seem to me, and that’s how luminously clear my vision of the underlying truth behind them is. This is my deepest conviction, Miss Kielland. If only I could make you believe me, now and always.”

“Now and always—no, that I will not promise.”

“It’s so infinitely important to me,” he said.

By now they had entered the forest. They were walking so close to each other that their sleeves often touched, and the air was so calm that they could speak quite softly and still be heard. Now and then a bird twittered.

Suddenly he stopped short, making her stop as well.

“How I’ve longed for you these last few days!” he said. “No, no, don’t get frightened. What I’m going to say is next to nothing, and it won’t gain me anything; I’m under no illusion, none at all, as far as that goes. Besides, maybe you won’t even understand me, with that awkward beginning and my slips of the tongue, saying what I didn’t mean to say....”

When he fell silent she said, “How strange you are today!”

With that she wanted to move on.

But again he stopped her. “Dear Miss Kielland, wait a moment! You must bear with me today! I’m afraid to talk, I fear you may interrupt me and say, ‘Go away!’ And yet I have thought this over during many wakeful hours.”

Looking at him with growing surprise, she asked, “Where is this taking us?”

“Where it’s taking us? Will you let me tell you in plain words? It takes us to where—to where I love you, Miss Kielland. Well, I really don’t see why you should be so astonished; I’m made of flesh and blood, I met you and fell in love with you. That’s not so very strange, is it? It’s quite another matter that perhaps I shouldn’t have confessed it to you.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“It goes to show how far one can be driven. I have even slandered you, out of love for you. I’ve called you a flirt and tried to drag you down, just to console myself and make up for my loss, because I knew you were unattainable. This is the fifth time we’ve met; I did, after all, wait until the fifth time before giving myself away, though I could’ve done so the first time. Besides, it’s my birthday today, I’m twenty-nine years old, and I’ve been singing and feeling happy ever since I opened my eyes this morning. I thought—well, it’s ridiculous, of course, to dream up such tomfooleries, but I thought to myself, If you meet her today and make a clean breast of it, it may not hurt that, on top of everything, it is your birthday. If you let her know that, perhaps she will be more willing to forgive you, on account of the day it is. You’re smiling? Sure, it’s ridiculous, I know; but there’s no help for it. I offer you my tribute just like everyone else.”

“What a pity, then, that this should have happened to you today,” she said. “You’ve been unlucky with your birthday this year. That’s all I can say about that.”

“Yes, of course.... God, what power you have! I can well understand how a man might be driven to any extremity for your sake. Even now, as you uttered those last words, which weren’t so pleasant after all, even now your voice was like a song. I felt as though my heart were bursting into flower. How strange! Do you know, I’ve wandered about in front of your home at night, trying to catch a glimpse of you at a window; I’ve been on my knees here in the woods praying to God for you, although I don’t believe in God very much. Do you see that aspen over there? I’m going to stop right here, because I’ve knelt under that aspen night after night, beside myself with despair, foolish and lost, simply because I couldn’t get you out of my mind. From here I’ve said good night to you every evening, I’ve lain here asking the wind and the stars to bring you my greeting, and I believe you must’ve felt it in your sleep.”[5]

“Why have you been telling me all this? Don’t you know that I—”

“Oh sure, sure!” he cut in, exceedingly agitated. “I know what you were going to say: that you have belonged to someone else for a long time and that it’s dishonorable of me to try to force myself on you now, afterward, when it’s too late—how could I not know that? Why, then, have I told you all this? Well, to influence you, make an impression on you, get you to think it over. As God is my witness, I’m speaking the truth, I can do nothing else. I know you are engaged to be married, that you are in love with your young man, and that I cannot get anywhere with you. Still, I decided to try to influence you a little, I refused to give up hope. If you can imagine what it means to give up all hope, then perhaps you’ll understand me better. When I said just now that I didn’t expect to get anywhere, I was lying, of course. I only said it to set your mind at rest for the moment and to gain time, so you wouldn’t become all too alarmed at once. Oh dear, did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to say that you ever gave me any hope, nor have I ever imagined I could cut anyone out. That never even occurred to me, alas. But in certain moments, when everything seemed hopeless, I have thought to myself : All right, she’s engaged and she’ll soon be leaving, goodbye; but she’s not utterly lost to me yet, she has not already left, she’s not married, or dead, so who knows? And if I gave it my all, perhaps there would still be time! You’ve become my constant thought, my obsession, I see you in everything and call every blue stream Dagny. I don’t believe a single day has gone by during these past few weeks without my thinking about you. No matter at what hour I leave the hotel, as soon as I open the door and find myself on the steps, the hope shoots through my heart: maybe you’ll meet her this time! And I look for you everywhere. It’s quite beyond me, I just can’t help it. If I have now surrendered, I certainly didn’t surrender without a fight, believe me. It’s not a happy thought to know in your heart that your efforts have been sadly wasted and yet to be unable to refrain from making an effort; that’s why one resists to the very end. But what if it doesn’t do any good? When you spend a sleepless night sitting by the window in your room, you dream up all sorts of things! You have a book in your hand, but you don’t read; you clench your teeth again and again and read three lines, then you can’t anymore and close the book, shaking your head. Your heart is beating wildly, you softly whisper some sweet, secret words to yourself, calling a name and kissing it in your thoughts. The clock strikes two, four, six; then you decide to make an end of it and to seize the first chance you have to take the plunge and confess all....[6] If I might ask anything of you now, it would be not to talk. I love you, but don’t talk, don’t talk. Wait three minutes.”

She had listened to him in utter dismay, without uttering a single word in reply. They still weren’t moving.

“You must be crazy!” she said, shaking her head. And distressed and pale, with an icy glint in her blue eyes, she added, “You know I’m engaged, you remember and assume that, and yet—”

“Of course, I know! Could I forget that face and that uniform ? After all, he’s a handsome man, and it isn’t that I find any fault with him; and yet I could wish him dead and gone. What’s the use of saying to myself, as I’ve done a hundred times: there you won’t get anywhere![7] Instead I try to avoid thinking about this impossibility, telling myself, Oh yes, I’ll get somewhere all right, lots of things can happen, there’s still hope.... And there is hope, isn’t there?”

“No, no! Don’t bring me to utter despair!” she cried. “What do you want me to do? What are you thinking of? Do you mean that I should—. Good God, don’t let’s talk about it anymore, please. And now go! You’ve ruined everything with a few stupid words, you’ve even spoiled our talks, and now we won’t be able to meet anymore. Why did you do it? Oh, if I’d only had an inkling of it! Well, you must forget about it, I beg you, for your own sake as well as mine. You know very well I can never be anything to you; I don’t see how you could ever get that idea. So don’t let us drag this out. You must go back to your room[8] and try to resign yourself. Oh dear, I’m truly sorry for you, but there’s nothing else I can do.”

“But does it have to be goodbye today? Am I seeing you for the last time? No, no, I say! I promise to keep cool, to talk about anything else you like, and never again about this; so shall we meet? When, that is, I’ve cooled off? Some day, perhaps, when you’re fed up with all the others—as long as today isn’t the very last time. You’re shaking your head again—your lovely head, you’re shaking it. How absurd everything is! ... What if you turned me down but said yes anyway, telling a lie to make me happy? It has turned into a sad day, you know, very sad, though this morning I was singing. Just one more time!”

“You shouldn’t ask that of me, since I can’t promise it. Besides, what would be the use? Just go now, please! Maybe we’ll meet again, I don’t know, but it’s quite possible. No, go now, will you!” she exclaimed impatiently. “You’ll be doing me a real kindness,” she added.[9]

Pause. He stood staring at her, his breast heaving. Then he pulled himself together and bowed to her. Dropping his cap on the ground, he suddenly grabbed her hand, which she hadn’t offered him, and squeezed it hard between both of his. When she gave a little cry, he let her go at once, distressed, showing real despair at having caused her pain. And when she left, he stood there following her with his eyes. A few more steps and she would be gone![10] His cheeks flushing, he bites his lips till the blood comes and wants to go, to turn his back on her in heartfelt anger. When all was said and done, he was still a man; it was all right, everything was all right, goodbye....

Suddenly she turned around and said, “And you mustn’t go prowling around the parsonage at night. You really mustn’t, I beg you! So it was you who made my doggie bark so furiously the past several nights. One night Papa was on the point of getting out of bed. You can’t do that, do you hear! Anyway, I hope you won’t get us both into trouble.”

These words, no more. Still, at the sound of her voice his resentment was gone; he shook his head.

“And today is my birthday!” he said. With that he shielded his face with his arm and left.

Watching him go, she hesitated a moment and then ran back to him. She seized his arm.

“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is, I cannot be anything for you.[11] But maybe we’ll meet again sometime, don’t you think? Well, I have to go.”

She turned on her heel and quickly marched off.

XII

A VEILED LADY came walking up from the docks, where she had just stepped ashore from the steamer. She headed straight for the Central Hotel.

Nagel happened to stand by the window of his room looking out; he had paced the floor restlessly, up and down, all afternoon, only stopping now and then to drink a glass of water. His cheeks were unusually red, feverishly red, and his eyes were burning. For hours on end he had been thinking of one and the same thing: his latest meeting with Dagny Kielland.

For a moment he had tried to persuade himself that he could simply leave the place and forget the whole thing. He opened his trunk and took out some papers, a couple of brass instruments, a flute, a few sheets of music, some clothes, including another yellow suit just like the one he was wearing, and various other things which he spread over the floor. Yes, he would leave, the town wasn’t fit to live in any longer; there were no flags flying anymore and the streets were dead, so why shouldn’t he leave? Why the hell had he wanted to poke his nose into this place anyway ? It was just a hole, a little one-horse town, with small, longeared people.

But he knew very well that he wouldn’t leave, that he only wanted to boost his morale, thus deluding himself. Despondent, he again packed all his things and put his bags back in their place. Then, utterly distraught, he paced up and down between the door and the window with hurried steps, while the clock downstairs struck one hour after the other. Finally it struck six....

When he caught sight of the veiled lady just climbing the hotel steps as he stopped by the window, his expression completely changed and he clutched his head once or twice. Well, why not! She had just as much right to visit the place as he. Anyway, it was no concern of his, he had other things to worry about, and besides she and he were quits.

He at once forced himself to be calm, sat down on a chair and picked up a newspaper from the floor, looking at it here and there as if reading it. No more than a minute or two later, Sara opened the door and handed him a card on which was written, in pencil, “Kamma.” Just Kamma. He got up and went downstairs.

The lady was standing in the lobby; she was wearing her veil. Nagel bowed to her without a word.

“Hello, Simonsen!” she said in a loud, emotional voice. Simonsen, she said.

Startled, he quickly composed himself and called to Sara, “Where could we go for a moment?”

They were shown into a room next to the restaurant, where the lady collapsed in a chair as soon as the door was closed behind them. She was in a state of great agitation.

Their conversation was intermittent and obscure, with half-words of which they alone understood the meaning, and with many allusions to the past. They had met before and knew one another. Their encounter lasted less than an hour. The lady spoke more Danish than Norwegian.

“Pardon me for still calling you Simonsen,” she said. “That amusing old petname! How old and amusing! Every time I say it to myself, I can see you before me, large as life.”

“When did you get here?” Nagel asked.

“Now, just now, a little while ago; I came by the steamer.... Well, I’m leaving again right away.”

“Right away?”

“Look,” she says, “you’re glad I’m leaving again right away, don’t you think I can see that? ... But tell me, what should I do for my chest? Feel here, no, higher up! Well, what do you think? I believe it’s rather worse now; I mean, it has taken a turn for the worse since we saw one another, hasn’t it? Oh well, it doesn’t matter.... Do I look a mess? Tell me if I do. How does my hair look? Maybe I’m dirty too, downright filthy, I’ve been traveling for twenty-four hours.... You haven’t changed, you’re just as cold, just as cold.... Do you have a comb on you, by any chance?”

“No—. How could you dream of coming here? What is it that—”

“The same to you, the same to you, namely, How could you dream of sneaking off to a place like this? But I found you anyway! ... So you are an agronomist here, eh? Ha-ha-ha, I met some people on the dock who said you were an agronomist and that you had helped out a certain Mrs. Stenersen with her garden. You had taken care of some currant bushes, working in your shirtsleeves two days in a row. What an idea! ... My hands are ice-cold; well, they always are when I’m upset, and right now I’m upset. You don’t have much compassion for me, do you, though I call you Simonsen as in the old days and am cheerful and happy? This morning, while I was still lying in my berth, I thought to myself, How will he receive me, I wonder; won’t he at least call me by my first name and chuck me under the chin? I was almost certain that you would, but I was mistaken. I don’t ask you to do so now, mind you. Please, take note of that. It’s too late, I won’t have it.... Say, why are you constantly blinking your eyes? Is it because you’re thinking of something else while I’m talking to you?”

“I don’t feel quite up to scratch today, Kamma,” he merely replied. “Couldn’t you tell me at once why you’ve come to see me? You would be doing me a great favor.”

“Why I’ve come to see you?” she cried. “My God, how terribly you can hurt a person’s feelings! Are you afraid I may ask you for money, that I’ve come simply to clean you out? Just come out with it, if you really harbor such black thoughts in your heart.... But why have I come to see you, then? Take a guess! Don’t you know what day, what date, it is today? Can you possibly have forgotten your own birthday?”

Sobbing, she threw herself on her knees before him, grabbing both his hands, which she held against her face and then pressed to her bosom.

He was at once strangely moved by this intense tenderness, which he hadn’t expected anymore; he pulled her up and set her on his knees.

“I didn’t forget your birthday,” she said, “I always remember it. You have no idea how often I weep over you at night, when I can’t sleep for just thinking.... My dear boy, you still have the same red lips! I thought about so many things on board; I wondered, Are his lips just as red still? ... How your eyes wander! You aren’t getting impatient, are you? Otherwise you are the same; but your eyes do wander, as if you were trying to figure out how to get rid of me as soon as possible. Why don’t I sit on the chair next to you, you will like that better, won’t you? I’ve got so much, so much, to talk to you about, and I have to hurry up, because the steamer will be leaving very soon, and right now you’re simply confusing me with your indifferent air. What can I say to make you sit up and listen to me? You aren’t the least bit grateful that I remembered your birthday and came up here.... Did you get lots of flowers? I trust you did. Mrs. Stenersen remembered you too, didn’t she? Tell me, this Mrs. Stenersen, for whom you serve as agronomist, what does she look like? Ha-ha-ha, what a man! ... I would have brought you some flowers too, if I had been able to afford it; but I’m too poor right now.... Ye gods, why don’t you listen to me these few paltry minutes, won’t you, please! How everything has changed! Do you remember how once—but you obviously don’t, and it’s pointless to remind you of it—well, once you recognized me a long way off simply by the feather in my hat, and as soon as you saw it you came running. You know quite well this is true, don’t you? It happened one day on the Ramparts.[1] But now I can’t remember anymore why I mentioned that about the feather. Oh dear, I’ve forgotten how I was going to use it against you, though it was a good argument.... What now? Why jump up like that?”

He got up, tiptoed across the room and jerked the door open.

“Sara, they keep ringing for you in the dining room!” he called through the doorway.

When he came back and sat down on his chair again, he nodded to Kamma and whispered, “I could tell she was peeping through the keyhole, all right.”

Kamma was getting impatient.

“And what if she was?” she said. “Why on earth are you so taken up with a thousand other things just now? I’ve been sitting here for a quarter of an hour and you haven’t even asked me to undo my veil. But don’t you dare ask me now, afterward! You don’t consider how awful it is to have a winter veil over one’s face in this heat. Oh well, it serves me right; what did I want to come here for anyway! It didn’t escape me that you asked the maid if we might go in here for just a moment. For just a moment! you said. That must have meant you’d make sure to finish with me in a minute or two. Oh, I don’t blame you, it’s only that it makes me so unspeakably sad. God help me! ... Why can’t I ever let you go? I know you’re mad, your eyes are as crazy as can be—yes, imagine, that’s what I’ve heard, and I can well believe it. But still I can’t let you go. Dr. Nissen said you were mad, and God knows you must be stark-mad to settle down in a place like this and call yourself an agronomist. Whoever heard the likes! And you’re still wearing that iron ring on your finger and forever sporting that loud yellow suit, which no one but you would touch....”

“Did Dr. Nissen say I was mad?” he asked.

“Dr. Nissen said that right out! Would you like to know to whom he said it?”

Pause. He fell into a reverie for a moment. Then he looked up and asked, “Tell me frankly, Kamma, couldn’t I help you out with some money? You know I can do it.”

“Never!” she cried, “never, do you hear! What on earth makes you think you can fling one insult after another in my face!”

Pause.

“I don’t see,” he said, “why we should sit here making things unpleasant for each other—”

At this point she interrupted him with tears and no longer heeded what she was saying. “Who is unpleasant? Is it me? How utterly you have changed in a few months! I came here for one thing only, to—. I don’t expect you to return my feelings anymore, and you know I’m not the sort who goes begging; but I’d hoped you would treat me mercifully.... God in heaven, what a perfect disaster my life has been! I ought to tear you out of my heart, but I can’t; instead, I trail after you and throw myself at your feet. Do you remember that day on the Drammen Road when you smacked a dog on the muzzle because he jumped me? Oh, it was all my fault, I screamed because I thought he was going to bite me; well, he wasn’t, he only wanted to play, and after you smacked him he crawled on his belly for us and lay down instead of running off. You were moved to tears that time, you petted the dog and cried over him on the quiet, it didn’t escape me; but now I see no tears, although ... This isn’t meant as a comparison, naturally; you don’t imagine I would compare myself to a dog, do you? God only knows what thoughts might occur to you in your arrogance! I know what the score is when you put on that face. I see you’re smiling, yes, you smiled, you did! You’re mocking me to my face! Let me tell you straight out ... No, no, no, forgive me! It’s just that I’m so desperate again. You see before you a broken woman, I’m completely broken, give me your hand! Oh,[2] that you can never forget that peccadillo of mine. It was just a peccadillo, after all, when you stop to think. It was mean of me not to come to you that evening; you gave me one signal after another and yet I didn’t come. I still deeply regret it, God knows I do! But he wasn’t with me then, as you thought; he had been there, but he wasn’t there then, he had left. As you see, I confess and ask for mercy. But I should have sent him packing, yes, I should, I admit that, I don’t mind admitting everything; and I shouldn’t have—. Oh, I just can’t understand—I can’t understand anything anymore....”

Pause. The silence was only broken by Kamma’s sobs and the clatter of knives and forks in the dining room. She continued to cry, and to wipe her face with her handkerchief under the veil.

“He’s so terribly helpless, you see,” she went on, “he doesn’t know how to give as good as he gets. Sometimes he bangs the table and tells me to go to blazes; yes, he rails at me, says I’m ruining him, and behaves worse than a boor. But the next moment he’s again brokenhearted and can’t brace himself to let me go. What shall I do, seeing what a weakling he is? I put off leaving him from day to day, though I’m anything but happy.... But don’t be sorry for me; just you dare show me your insolent pity! At any rate, he’s better than most and has given me more happiness than anyone else, more than you. And I love him all the same, I want you to know. I didn’t come here to slander him. When I see him again after getting home, I’ll go down on my knees and ask his forgiveness for what I just said about him. I certainly will!”

“Dear Kamma, be a little reasonable!” Nagel said. “Let me help you, do you hear! I dare say you need it. Won’t you let me? It’s mean of you to refuse me when I can do it as easily as now, and would very much like to.”

With that he took out his wallet.

“Didn’t I say no! Can’t you hear, man!” she sang out furiously.

“What, then, do you want?” he said, dismayed.

She sat down on her chair and stopped crying. She appeared to regret her anger.

“Listen, Simonsen—allow me to call you Simonsen one more time, and if you promise not to be angry I would like to ask you something. What is the big idea of settling down in a place like this, why in the world did you do it? Is it really so strange that people say you are mad? I can’t even remember the name of this town unless I stop to think, it’s that small, and here you are, putting on an act and astonishing the inhabitants with your quaint ideas! Couldn’t a man like you think of something better to do? ... Well, it’s none of my business, I’m just asking by force of—. Oh, but what do you think I should do about my chest? I feel as though it’s bursting! Don’t you think I must see the doctor again? But how, in God’s name, can I go see the doctor when I don’t have a penny to pay him with?”

“But I’ve said I’m more than willing to loan you the money! After all, you can pay it back sometime.”

“Oh, it doesn’t really matter whether I see the doctor or not,” she went on like a headstrong child. “Who would mourn me if I died?” ... But suddenly she came round, making as if she thought it over, and said, “On second thought, why shouldn’t I accept your money? Why not now just as well as before? After all, I’m not so filthy rich that I should for that reason—. But time and again you have offered it to me, on purpose, at a moment when I was exasperated, so that you knew beforehand I would refuse it. You have, all right! You’ve had it exactly figured out, simply to save your money, although you’re flush with it right now; don’t you think I’ve noticed that? And even though you’re making your offer again, one more time, you’re doing it to humiliate me and to gloat over the fact that I’m finally forced to accept it. But it can’t be helped, I’ll accept it anyway and with gratitude. I wish to God I didn’t need you! But just so you know, that’s not why I came here today; it was not for the sake of the money, believe me or not. I can’t believe you’re so common as to think that.... But how much can you spare, Simonsen? Dear me, you mustn’t take it so hard, I beg you, and you must believe I’m sincere—”

“How much do you need?”

“Oh, what I need! ... Good Lord, I won’t miss the steamer, will I? ... I may need a lot, but—maybe several hundred kroner, but—”

“Look, you shouldn’t feel the least bit humiliated by accepting this money; if you were agreeable you could earn it. You could do me a very great favor, if I might ask you—”

“If you might ask me!” she cried, beside herself with joy at this way out. “Heavens, how you can talk! What favor? What favor, Simonsen? I’m game for anything! Oh, my dearest boy!”

“You still have three quarters of an hour before the steamer leaves—”

“Yes. And what am I to do?”

“You are to look up a lady and do an errand for me.”

“A lady?”

“She lives down by the docks, in a small one-story house. There are no curtains on the windows, but usually she has a few white flowers on the windowsills. The lady’s name is Martha Gude, Miss Gude.”

“But is it her—Isn’t it rather Mrs. Stenersen—?”

“Come, you’re on the wrong track, Miss Gude must be going on forty. But she has a chair, an old armchair, which I’ve decided to acquire, and for that I need your help.... Now, put your money away and I’ll explain it all to you.”

It was beginning to grow dark; the hotel guests were leaving the dining room, making an awful din, while Nagel was still carefully explaining everything concerning the old armchair. She would have to proceed with caution, grand gestures were no good. Kamma became more and more eager to get going, this questionable mission sent her into raptures; she laughed aloud and kept asking if she shouldn’t appear in disguise, wear glasses at least. Didn’t he once have a red hat? She could wear that—

“No, no, you mustn’t use any tricks. You are simply to make a bid on the chair, drive the price up; you can go as high as two hundred kroner, well, two hundred and twenty kroner. And don’t worry, you won’t be stuck with it; you won’t get it.”

“Lord, what heaps of money! Why wouldn’t I get it for two hundred and twenty kroner?”

“Because I have a prior claim on it.”

“But suppose she takes me at my word?”

“She won’t take you at your word. Now go.”

At the very last moment she asked him again for a comb and expressed a concern that her dress might have gotten crumpled. “I really can’t stand the idea of your going to see that Mrs. Stenersen so often,” she said, shamming.[3] “I just can’t stand it, I’ll be inconsolable.” She again checked whether her money had been safely stowed away. “How sweet of you to give me all that money!” she exclaimed. And with a quick movement she lifted her veil and kissed him on the lips, right smack on the lips. But still completely wrapped up in her strange errand to Martha Gude, she asked, “How can I let you know that everything has gone well? I can have the captain blow the whistle, if you like, blow it four or five times, wouldn’t that do? There you see, I’m not that dumb. Trust me! That’s the least I can do for you, after you have—. Listen, it was not because of the money that I came here today, believe me! Well, let me thank you again! So long, so long!”

Once more she checked on the money.

Half an hour later Nagel did, in fact, hear a steam whistle blow five brief blasts.

XIII

A COUPLE OF DAYS went by.

Nagel stayed at the hotel, wandering about with a gloomy air and looking harassed and suffering; his eyes had in the course of these two days become quite lusterless. He never spoke to anyone, not even to people in the hotel. He had a rag tied around one hand; one night when he had been out until the early morning as usual, he returned with one hand inside his handkerchief. He said the two wounds he had were caused by his tripping over a discarded harrow left on the dock.

On Thursday morning it rained, and the unpleasant weather made him still more depressed. However, after reading the papers in bed and enjoying an animated scene in the French Chamber of Deputies, he suddenly snapped his fingers and jumped out of bed. Why the hell should he mope! The world was big, rich, merry, the world was beautiful, you bet your life it was!

Before he was fully dressed, he rang and informed Sara that he intended to have some visitors in the evening, six or seven who could whoop it up a bit in this vale of tears, merry souls: Dr. Stenersen; Mr. Hansen, the lawyer; the teacher, and so on.

He promptly sent out invitations. Miniman answered that he would come; Mr. Reinert, the deputy, was also invited but stayed away. By five o’clock they were all gathered in Nagel’s room. Since it was still raining and the skies were dark, the lamp was lighted and the blinds drawn.

And so the bacchanal began, a carouse and a priceless infernal hubbub that gave the little town something to talk about for several days to come....

As soon as Miniman entered the room, Nagel went up to him and apologized for having talked so much nonsense the last time they met. He took Miniman’s hand and shook it heartily; he also introduced him to Øien, the young student, who was the only one that didn’t know him. Miniman whispered a thank-you for the new trousers; now he was new from top to toe.[1]

“You still don’t have a vest, do you?”

“No, but that’s not necessary. I’m no lord, I assure you I don’t need a vest.”

Dr. Stenersen had broken his glasses and was now wearing a pince-nez without a cord, which was constantly slipping off.

“Say what you will,” he said, “we’re certainly living in a time of liberation. Just look at the election. And compare it to the previous election.”

Everyone was drinking steadily; the teacher was already speaking in monosyllables, and that was an unfailing sign. Hansen, the lawyer, who had doubtless had a few drinks before he came, began as usual to contradict the doctor and make a nuisance of himself.

For his part, Hansen was a socialist, rather advanced, if he might say so. He wasn’t very pleased with the election. What sort of liberation did it represent, could anyone tell him that? Oh, go to hell! A nice time of liberation they were having! Wasn’t even a man like Gladstone waging a wretched war against Parnell on moral grounds, on ridiculously beefy moral grounds? Oh, go to hell!

“How can you talk such damn nonsense?” the doctor yelled instantly. “Mustn’t there be morality in things?” If people heard there was no morality in things, how many would dare rise to the bait? You had to trick and fool people to make them progress, and you constantly had to honor morality. The doctor strongly supported Parnell, but if Gladstone found him to be impossible, it was only fair to assume that he knew what he was doing. Of course, he would make an exception of Mr. Nagel, his honorable host, who couldn’t even forgive Gladstone his clear conscience. “Ha-ha-ha, good Lord! ... By the way, Mr. Nagel, you aren’t very fond of Tolstoy either, are you? I was told by Miss Kielland that you also had some scruples about recognizing him.”

Nagel, who was talking to Øien, quickly turned and replied, “I don’t recall having spoken to Miss Kielland about Tolstoy. I recognize him as a great writer and as a philosophical fool....”[2] But after a moment he added, “We have to feel free to express ourselves rather broadly this evening, if it suits us, don’t you think? After all, there are only men present, and we are in a bachelor’s quarters. Shall we agree on that? The way I feel right now, I could show my teeth and growl.”

“Please yourself!”[3] the doctor replied, offended. “Tolstoy a fool!”

“Yes, yes, let’s express our opinions,” the teacher shouted all of a sudden. He had just reached the critical stage of his inebriation and would henceforth stick at nothing. “Go the whole hog, Doctor, or we’ll throw you out. Everyone has his own opinion; Stocker, for instance, is a blessed villain. I shall prove it—prove it!”

Everyone laughed at this, and it was a little while before they could again talk about Tolstoy. He was a great writer and a great mind.

Nagel suddenly flushed. “A great mind he is not. His mind is, both in its kind and quality, as flatly common as it can possibly be, and[4] his teaching isn’t a hairsbreadth deeper than the hallucinations of the Salvation Army. A Russian without his noble birth, without that old aristocratic name, without Tolstoy’s million rubles in ready cash, would hardly have become so famous by teaching a few peasants to patch a pair of boots.... But[5] come, let’s rather be merry awhile. Skoal, Mr. Grøgaard!”

At brief intervals, Nagel took the opportunity of clinking glasses with Miniman; in effect, he paid great attention to him all evening. He again reverted to the nonsensical tales he had spun when they last saw each other and asked Miniman to forget about them.

“As for me, I won’t be astounded by anything coming from you,” the doctor said. He drew himself up.

“Occasionally I have an inclination to contradict,” Nagel continued, “and this evening I’m particularly bent on doing so. It’s partly due to a couple of unpleasant experiences that hit me rather hard the day before yesterday, partly to this dismal weather which I simply cannot stand. You, Dr. Stenersen, surely know something about that and will pardon me.[6] ... To speak about Tolstoy: I do not find his mind to be any deeper than, say, that of General Booth. They are both preachers, not thinkers but preachers. They sell existing products, popularize ready-made ideas, vulgarizing them for the masses at bargain prices and causing commotion in the world. But if you’re going to sell, you must do so at a profit. Tolstoy sells with staggering losses. Two friends once made a bet: one of them staked a shilling he would shoot a nut out of the other’s hand at twenty paces without hurting the hand. All right, he fired, missed badly, blew his whole hand to bits, and with flying colors. The other groaned and cried with his last strength, ‘You lost the bet, hand over the shilling!’ He got the money. Heh-heh, hand over the shilling, he said! ... God help me, how Tolstoy sweats over drying up people’s sources of life, of wild and joyful life, drying them up and making the world fat with love of God and everyman. It fills my heart with shame.[7] It may sound impertinent to say that a count makes an agronomist feel deeply ashamed, but he does.... I would never have mentioned it if Tolstoy were a youth who had to overcome temptation, put up a fight, in order to preach virtue and live immaculately. But the man is old, after all, his fountains of life run dry, without a trace remaining of human affections. Well—you might say—that has no bearing on his teaching! Oh yes, it does have a bearing on his teaching! Only someone who has become slow and watertight with old age, satiated and hardened with pleasure, will go to a youth and say, Renounce! And the youth gives it a try; thinking it over, he recognizes it’s correct according to Scripture. And yet the youth renounces nothing, but sins royally for forty years. Such is the course of nature! But when the forty years are up and the young man has himself become old, he saddles his lily-white filly and rides off, holding the banner of the cross high in his bony hand and trumpeting youthful renunciation ad nauseam, while the world listens with grave attention. Heh-heh-heh-heh, it’s an ever-recurring comedy! I find Tolstoy amusing, I’m delighted that the old man can still do so much good; he will eventually enter into the joy of the Lord! The only trouble is that he’s merely repeating what so many old men have done before him and so many old men will do after him.[8] Yes, that’s the trouble.”

“Let me just remind you—to say no more—that Tolstoy has shown himself a true friend of the needy and forsaken; shouldn’t that be considered at all? Show me a blue blood in this country who has looked after the humbler members of the community the way he has. It is a rather arrogant view, I think, to class Tolstoy’s teaching, simply because it’s not followed, with that of fools.”[9]

“Bravo, Doctor!” the teacher roared again, his face scarlet. “Bravo! But say it more bitterly, say it gruffly. Everyone has his own opinion. An arrogant view, verily an arrogant view on your part! I shall prove it—”

“Skoal!” Nagel said. “Let’s not forget what we’re here for.[10] Do you really mean to say, Doctor, that giving away a ten-ruble note when one has a cool million left is worth admiring? I can’t understand the way you, and everybody else, regard this matter; I must be differently made. For the life of me, I cannot see how anybody—least of all a wealthy man—deserves to be admired for giving a bit of alms.”

“That’s good!” the lawyer remarked teasingly. “I’m a socialist, and that’s my position.”

But this annoyed the doctor and, turning to Nagel, he exclaimed, “If I may ask, do you really know that much about how many alms Tolstoy has handed out in the course of time, and how big they’ve been? There must be a limit to what one can say, even at a bachelor party.”

“And for Tolstoy,” Nagel replied, “the situation was this: there must be a certain limit to how much to give away! For which reason he let his wife take the blame for not giving away more! Heh-heh-heh, well, we’ll skip that.... But look: does one really give away a krone because one is kind, because one intends to do a kind and moral deed? How naive this view appears to me! There are some people who cannot help giving. Why? Because they experience a real psychological pleasure in doing so. They don’t do it with an eye to their own advantage, they do it on the quiet; they detest doing it openly because that would take away some of the satisfaction. They do it in secret, with quick trembling hands, their breast rocked by a spiritual well-being which they do not themselves understand. Suddenly they are overcome by an impulse to give something away; it manifests itself as a sensation in their breasts, a mysterious momentary desire that springs up in them and floods their eyes with tears. They don’t give out of kindness, but from an urge, for the sake of their personal well-being; some people are like that! One speaks of generous people with admiration; as I’ve said, I must be differently made from the rest of you: I don’t admire generous people. No, I don’t. Who the hell wouldn’t rather give than receive! May I ask if there exists a human being on earth who wouldn’t rather relieve destitution than be destitute? To use you as an example, Doctor: Not long ago you gave your oarsman five kroner. I overheard it by chance. Now then, why did you give away those five kroner? Surely not to perform a deed pleasing to God, which probably didn’t occur to you then; maybe the man didn’t even need the money very badly, but you gave it to him all the same. At that moment, I suspect, you simply yielded to a certain happy impulse to relinquish something and give pleasure to someone else.... To me, it seems unspeakably shabby to make a fuss over charity. You’re walking along the street one day, the weather is so and so and you see such and such people, all of which builds up a certain mood in you. Suddenly you catch sight of a face, a child’s face, a beggar’s face—let’s say a beggar’s face—which makes you tremble. A strange sensation vibrates through your soul, and you stamp your foot and come to a halt. This face has struck an exceptionally sensitive chord in you, and you lure the beggar into an entranceway and press a ten-krone bill into his hand. If you give me away by as much as a word, I’ll kill you! you whisper, and you fairly grind your teeth and shed tears of anger saying it. That’s how important it is to you to remain undiscovered. And this can happen repeatedly, day after day, so that often you end up in the worst kind of scrape yourself, without a penny in your pocket.... These traits are not my own, of course; but I do know a man, another man—well, for that matter, I know two men who are thus constituted.... No, you give because you have to give, and that’s that! However, I’ll make an exception as far as misers are concerned. Misers and blatantly stingy people make real sacrifices when they give something away, there can be no doubt about that. And so I say that such people are more worthy of respect, for the one øre they bring themselves to spare, than a man like you, or him or me, who squanders a krone for the pleasure of it. Tell Tolstoy from me that I don’t give a stiver for all his nauseating show of kindness—not until he gives away all he owns, and not even then.... By the way, I apologize if I have given offense to anybody. Have another cigar, Mr. Grøgaard. Skoal, Doctor!”

Pause.

“How many people do you think you’ll convert in your lifetime?” the doctor asked.

“Bravo!” the teacher cried, “a bravo from Master Holtan!”

“I?” Nagel asked. “None, none at all. If I were to live by converting people, I would starve pretty soon. It’s just that I can’t understand why everyone else doesn’t think the way I do. So I must be the one who is mostly in the wrong. But not completely, I can’t possibly be completely wrong.”

“But so far I haven’t heard you express approval of anything or anybody,” the doctor said. “It would be interesting to know if there is someone with whom you, too, can hit it off.”

“Let me explain myself a bit, a couple of words will do. What you meant to say, I suppose, was this: Look out, he admires no one, he is arrogance personified, he can’t hit it off with anybody! That’s not true. My brain doesn’t have a very wide compass, it doesn’t reach very far, but still I could enumerate hundreds upon hundreds of those ordinary, acknowledged great men who fill the world with their renown. My ears are crammed with their names. Yet, I would prefer to name the two or four, or six, greatest intellectual heroes, demi-gods, gigantic creators of values, and for the rest stick with a few sheer nonentities, fine singular geniuses who are never mentioned, whose lives were brief and who died young and unknown. In fact, I might want to include relatively many of those. But I’m certain of one thing: I would forget about Tolstoy.”

“Listen,” the doctor said brusquely, to have done with it—he even gave a distinct shrug—“do you really believe that someone could achieve the kind of world-wide fame Tolstoy enjoys without being a mind of high rank? It’s extremely amusing to listen to you, but what you’ve said is pure tommyrot. Your damn blather is enough to turn one’s stomach.”

“Bravo, Doctor!” Master Holtan roared. “Just don’t let our host turn your heads—your heads—”

“The teacher reminds me that[11] I’m not being a very good host,” Nagel said, laughing. “But I’ll do better. Mr. 0ien, you don’t have anything in your glass, do you? Why on earth aren’t you drinking?”

The fact was that Øien had been sitting silent as death listening to the conversation all along; he had barely missed a word. His eyes were narrow and curious, and he veritably cocked his ears as he listened. The young man was intensely interested. It was rumored that—like other students—he was working on a novel during the holidays.

Sara came and announced that supper was served. The lawyer, who had collapsed in his chair, suddenly opened his eyes and shot a glance after her, and when she had disappeared through the door he jumped up, caught up with her on the stairs and said, full of admiration, “Sara, you are a feast for the eye. You really are!”

Then he went back in and sat down in his place, as serious as ever. He was quite pickled. When Dr. Stenersen finally pitched into him for his socialism, he was totally unable to explain himself. A fine socialist he was! A leech, that’s what he was, a miserable middleman between power and impotence, a man of the law who made a living from other people’s wrangling and charged a fee so the caviler could have his rights, his legal rights! And such people wanted to pass for socialists!

“It’s the principle, the principle!” the lawyer protested.

Ah, principle! The doctor spoke with the deepest scorn about Mr. Hansen’s principles. As the men went down to the dining room, he made one sally after another, ridiculing Mr. Hansen as a lawyer and attacking the whole socialist system. The doctor was a Liberal heart and soul, he was no skin-deep socialist. What was the socialist principle anyway? To hell with it! The doctor was getting on his high horse: in short, the idea behind socialism was the revenge of the lower classes. Just look at the socialist movement! A flock of blind and deaf brutes jogging along after a leader, their tongues hanging out of their mouths. Did they ever manage to think beyond their noses? No, those people didn’t think. If they did, they would switch to the Liberal Party and do something useful and practical instead of slobbering over a dream all their lives. Pfui. Take anyone they liked among the socialist leaders, what kind of people were they? Shabby, skinny fellows who sat around on their wooden stools in some attic writing treatises for the world’s improvement! They might be decent people, of course, who could say anything else about Karl Marx? But there he sat all the same, this Marx fellow, scribbling poverty out of existence—theoretically. His brain has figured out every species of poverty, every degree of misery; his head encompasses all humanity’s suffering. And so, in the fervor of his spirit, he dips his pen and writes page after page, filling up large sheets with figures, taking from the rich and giving to the poor, distributing sums, turning the world’s entire economy topsy-turvy, throwing billions into the hands of the astonished poor—all of it scientific, all of it theoretical! And then, when all is said and done, it turns out that, in one’s simplicity, one has started from a radically false principle: people’s equality! Pfui! Yes, a radically false principle! This instead of doing something useful and supporting the Liberal Party in its work of reform, for the promotion of true democracy....

The doctor had gradually gotten the wind up and came out with many assertions and commonplaces. At the table he went from bad to worse; a great deal of champagne was consumed and the mood became exuberant: even Miniman, who was sitting beside Nagel and had been silent so far, joined in the conversation with a few remarks. The teacher sat stiff as a poker, crying out again and again about an egg he’d gotten all over himself, so that he couldn’t move. He was completely helpless. And when Sara came to wipe it off, the lawyer seized the opportunity to grab her, taking her into his arms and carrying on with her. The whole table was in confusion.

Meanwhile Nagel ordered a basket of champagne to be brought up to his room. Shortly thereafter they got up from the table. The teacher and the lawyer walked arm in arm, singing merrily, and the doctor again began to expatiate on the principles of socialism in an animated tone. But on the stairs he was unlucky enough to lose his pince-nez, which fell off, for the tenth time very likely, and finally went to pieces. Both lenses broken. He pocketed the frame and was half blind for the remainder of the evening. This was an annoyance and made him even more irascible; as he sat down beside Nagel, he said[12] sarcastically, “If I understand you correctly, you are a religious man, eh?”

He said this in full seriousness and expected an answer. After a brief pause he went on to say that, after their first conversation—the day of Karlsen’s funeral, to be precise—he had gotten the impression that he, Nagel,[13] was, indeed, a religious man.

“I defended man’s religious life,” Nagel replied, “not Christianity in particular, not at all, but the religious life in general. You were of the opinion that all theologians should be hanged. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Because their role has been played out,’ you replied. I didn’t agree with that. The religious life is a fact. A Turk cries, ‘Allah is great!’ and dies for this conviction; Norwegians kneel at the altar and drink Christ’s blood to this day. A people needs some cowbell or other to believe in, and dies blissfully in that belief. The decisive thing, you see, is not what you believe in, but how you believe in it—”

“It amazes me to hear that sort of talk,”[14] the doctor said indignantly. “In fact, I’m once again asking myself whether, at bottom, you aren’t simply a disguised Conservative. Here we have one scientific critique of theologians and theological books after another, writers come along, one after the other, cutting up this or that book of sermons, this or that theological treatise, and even so you won’t admit, say, that this farce regarding Christ’s blood is no longer of any value in our time. I don’t understand your way of thinking.”

After considering a moment, Nagel said, “My way of thinking is briefly this:[15] What would it profit us, after all—pardon me, by the way, if I’ve asked this before—what would it profit us, after all, even from a purely practical viewpoint, if we stripped life of all poetry, all dreams, all beautiful mysteries, all lies? What is truth, can you tell me that? You see, we only advance by way of symbols, and we change these symbols as we progress.[16] However, let’s not forget our drinks.”

The doctor got up and took a turn on the floor. He felt irritated by the sight of a crumpled piece of rug lying by the door, he even went down on his knees to straighten it out.

“Hansen, why don’t you lend me your glasses, since you are sleeping anyway,” he said, quite exasperated.

But Hansen refused to part with his glasses, and the doctor turned away from him in a huff. He again took a seat beside Nagel.

“So, it’s just rubbish, nothing but junk altogether,” he said, “the way you see it. Maybe you’re right, in the main. Look at Hansen over there, for instance, ha-ha-ha—well, you must excuse me, Hansen, lawyer and socialist Hansen, for permitting myself to laugh at you. You wouldn’t happen to feel a certain inward joy whenever two respectable citizens get into a dispute and sue one another, would you? No, of course not, you would have them settle out of court and not charge them a penny for it! And the following Sunday you would again visit the Workers’ Society and give a lecture on the socialist state to two artisans and a butcher boy. To be sure, everyone is to be rewarded according to his capacity to produce, you’d say, everything is wonderfully arranged and nobody shall suffer wrong. But then the butcher boy gets up—the butcher boy who, by George, is a genius compared to all the rest of you—he gets up and says, ‘But I, you see, have a certain merchant-like capacity to consume,’ he says, ‘though I’m only a poor butcher boy as far as producing goes, because I haven’t got much of a talent for that,’ he says. Oh, wouldn’t you turn pale and peevish, though, bungler that you are! ... Yes, just go on snoring, that’s the smartest thing you can do, snore away!” The doctor had become very drunk, his tongue sadly failed him, and his eyes were swimming. After a pause he again turned to Nagel and continued glumly, “By the way, I didn’t mean to say theologians were the only ones who should do away with themselves. Goddamn it, no, we should all of us do it, destroy the world and let the show go on.”

Nagel clinked glasses with Miniman. Receiving no answer, the doctor blew his top and yelled, “Didn’t you hear what I said? We should all do away with ourselves, I said, you too naturally, you too.”

The doctor looked quite bloodthirsty.

“Yes,” Nagel replied, “I’ve had the same idea. But as far as I’m concerned, I lack the courage.” Pause. “That is, I’m saying I definitely don’t have the courage for it. But if some day I should, I have the pistol ready. And to be on the safe side, I always carry it on me.”

He took a vial marked “Poison” out of his vest pocket and held it up. The vial was only half full.

“Genuine Prussic acid, of the purest water!” he said. “But I’ll never have the courage; it’s just too difficult.... Doctor, you can probably tell me whether this is enough. I’ve already used half of it on an animal, and it worked perfectly. There were a few spasms, a touch of comic-sardonic mimicry, two or three gasps, that was all; checkmate in three moves.”

The doctor took the vial, looked at it, shook it a few times and said, “It’s enough, more than enough.... I really ought to take this vial away from you, but since you don’t have the courage—”

“No, I don’t.”

Pause. Nagel put the vial back in his vest pocket. The doctor collapsed more and more, drank from his glass, looked about him with dead eyes and spat on the floor. Suddenly he called to the teacher, “Hey, how far along are you, Holtan? Can you still manage to say ‘association of ideas’? Because I can’t anymore. Good night!”

The teacher opened his eyes, stretched, got up and walked to the window, where he stopped to look out. When the conversation resumed he seized the opportunity to make his getaway; he stole along the wall unobserved, opened the door and slipped out before anyone noticed. This was Master Holtan’s usual way of leaving a party.

Miniman also rose and wanted to be off, but when he was asked to stay on for a little while he sat down again. Hansen, the lawyer, was asleep. The three who were still sober, Øien, Miniman and Nagel, then began to discuss literature. The doctor listened with half-closed eyes and without saying another word. Soon after he too was asleep.

Øien, the student, was very well read and backed Maupassant. There was no denying it: Maupassant had penetrated the innermost recesses of woman’s soul and was unrivaled as a portrayer of passion. What boldness of description, what a marvelous knowledge of the human heart! To this Nagel replied in an absurdly hotheaded manner, banging the table, bragging, attacking writers at random, nearly making a clean sweep of them; only a few were spared. During all this impetuosity, his breast seemed to heave with genuine sincerity, and he was foaming at the mouth.

The writers? Heh-heh, oh sure, there was no denying that they had penetrated the depths of the human heart! What were they, these writers, these stuck-up creatures who had known how to acquire such power in modern life, what were they? Well, they were a rash, a scab on the body politic, swollen and irritable pimples that had to be treated gently, be handled carefully and reverently, or they caused trouble; for they couldn’t stand rough treatment! Oh yes, you certainly had to make a fuss over the writers, especially the most stupid ones, those with the least developed humanity, the pixies, for otherwise they sulked their way abroad! Heh-heh, abroad, sure! Good Lord, what a priceless comedy! And if there appeared a writer, a truly inspired bard with music in his breast, you could be damn sure he would be placed far behind a coarse, prolific professional[17] like Maupassant, a man who had written a lot about love and shown he could turn out book after book! One must give the devil his due. Alas, a bright little twinkling star, a real poet as far as it lay within his power, Alfred de Musset, in whose work love was not just a routine of rutting but a delicate, ardent note of spring in his characters, and whose words were positively blazing in line after line—this writer probably didn’t have half as many followers as puny Maupassant with his extremely coarse and soulless crotch poetry....

Nagel was going beyond all bounds. He even found occasion to pitch into Victor Hugo, and condemned the greatest world-class authors up hill and down dale. If they would allow him to offer just one brief sample of the hollow poetic rumble of such a world author, they should listen to this: “May your steel be as sharp as your final no!” What did they think, didn’t it have a nice ring to it? What was Mr. Grøgaard’s opinion?

As he said this, Nagel gave Miniman a piercing glance. Continuing to stare at him, he repeated this silly line,[18] not taking his eyes off Miniman’s face. Miniman didn’t reply; his blue eyes burst open in utter dismay, and in his confusion he took a deep draft from his glass.[19]

“You mentioned Ibsen,” Nagel went on, still as agitated and without Ibsen’s name having been mentioned. In his opinion Norway had only one poet, and it was not Ibsen. No, it was not. People spoke about Ibsen as a thinker, but hadn’t we better distinguish between popular argument and real thought? People talked about Ibsen’s fame and assaulted our ears with his courage; hadn’t we better distinguish between theoretical and practical courage, between a ruthless, unselfish revolutionary urge and the daring of domestic revolt? The former shines forth in life, the latter astounds in the theater. A Norwegian author who didn’t puff himself up and brandish a pin like a lance was not a Norwegian author, of course; you would have to find some gatepost or other to square up to, otherwise you weren’t seen as a plucky fellow. It was really a very amusing sight if viewed from a distance. There was a turmoil of battle and a show of true mettle as in a Napoleonic engagement, while the danger and risk were those of a French duel. Heh-heh-heh.... No, a man who wanted to rebel[20] couldn’t be just a scribbling curiosity, a merely literary concept for Germans, but had to be an active, kicking human being in the turmoil of life. Ibsen’s revolutionary courage would certainly never lead him onto thin ice; that bit about putting a torpedo under the ark was a pitiful bureaucratic theory, as compared to the living, flaming deed. Oh well, come to that, perhaps one thing was no worse than another [21] as long as we groveled before the sort of womanish work involved in writing books for people. But however paltry it might be, it was at least as much worth as Leo Tolstoy’s[22] impertinent philosophical drivel. The devil take it all!

All? The whole caboodle?

Just about. We did have one poet, namely, Bjørnson—at his best. He was our one and only, despite everything....

But wouldn’t most of his objections to Tolstoy also apply to BJørnson? Wasn’t Bjørnson also just a sermonizer, a preacher of virtue, an ordinary old bore, a professional pen pusher, or whatever it all was?

“No!” Nagel cried in a loud voice. Waving his arms, he defended Bjørnson with angry words. One just couldn’t compare Bjørnson and Tolstoy, partly because it went against everyone’s simple agronomical sense, partly because one’s basic humanity was bound to oppose it. First of all, Bjørnson was a genius[23] just like Tolstoy. Nagel didn’t have a high opinion of the perfectly ordinary geniuses, those of average greatness—he should say he didn’t[24]—and it was to their level Tolstoy had risen, whereas Bjørnson far surpassed them. To be sure, that didn’t preclude Tolstoy from being able to write better books than many of Bjørnson’s; but what did that prove? Good books could, after all, be written even by Danish captains, Norwegian painters, and English housewives. Secondly, Bjørnson was a human being, an overmastering personality, not a mere concept. “He’s a vivid, thunderous presence on our planet and needs forty elbowrooms. He doesn’t sit there like a sphinx before the people, making himself great and mysterious,[25] like Tolstoy on his steppe or Ibsen in his café. Bjørnson’s mind is like a windswept forest; he’s a fighter, always on the go, and does glorious damage to his own interests with the Grand Café clientele. Everything about him is on a grand scale; he’s a masterful spirit, one of the few commanders. He can stand on a platform and stop the first hint of booing with a wave of his hand. He has a perpetually fertile, teeming brain; he wins great victories and makes grievous mistakes, but does both with personality and spirit. Bjørnson is our only poet of inspiration, blessed with a divine spark. It begins like a rustle within him, as of grain on a summer’s day, and ends by his hearing nothing else, nothing but that; his soul lives and moves by the principle of the running start—the way of genius. Compared to the poetry of Bjørnson, that of Ibsen, for example, is simply mechanical routine. Ibsen’s verse largely consists of one rhyme hitting another with a smack; most of his plays are dramatized wood pulp. What the hell were people thinking of? ... Well, that’ll do; let’s drink to it all....”

It was two o’clock. Miniman is yawning. Sleepy after a hard-working day, sick and tired of Nagel’s endless chatter, he again gets up to leave. However, when he had said goodbye and was already at the door, something happened which made him stop, an insidious little incident which would be of the greatest importance long afterward: the doctor wakes up, flails his arm excitedly and, in his myopia, upsets several glasses. Nagel, who sat next to him, was drenched with champagne. He jumped up, shook his wet breast with a laugh and shouted hurrah with abandon.

Miniman at once played the menial, rushing up to Nagel with handkerchiefs and towels eager to dry him. His vest had taken the brunt of it—if only he would take it off for a moment, just one minute, it would be remedied at once! But Nagel refused to take it off. Awakened by the noise, the lawyer added his voice to the hurrahs without knowing what was going on. Once again Miniman asked if he could have the vest for a moment, but Nagel only shook his head. Suddenly he looks at Miniman, something occurs to him; he immediately gets up, pulls off his vest and hands it to him, greatly excited.

“There you are!” he said. “Wipe it clean and keep it; oh yes, you shall keep it, you don’t have a vest, after all. Sh-sh, no nonsense now! You’re more than welcome to it, my dear friend.” But as Miniman still protested, Nagel stuck the vest under his arm, opened the door and sent him off with a friendly nudge.

Miniman left.

This happened so quickly that only Øien, who sat nearest the door, noticed it.

In his gallows humor the lawyer proposed that they should break the rest of the glasses as well. Nagel made no objection, and now four grown-up men started amusing themselves by dashing one glass after another against the wall. Afterward they drank straight from the bottles, yelling like sailors and dancing around the room. It was four o’clock before the carousing ended. By then the doctor was roaring drunk. In the doorway Øien turned to Nagel and said, “What you said about Tolstoy can also be said about Bjørnson, you know. You’re not consistent in your arguments....”

“Ha-ha-ha!” came the doctor’s mad laughter. “He wants consistency—at this time of night! ... Can you still say ‘encyclopedists,’ my dear man. ‘Association of ideas’? Come, let me help you get home.... Ha-ha, at this time of night!”

It wasn’t raining anymore. Nor was there any sun; but the weather was calm and the day promised to be mild.

XIV

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING Miniman again appeared at the hotel. He went quietly into Nagel’s room, put his watch, some papers, a pencil stub and the vial of poison on the table, and was about to go again. However, since Nagel woke up at that moment, he was obliged to explain why he had come.

“These are some things I found in your vest pocket,” he said.

“In my vest pocket? Yes, by Jove, right you are! What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock. But your watch stopped, and I didn’t want to wind it.”

“You didn’t drink the Prussic acid, I trust?”

Miniman smiled and shook his head.

“No,” he replied.

“Not even taste it? The vial should be half full. Let me see.”

Miniman showed him that the vial was still half full.

“Fine! And it’s eight o’clock? Then it’s time to get up.... While I remember, Grøgaard, could you borrow a violin for me? I would like to see if I could learn to—. Oh, baloney! The truth is, I want to buy a violin to give to a friend; I don’t want it for myself. So you’ll just have to find me a violin, no matter where you get it from.”

Miniman would spare no pains.

“Many thanks. I hope you’ll drop by again when you feel like it. You know the way. Have a good day!”

An hour later Nagel already found himself in the Parsonage Woods. The ground was still wet from the rain the previous evening, and the sun was not very warm. He sat down on a stone and kept a sharp lookout on the road. He had noticed some familiar footprints in the wet gravel; he was fairly sure they were Dagny’s and that she had gone into town. Having waited for quite a long time to no purpose, he decided at last to go and meet her and got up from the stone.

And, indeed, he had not been mistaken, he met her already at the edge of the forest. She was carrying a book, Gertrude Colbjørnsen by Skram.

They first talked about this book awhile; then she said, “You know something—our dog has died.”

“He has?” he replied.

“A few days ago. We found him stone dead. I can’t imagine how it happened.”

“You know, I always thought he was a very vicious dog; I’m sorry, but—one of those mastiffs with a pug nose and an insolent human face. When he looked at you, the corners of his mouth drooped as if he were carrying all the world’s sorrows. I’m downright glad he’s dead.”

“Oh, for shame—”

But he interrupted her nervously; anxious for some reason to get off the subject of the dog at once, he made light of it. He began talking about a man he had once run across, certainly one of the funniest fellows anyone would ever meet. “The man s-stammered slightly and didn’t make a secret of it; on the contrary, he made himself a worse s-stammerer than he really was to display his imperfection properly. He had the most peculiar ideas about women. Incidentally, he used to relate a story from Mexico which was too funny for words the way he told it. It was a fiercely cold winter, the thermometers were constantly bursting, and people stayed indoors around the clock. But one day he had to go to the neighboring town; he was walking through a naked landscape, with only a cabin here and there, and the sharp, biting wind burned his face excruciatingly. As he struggles along in the fierce cold, a half-naked woman comes rushing out of one of the cabins and starts running after him, all the while screaming, ‘There is a blister on your nose! Watch out, you’ve got a blister on your nose!’ The woman had a ladle in her hand and her sleeves were rolled up. She had seen this stranger go by with a cold blister on his nose and had run away from her chores to warn him about it. Heh-heh, would you believe it! And there she stands herself in the biting wind, her sleeves rolled up, while her whole right cheek is gradually losing color and turning into one huge blister! Heh-heh, it’s quite incredible! ... But despite this incident, and many other instances of feminine sacrifice he was familiar with, the stammerer was adamant on the subject. ‘Women are queer, insatiable creatures,’ he told me, without explaining exactly why they were queer and insatiable. ‘It’s quite unbelievable what fancies they can come up with,’ he said. And he related: ‘I had a friend who fell in love with a young lady; as a matter of fact, her name was Klara. He took great pains to win this lady, but it was no use; Klara wouldn’t have anything to do with him, though he was a handsome and well-regarded young man. However, Klara had a sister, an unusually lopsided and hunch-backed creature who was downright ugly. One day my friend proposes to her, God knows why; maybe he did it from ulterior motives, or maybe he had really fallen in love with her despite her ugliness. And what does Klara do? Well, here the female promptly showed her claws: Klara raises an outcry, kicking up a hell of a row: “It was me he wanted! It was me he wanted!” she said. “He won’t get me, though, I don’t want to, not for anything in the world,” she said. Hm, but do you think he was allowed to get the sister, with whom he had, in fact, fallen deeply in love? No, that’s just the catch—Klara wouldn’t let her sister have him either. Heh-heh-heh. Oh no! Since it was really herself he had wanted, he wouldn’t get her hunchbacked sister either, though she was none too good for anyone. And so my friend didn’t get either lady.’ ... This was one of the many stories the stammerer told me. He was such an amusing raconteur, just because he stammered so badly. However, the man was a great enigma.... Am I boring you?”

“No,” Dagny replied.

“A great enigma of a man, yes. He was such a miser, and a thief to boot, that he was capable of removing the leather straps from the railcar windows and taking them home with him, hoping to find some use for them. What was to stop him? As a matter of fact, he’s said to have been caught in such a theft once. On the other hand, he didn’t care a fig about money, when he was in that humor. One day he took it into his head to organize a prodigious drive. Since he didn’t have any friends, he hired twenty-four carriages for himself alone, which he dispatched one by one. Twenty-three of them were completely empty, and in the twenty-fourth—the last one—there he sits himself, looking down on the passersby, proud as a god of the huge procession he had pulled off....”

But Nagel dreamed up one subject after another without any success; Dagny was barely listening to what he said. He fell silent, considering for a moment. Why the hell did he have to talk so stupidly, making a fool of himself all the time! To assault a young lady, the queen of his heart at that, with idle talk about cold blisters and twenty-four carriages! Suddenly he remembered that he had also forgotten himself badly once before, telling a stale joke about an Eskimo and a letter case. His cheeks flushed at the recollection; he gave a start and almost came to a stop. Why the hell didn’t he watch out! Oh, he ought to be ashamed of himself! These moments when he jabbered away so stupidly made him look ridiculous; they humiliated him and set him back weeks and months. What mustn’t she think of him!

“So when will that bazaar take place?” he said.

She answered, smiling, “Why are you taking such pains to talk all the time? Why are you all nerves?”

This question came so unexpectedly that he looked at her in bewilderment for a moment. He replied softly, his heart going pitapat: “Miss Kielland, the last time we were together I promised that, if I was allowed to see you once more, I would talk about anything but what I had been forbidden to talk about. I’m trying to keep my promise. So far I have kept it.”

“Yes,” she said, “one must keep one’s promises, one mustn’t break a promise.” She seemingly said this more to herself than to him.

“I made up my mind to try even before you came; I knew I would meet you.”

“How could you know that?”

“I saw your footprints on the road.”

She gave him a quick glance but said nothing.

After a moment she said, “You have a bandage on your hand. Did you injure yourself?”

“Yes,” he replied, “your dog bit me.”

They both stopped in their tracks and looked at each other. He clenched his fists and continued in utter anguish, “I’ve been in these woods every single night, I’ve seen your windows every night before going to bed. Forgive me, it’s not a crime, after all! You told me not to, and yet I did it, that can’t be helped. The dog bit me, he was fighting for his life; I killed him—I gave him poison because he always barked when I came to say good night to your windows.”

“So it was you who killed the dog!” she said.

“Yes,” he replied.

Pause. They still stood motionless, eyeing each other; his breast was heaving strongly.

“And I would be capable of doing far worse things to get a glimpse of you,” he went on. “You have no idea how I suffer, how engrossed I am in you, day and night, no, you have no idea. I talk to people, I laugh, I even arrange merry boozing sessions—last night, in fact, I had company until four in the morning; we ended up smashing all the glasses—but even while I’m drinking and singing, you’re always in my thoughts and I feel distraught. I don’t care about anything anymore, and I have no idea what’s going to happen to me. Anyway, take pity on me for a few minutes, there’s something I must tell you. But don’t be afraid, I’m not going to frighten you or tempt you, I just have to talk to you because I’m racked with pain—”

“Do you flatly refuse to be reasonable?” she said abruptly. “You promised.”

“Yes, I probably did; I don’t know, but maybe I promised to be reasonable. I’m so poor at it, though. All right, I’ll be reasonable, you can trust me. But how shall I go about it, can you tell me that? Teach me how.[1] You know, one day I was on the verge of forcing my way into the parsonage, opening the doors and going straight in even if there were other people present! But I’ve also done all I can to stand fast, I assure you; I’ve even slandered you, trying to destroy your power over me by discrediting you in the eyes of others. I didn’t do it out of revenge, oh no; you see, I’m really close to going under. I did it to raise myself up, to learn to clench my teeth so as not to stoop too low in my own eyes. That’s why I did it. But I don’t quite know if it was any use.[2] I also tried to leave, I really did; I began to pack my things but didn’t quite finish, nor did I leave. How could I? Instead, I would rather follow you, if you weren’t here. And even if I never found you, I would still go after you and keep searching, hoping to find you at last. And if I realized it was no use, I would lower and lower my hopes, so that in the end I would be sincerely grateful simply to have a chance to meet someone who might have been close to you at one time, a woman friend who had shaken your hand or received a smile from you in the good old days. That’s what I would do. So how could I leave? Besides, it’s summer, this whole forest is my church and the birds know me; they look at me every morning when I come, cock their heads and look at me, and the next moment they start the music. And I’ll never forget how the flags were flying all over town for you the evening I arrived; it made the most powerful impression on me. In fact, I was moved to a mysterious sympathy and, half stunned, I walked about the ship watching the flags before deciding to step ashore. Ah, some evening that was! ... But I’ve also enjoyed many a delightful moment here since; I walk the same paths as you every day, and sometimes I may be lucky enough to see your footprints on the path, as I did today, and then I wait for you until you come by again—I slip into the woods and lie down behind a rock to wait for you. I’ve seen you twice since I last talked to you, and once I waited for six hours before you came. I lay behind the rock all those six hours; I didn’t get up simply for fear you might turn up and see me. God knows where you were keeping yourself for so long that day—”

“I was at the Andresens’,” she said of a sudden.

“That may be; I did see you when you finally came. You weren’t alone, but I saw you quite clearly and greeted you under my breath from behind the rock. God knows what thoughts flashed through your mind at that moment, for you turned your head and glanced at the rock—”

“Now listen—. Why, you start as though I were going to read your death sentence—”

“But you are, I see that very well, your eyes turned ice-cold.”

“This must really come to an end, Mr. Nagel! If you think it over, you must see for yourself that you aren’t behaving very nicely toward the absent party either. Isn’t that so, if you put yourself in his place—quite apart from your making it so unpleasant for me? What do you want me to do? Let me tell you once and for all: I won’t break my promise, I love him. There, that ought to be clear enough. So be a little careful; I really can’t walk with you unless you show me some consideration. I’m telling you this straight out.”

She was upset; her lips quivered and she made every effort to hold back her tears. When Nagel remained silent she added, “You’re welcome to walk me home, all the way home, if you like, as long as you won’t make it uncomfortable for both of us. I would be grateful if you told me a story; I love to hear you talk.”

“Certainly,” he said promptly, in the loud, perfectly exultant voice of a windbag who could let himself go,[3] “certainly, as long as I can come with you! I’ll make sure to—. Oh, how bracing, how you positively bolster me up when you’re angry with me.... ”[4]

For quite a while they talked about trivial matters. They were walking with small steps and so slowly that they made barely any progress.

“What fragrance, what fragrance!” he said. “Look how the grass and the flowers are shooting up after the rain! I wonder, are you interested in trees? It’s curious, but I feel a mysterious kinship with every tree in the forest. It is as though I once belonged to the forest; as I look around, a recollection seems to flash through my entire being. Ah, stop for a moment! Listen! Listen to the birds, how gaily they’re greeting the sun with their song! They are wildly delirious—they almost fly in our faces, not looking where they’re going.”

They walked on.

“I still catch myself thinking of that pretty picture you described to me of the boat and the blue silk sail in the shape of a half-moon,” she said. “It was so beautiful. When the sky is high and seems far away, I see myself rocking about up there, fishing with a silver hook.”

It made him happy to learn that she still remembered his Midsummer Eve reverie, his eyes grew moist and he replied warmly, “You’re right, it would really suit you better than me to sit in a boat like that.”

When they were about halfway into the forest, she was careless enough to ask, “How long will you be staying here?”

She regretted it immediately and would have liked to take it back, but was quickly reassured when he smiled and avoided a direct answer. She was grateful to him for his tact, he must have noticed her difficulty.

“I’ll be staying where you are, of course,” he replied.... “I’ll stay here until I run out of money,” he then said. And he added, “But it won’t be too long.”

She looked at him, also smiling, and asked, “It won’t be too long? But you’re rich, I’ve heard?”

His face assumed its old secretive expression as he answered, “Am I rich? Look, there seems to be a story going around town that I am a capitalist, that among other things I own an estate of considerable value. That’s not true, I ask you not to believe it, it’s humbug. I have no estate, in any case it’s extremely small and not even all mine, since I own it jointly with my sister; besides, it’s totally eaten up by debt and all kinds of mortgages. That’s the truth.”

She laughed mistrustfully.

“Well, you always tell the truth, of course, when you talk about yourself,” she said.

“You don’t believe me? You have doubts? Then let me tell you—though I find it humiliating—let me tell you the truth of the situation. You should know that the first day I was in town I walked thirty miles—I went on foot all the way to the next town and sent myself three telegrams from there concerning a large sum of money and a farm in Finland. Then I left the three telegrams open on the table in my room for several days, so that each and everyone in the hotel could read them. Do you believe me now? So isn’t it all humbug about my money?”

“Provided you aren’t telling another lie about yourself.”

“Another lie? You’re mistaken, Miss Kielland. By God in heaven, I’m not lying! So there!”

Pause.

“But why did you do it, why did you send those telegrams to yourself?”

“Now that would be a rather long story, if I were to give the whole picture.... Well, as a matter of fact, I did it simply to show off, to attract attention in town. Heh-heh-heh, to speak plainly.”

“Now you’re lying!”

“I’ll be damned if I am!”

Pause.

“You are a strange person. What you mean to achieve, God only knows. One moment you go around making—well, you don’t even shrink from making me the most ardent confessions; but as soon as I put in a few words to make you see reason, you immediately turn around and present yourself as the worst charlatan, a liar and a cheat. You might as well save your pains; one thing makes as little impression on me as the other. I’m just a plain person; all that ingenuity is above my head.”

She had taken offense all of a sudden.

“I wasn’t trying to show any special ingenuity right now. All is lost anyway, so why should I make an effort?”

“But why, then, are you telling me all these terrible things about yourself whenever you have a chance?” she cried passionately.

Slowly, in full control of himself, he replied, “To influence you, Miss Kielland.”

Again they stopped and stared at one another. He continued, “I had the pleasure of telling you a few things about my method once before. You ask me why I even let out secrets which are damaging to me and could have been kept hidden. I reply, As a matter of policy, out of calculation. You see, I bank on the possibility that my candor will make some impression on you, despite your denial. Anyway, I can well imagine you might feel a certain respect for the devil-may-care nonchalance with which I give myself away. Maybe I’m making a mistake, that’s possible, then it can’t be helped. But even if I’m making a mistake, you’re still lost to me and I have nothing more to lose. One can get to such a pass that one becomes desperate and takes a gamble. I help you to contrive accusations against me and thus do my humble best to strengthen you in your resolve to send me away, always away. Why do I do it? Because it goes against the grain of my humble soul to speak in my own favor and to profit by that kind of shabbiness, I couldn’t make it pass my lips. But—you might say—I try in this way to achieve by cunning and devious means what others achieve by a shabby directness? Ah—. However, I won’t defend myself. Call it humbug, why not? That’s fine, very apt; I’ll even add that it is the crudest sort of fakery. All right, so it’s humbug, and I don’t defend myself; you’re right, my whole nature is humbug. But, you know, everyone is more or less caught up in humbug, so may not one kind of humbug be just as good as another, since at bottom it’s all humbug anyway? ... I feel I’m getting into my element, I have nothing against riding one of my hobbyhorses for a moment. However, I won’t; good heavens, how tired I am of it all! I say, Let it pass, just let it pass, period.... Now, who would suspect, for instance, there was anything wrong with the Stenersens? I’m not saying there is anything wrong, and therefore I also merely ask if it would occur to anyone to suspect there was something wrong with that respectable family. There are only the two of them, man and wife, no children, no serious worries, and yet there may be a third person. God only knows, but perhaps when all is said and done there is one more person, besides the man and wife, a young person, a much too warm friend of the family, Mr. Reinert, the deputy. Well, what can one make of it? There may be faults on both sides. The doctor may even be wise to the situation and yet be powerless to do anything about it. In any case, he drank hard last night and showed such a devil-may-care attitude to everything, to the whole world, that he proposed the human race should exterminate itself with Prussic acid and let the show go on. Poor man! ... But he’s hardly the only one who is knee-deep in humbug, even if I exclude myself, Nagel, who is steeped in humbug to the waist. What if I mentioned Miniman, for example? A dear soul, a just man, a martyr! Everything that’s good is on his side, but I’ve got my eye on him. I’m telling you, I’ve got my eye on him! You appear to be surprised? Have I alarmed you? I didn’t mean to. Anyway, let me set your mind at rest at once by saying that nobody can get at Miniman, he’s truly righteous. Then why don’t I let him out of my sight? Why do I watch him from around the corner at two o’clock in the morning when he returns home from an innocent walk—at two in the morning? Why do I snoop on him from front and back when he carries his sacks around and greets people in the street? For no reason, bless me, no reason! He just interests me, I like him, and I’m very happy right now to be able to present him as someone pure and just in the midst of all the humbug otherwise. That’s why I mentioned him, and I’m quite sure you understand. Heh-heh-heh.... But to come back to myself—. Well, no, I don’t really want to come back to myself, anything but that!”

This last exclamation was so genuine, so rueful, that it made her feel sorry for him. She knew at that moment that she had to do with a torn and tormented soul. However, when he immediately took care to efface this impression, as he suddenly laughed coldly apropos of nothing and swore once again that everything was sheer humbug, her friendly feelings instantly left her. She said sharply, “You dropped some hints about Mrs. Stenersen which didn’t need to be half as crude to be base. You also scored a cheap point by ridiculing Miniman, a poor cripple. That was really mean, so vulgar!”

She started walking again and he kept pace with her. He didn’t answer but went on, his head bowed. His shoulders twitched a few times, and to her surprise she saw one or two big tears trickling down his face. He turned away and whistled to a songbird to hide them.

They walked for a couple of minutes without speaking. Touched, she bitterly regretted her harsh words. Maybe he was even right in what he said, what did she know? She couldn’t help wondering whether this person hadn’t seen more in a few weeks than she had in years.

They still didn’t talk. He was again quite composed and toyed nonchalantly with his handkerchief. In a few minutes they would be in sight of the parsonage.

Then she said, “Is your hand very sore? May I see it?”

Whether she wanted to please him or really gave in to him for a moment, she said this in a sincere, almost emotional voice, meanwhile stopping.

Then his passion ran away with him. At this moment, when she was standing so close, her head leaning over his hand so that he could take in the fragrance of her hair and the nape of her neck, and without a word being said, his love reached the point of frenzy, of madness. He drew her close, first with one arm and then, when she resisted, with his other arm as well, pressing her long and fervently to his breast and almost lifting her off her feet. He felt her back yield, she was giving in. Heavy and delicious, she rested in his embrace, her eyes half veiled as she looked up at his. Then he spoke to her, telling her she was enchanting, and that she would be his one and only love till his dying day. One man had already given his life for her, and he would do the same, at the slightest hint, a word. Oh, how he loved her! And he repeated time and again, as he pressed her more and more tenderly to his breast, “I love you, I love you!”

She no longer made any resistance. Her head resting lightly on his left arm, he kissed her fervently, interrupted only, at brief intervals, by the most tender words. He had a distinct feeling that she clung to him of herself, and when he kissed her she closed her eyes even more.

“Meet me tomorrow by the tree, you remember the tree, the aspen. Meet me, I love you, Dagny! Will you meet me? Come whenever you like, come at seven.”

She didn’t make any reply to this but merely said, “Let me go now!”

And slowly she extricated herself from his arms.

She looked about her for a moment, her face assuming a more and more bewildered expression; finally a helpless spasm trembled at the corners of her mouth, and she went over to a stone by the roadside and sat down. She was crying.

He bent over her and spoke softly. This went on for a minute or two. Suddenly she jumps up, her fists clenched and her face white with rage, and, pressing her hands against her breast, she says furiously, “You’re a mean person, God, how mean you are! Though you aren’t likely to agree. Oh, how could you, how could you do it!”

And she started crying again.

He tried once more to calm her down, but to no avail; they stood at that stone by the roadside for half an hour, unable to tear themselves away.

“You even want me to see you again,” she said. “But I won’t see you, I will never lay eyes on you again, you’re a villain!”

He pleaded with her, threw himself down before her and kissed her dress; but she kept repeating that he was a villain and that he had behaved wretchedly. What had he done to her? Go away, go! He couldn’t walk her any farther, not one step!

And she headed for home.

He still tried to go after her, but she waved her hand deprecatingly and said, “Stay away!”

He kept following her with his eyes until she had gone ten or twenty paces; then he, too, clenches his fists and runs after her—he defies her prohibition and runs after her, forcing her to stop.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, “and do have some pity! I’m willing to kill myself here and now, just to rid you of me; it will cost you only a word. And I would repeat this tomorrow if I should meet you. Grant me the mercy of doing me justice, at least. You see, I’m in thrall to your power, and I have no control over that. And it isn’t all my fault that you came into my life. I wish to God you may never suffer as I do now!”

Then he turned around and left.

Once again, those broad shoulders on the short body kept twitching as he walked down the road. He saw none of the people he met, didn’t recognize a single face, and he came to his senses only after he had crossed the whole town and found himself at the steps of the hotel.

XV

FOR THE NEXT two or three days Nagel was absent from town. He had taken a trip on the steamer, and his hotel room was locked. Nobody knew where he was, but he had boarded a northbound ship and might have gone away simply for the sake of recreation.

When he returned early one morning before the town was on its legs, he looked pale and exhausted for lack of sleep. Nevertheless, he didn’t go up to the hotel but strolled back and forth on the pier for quite a while, before turning onto a brand-new road out to Indviken Cove, where smoke was just beginning to rise from the chimney of the steam mill.

He wasn’t away for long, and was obviously strolling about simply to kill a few hours. When the traffic started in Market Square, there he was; he was standing at the corner of the post office, carefully observing everyone coming and going, and when he noticed Martha Gude’s green skirt he stepped forward to greet her.

Beg pardon, had she perhaps forgotten him? His name was Nagel; it was he who had made an offer for her chair, the old chair. Maybe she had already sold it?

No, she hadn’t sold it.

Good. And no one else had been to see her and driven up the price? No would-be buyers?

“Oh yes. But—”

“What? Indeed!” There had been others? “What are you saying, a lady? Oh, these pernicious women, poking their noses everywhere!” So, she had gotten wind of this rarity of a chair and had to snatch it up right away. Sure, that was the way those women operated. “But what did she offer, how high did she go? Let me tell you, I won’t let go of that chair for anything, the hell I will!”

Martha was bewildered by his vehemence and hastened to answer, “No, no, you can have it, with pleasure.”

“So, may I call on you this evening, around eight o’clock, and settle the matter?”

Yes, perhaps. But hadn’t she better send the chair to his hotel? Then it would be settled—?

Definitely not, by no means, that he would never allow. An article like that must be treated with care and by experienced hands; frankly, he couldn’t even bear having a stranger look at it. He would be there at eight. Then something occurred to him: “Say, no dustcloth near it, no washing, for God’s sake! Not a drop of water!”

Nagel went straight to the hotel, where he lay down on his bed fully dressed and slept soundly and quietly at a stretch until toward evening.

As soon as he’d had supper he went down to the docks, to Martha Gude’s little house. It was eight o’clock; he knocked and walked in.

The room had just been washed, the floor was clean and the windows polished; Martha herself had even put a string of beads around her neck. He was obviously expected.

He said good evening, sat down and began the negotiations straightaway. But she was no more willing to give in than before; on the contrary, she was more obstinate than ever and insisted on giving him the chair for nothing. Finally he became furious, threatened to throw five hundred kroner at her and make off with the chair. That’s what she deserved! He had never seen such folly in his entire life, and banging the table he asked if she was stark-staring mad.

“Do you know what?” he said, giving her a sharp look. “Your resistance is really beginning to make me suspicious. Tell me frankly, the chair has been acquired honestly, right? I have to deal with all sorts of people, you know, and one can never be too careful. If the chair has come into your possession by trickery or shady dealing, then I don’t dare touch it. However, if I’ve misunderstood your hesitation, please forgive me.”

And he admonished her strongly to tell the truth.

Confused by his suspicion, half afraid and half hurt, she immediately justified herself. The chair had been brought home by her grandfather and had been in the family’s possession for a hundred years; he mustn’t think she was hiding anything. She was getting tears in her eyes.

Good! And now he really wanted to have done with this nonsense, and that was the end of that! He felt for his wallet.

She took a step forward as if to stop him once again, but he calmly placed the two red bills on the table and closed his wallet with a smack.

“There you are!” he said.

“Don’t give me more than fifty kroner in any case!” she begged. At that moment she was so perplexed that she stroked his hair a couple of times as she said this, simply to make him give in. She wasn’t aware of what she was doing; she stroked his hair and begged him again to let her off with only fifty kroner. The silly woman still had tears in her eyes.

He raised his head and looked at her. This white-haired pauper, an old maid of forty, with still a black, burning glint in her eyes and yet with a manner that was reminiscent of a nun—this singular, exotic beauty affected him, making him waver for a moment. He took her hand, stroked it and said, “Goodness, how strange you are!” But the next moment he quickly got up from his chair and dropped her hand.

“I hope you won’t mind if I take the chair with me right away,” he said.

And he picked up the chair.

She was obviously no longer afraid of him. When she saw that his hands were getting dirty from touching the old piece of furniture, she at once reached into her pocket and handed him her handkerchief to wipe himself with.

The money was still lying on the table.

“By the way,” he said, “let me ask you something. Don’t you think you had better keep this transaction to yourself, as far as possible? After all, there’s no reason why the whole town should know about it, is there?”

“No,” she said thoughtfully.

“If I were you, I would put the money away at once. First of all, though, I would hang something before the window. Take that skirt over there!”

“Won’t it be very dark?” she said. Still, she took the skirt and hung it up, with some help from him.

“Come to think, we ought to have done this at the outset,” he said. “It might get sticky if someone saw me in here.”

To this she made no reply. She picked up the money from the table, gave him her hand and moved her lips, but without being able to utter a word.

As he still stands there holding her hand, he blurts out, “Look, may I ask you something: Isn’t it rather difficult for you to get by, I mean without help, without relief? ... Or maybe you’re getting some relief?”

“Yes.”

“Please forgive my asking. It just occurred to me that if they get wind of the fact that you have some money, they will not only stop your relief payments, but your money will be confiscated, simply confiscated. That’s why it’s important to keep our transaction a secret from everybody; do you understand? I’m just advising you as a practical man. Don’t tell a living soul about this bit of business we’ve had together.... Anyway, it just dawned on me that I ought to give you smaller bills, so you won’t have to change them.”

He thinks of everything, every contingency. He sits down again and counts out some small bills. Not bothering to count carefully, he gives her all the small bills he has, picking them at random and rolling them into a wad.

“There!” he says. “Now, put them away!”

She turns around, unhooks her bodice and puts the money in her bosom.

But once she has done this, he still doesn’t get up but keeps sitting there. “What I was going to say—do you happen to know Miniman?” he asks sort of casually.

He noticed that her face turned red.

“I’ve met him a few times,” Nagel continues. “I’m very fond of him, he seems to be as good as gold. Just now I’ve charged him with getting me a violin, and he will, don’t you think? But perhaps you don’t know him?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Yes, come to think, he did tell me he had bought some flowers from you for a funeral, for Karlsen’s funeral. Say, you know him rather well then, perhaps? What do you think of him? Don’t you trust him, at least, to carry out that assignment in a satisfactory manner? When one has to deal with as many people as I do, one must make inquiries now and then. I once lost quite a bit of money just because I trusted a man blindly, without making inquiries about him; that was in Hamburg.”

And for some reason or other Nagel tells the story of the man who had caused him to lose money. Martha still stands in front of him, leaning against the table; she’s restless and says at last, quite vehemently, “Oh, don’t talk about him!”

“About whom am I not to talk?”

“About Johannes, Miniman.”

“Is Miniman’s name Johannes?”

“Yes, Johannes.”

“Really, his name is Johannes?”

“Yes.”

Nagel falls silent. This simple piece of information that Miniman’s name is Johannes gives his thoughts a real jolt, even changing his facial expression momentarily. For a while he sits there quite speechless, before asking, “And why do you call him Johannes? Not Grøgaard or Miniman?”

She replies shyly, lowering her eyes, “We’ve known each other since childhood....”

Pause.

Then Nagel says, half facetiously and with the utmost nonchalance, “Do you know what impression I have? That Miniman must be very much in love with you. Yes, it’s true, that’s how it strikes me. And I’m not greatly surprised, though I have to admit it’s rather bold of him. Don’t you agree? In the first place, he’s no youth anymore, and besides he’s also somewhat disabled. But goodness, women are often so strange; if they take it into their heads they will deliberately throw themselves away, with pleasure, even ecstatically. Heh-heh-heh, that’s women for you. In 1886 I witnessed something very unusual: a young lady of my acquaintance simply married her father’s errand boy. I’ll never forget it. He was an apprentice in the store, a child of sixteen or seventeen, without even the beginnings of a beard; but he was handsome, oh, perfectly delicious, that I must admit. Anyway, she threw herself upon this greenhorn with a furious love and went abroad with him. After half a year or so she came back, her love gone. Sad, isn’t it? Her love was gone! Well, for the next few months she was bored stiff, being married and all and therefore out of the picture; what was she to do? She bangs the table, snaps her fingers at the whole world and has her fling, sowing her wild oats, as it were, running around with students and store clerks, and ends up being called La Glu. What a sorry sight! But once again she astonishes everybody: after amusing herself for a couple of years in this admirable way, suddenly one day she begins to write stories; she becomes an author, and was said to be very talented. She was incredibly quick to learn; those two years among students and store clerks had ripened her to an extraordinary degree and taught her the trick of writing. She went on to write some very fine things. Heh-heh-heh. What a devil of a woman! ... Oh, but that’s the way you women are. You may smile, but you can’t deny it, not outright. An errand boy of seventeen can easily make them lose their heads. I’m sure Miniman doesn’t have to go through life alone either, if he makes an effort and puts his shoulder to the wheel. You see, there’s something about him that even impresses a man, well, it impresses me: he’s so pure at heart, so defiantly pure, and there’s no guile on his lips. Don’t you agree? Knowing him inside out, you must realize that’s true. On the other hand, what shall we say about his uncle, the coal dealer? A sly old fox, I imagine, an unpleasant person. I have the impression that it’s really Miniman who is keeping the business afloat. And so I ask, Why shouldn’t he be able to run his own business? In short, Miniman is capable of supporting a family any day.... You’re shaking your head?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, I see, you’re getting impatient and bored with all this talk about a man who doesn’t concern you, and you have good reason to.... Say, while I remember—now, don’t get mad, all I really want is to help you as best I can—you ought to lock your door securely at night! Why do you look so scared? Please don’t be afraid, and forget any doubts you may have about me. I only wanted to tell you that you mustn’t put too much trust in anyone, especially now that you have some money to look after. Not that I’ve heard anything that suggests the town is unsafe, but one can never be too careful. Around two o’clock in the morning, you know, it’s fairly dark around here; I’ve heard suspicious noises even outside my own windows at just that hour. Well, you won’t get angry with me because I’ve given you this piece of advice, will you? ... Goodbye, then! I’m glad I finally managed to wrest the chair away from you. Goodbye, dear!”

With that he shook her hand. In the doorway he turned and said, “Listen, you’d better say I gave you just a few kroner for the chair. No more, not a penny more, because then it will be confiscated, remember. I can trust you on that, can’t I?”

“Yes,” she replied.

He left, taking the chair with him. Beaming all over his face, he snickered and laughed aloud as if he had pulled off a clever prank. “Good Lord, how happy she must be now!” he said, elated. “Heh, heh, she’ll have a hard time sleeping tonight, with all that wealth!”

When he got back to the hotel, Miniman was waiting for him.

Miniman had come from a rehearsal and had a bundle of posters under his arm. Oh yes, the tableaux promised to be very successful; they represented scenes from history and would be performed in varicolored light. He himself was a walk-on.

And when would the bazaar begin?

It would open on Thursday, July 9, which was the Queen’s birthday. But already this evening Miniman was going to put up posters in all sorts of places; they had even got permission to stick one up on the cemetery gate.... Anyway, he had come to let him know about the violin. He hadn’t been able to turn one up; the only decent violin in town was not for sale, belonging to the organist, who would use it at the bazaar. He was going to play a couple of numbers.

Well, there was nothing to be done about that.

Miniman prepares to leave. As he stands there cap in hand, Nagel says, “But shouldn’t we have a little drink? You see, I’m sort of happy this evening, I’ve been lucky. Imagine, I’ve finally with great pains got possession of a piece of furniture which no collector in this country can match, of that I’m sure. It’s this chair. Take a look at it! Do you realize what a gem it is, a perfectly unique Dutch piece! I wouldn’t sell it for a fortune, by Jove I wouldn’t! To celebrate the occasion, I would very much like to have a drink with you, if you don’t mind. May I ring? No? But you can put up those posters tomorrow.... Oh, I simply can’t forget my good luck today! You don’t know, perhaps, that I am a collector in a small way and that one reason I’m staying here is to sniff out rarities? I probably haven’t told you about my cowbells either? Oh dear, then you don’t have any idea what sort of person I am. I’m an agronomist, of course, but I also have other interests. Anyway, as of today I’ve got two hundred and sixty-seven cowbells. It has been ten years since I began to acquire them, and now, thank God, I have a first-rate collection. And this chair here, can you guess how I got hold of it? Pure chance, a fluke! Walking along the street one day, I pass a little house down by the docks, and by force of habit I give a sidelong peek through the window as I go by. Suddenly I’m pulled up: I catch sight of the chair and see at once what it’s worth. I knock on the door and go in: I’m received by a white-haired lady getting on in years—uh, what was her name? Well, no matter, you probably don’t know her in any case; Miss Gude I believe it was. Martha Gude or something.... She doesn’t want to let go of the chair, of course, but I wangle so long that she finally gives her word I can have it, and today I picked it up. But the best part of it is that I got it for nothing, she gave it to me for free. Well, I threw a few kroner on the table so she wouldn’t have any regrets; but the chair is worth hundreds. I urge you to keep this to yourself; one would rather not get a bad name. Not that I have anything to reproach myself with. The woman had no business sense, but I, the expert buyer, was under no obligation to keep her interest in mind. One mustn’t be stupid, after all, one has to seize one’s chance, it’s the struggle for existence, right? ... Now that you know the truth of the matter, how can you refuse to have a glass of wine with me?”

Miniman insisted that he had to get going.

“That’s too bad,” Nagel continues. “I’d been looking forward to having a chat with you. You’re the only man in this place who interested me at first sight, the only one I care to keep an eye on, as it were. Heh-heh, keep an eye on, sure. Besides, your name is Johannes, isn’t it? My dear friend, that I’ve known a long time, though no one told me until this evening.... Now, don’t let me frighten you again. To my shame, I always have the misfortune to make people afraid of me. Oh yes, don’t deny it, you did stare in dismay at me for a moment, though I won’t exactly say you gave a start....”

Miniman had now reached the door. He evidently wanted to give him short shrift and make a speedy getaway. The conversation was getting more and more unpleasant.

“Is today July 6?” Nagel asks all of a sudden.

“Yes,” Miniman replies, “it’s July 6.” With that he puts his hand on the doorknob.

Nagel walks slowly over to him; going up really close, he stares him squarely in the eye, his hands behind his back. Without changing his position, he says in a whisper, “And where were you on June 6?”

Miniman doesn’t reply, not a word. Terror-stricken at those staring eyes and that mysterious whisper, completely unable to grasp this desperate little question about a particular day, a date a month ago, he hurriedly tears open the door and tumbles into the hallway. Here he wobbles about for a moment, unable to find the stairs, while Nagel stands in the doorway calling to him: “No, no, this is all wrong, please forget it! I’ll explain some other time, some other time....”

But Miniman didn’t hear anything. He was already downstairs before Nagel had finished speaking, and from there he ran—looking neither right nor left—into the street, across Market Square and over to the big town pump, where he turned into the first side street and disappeared.

An hour later—it was ten o’clock—Nagel lighted a cigar and went out. The town hadn’t yet gone to rest; a great many people were seen strolling slowly up and down the road leading to the parsonage, and the streets round about still rang with laughter and shouts from small fry playing. Men and women were sitting on the steps chatting quietly in the mild evening air; now and then they called to neighbors across the street and received a friendly reply.

Nagel walked down toward the docks. He saw Miniman go around sticking up posters on the post office, the bank, the school, and the prison. He did it, oh, so carefully and conscientiously! What pains he took and how unmindful of the time he was, though he might need to get to bed! Walking by close up, Nagel bowed, but didn’t stop.

Shortly before reaching the docks, he was accosted by a voice behind him. Martha Gude stops him and says, quite breathlessly, “Excuse me, but you gave me too much money.”

“Good evening!” he replies. “Are you, too, taking a walk?”

“No, I’ve been in town, outside your hotel; I was waiting for you. Really, you gave me too much money.”

“So, we’re starting that comedy all over again, are we?”

“But you made a mistake!” she cries, dismayed. “There was more than two hundred in small bills.”

“Oh, that’s it! Well, well, there were really a few kroner too many, one or two kroner over two hundred? All right, you can just return them to me.”

She begins to unbutton her bodice, but suddenly checks herself and looks around, not knowing what to do. Then she apologized again: there were so many people, maybe she couldn’t take out the money here, in the street, she had put it in such a safe place—

“No,” he hastened to answer, “I can pick it up, you know, just let me pick it up.”

And they walked to her house together. They met several people, who looked at them with inquisitive eyes.

When they got indoors, Nagel took a seat by the window where he had sat before, and where her skirt was still hanging for a curtain. While Martha was busy getting out the money he didn’t say anything; only when she was through and handed him a handful of small bills, some worn and faded ten-krone bills that were still warm from her bosom and which her honesty wouldn’t let her keep even overnight, did he speak to her, asking her to keep the money.

But now, as once before, she seemed to suspect his purpose; giving him a doubtful look, she said, “No! ... I just don’t understand you.”

He abruptly got to his feet.

“But I understand you perfectly,” he replied, “that’s why I’m getting up and going to the door. Is your mind set at rest now?”

“Yes—. No, you mustn’t stand by the door.” And, indeed, she held out her arms slightly, as if to pull him back. This queer spinster was too afraid to cross anybody.

“I should like to ask you a favor,” Nagel then said, still not sitting down. “It would give me great pleasure if you agreed to—well, I would make sure to make it up to you some way or other: I want you to come to the bazaar Thursday evening. Will you do me that favor? It would distract you, there will be lots of people, lights, music, tableaux. Oh, please say yes, you won’t regret it! You’re laughing, why are you laughing? Good Lord, what white teeth you have, woman!”

“I can’t go anywhere,” she replied. “How do you imagine I can go there? And why should I, why do you want me to?”

He explained it all to her openly and honestly: the idea had come to him, he had been thinking about it for a long time; the thought had occurred to him already a couple of weeks ago, but it had slipped his mind until now. She should simply show up; she ought to be part of it, he wanted to see her there. If she wished, he wouldn’t even talk to her, so she wasn’t going to be bothered by him, that wasn’t the idea. It was just that he would be happy to see her with other people for once, to hear her laugh, see her be truly young. Please, she just had to do it!

He looked at her. How conspicuously white her hair was, and how dark her eyes! One hand was picking at the buttons of her bodice, and this hand, a slight hand with long fingers, was grayish in hue; it was probably not quite clean, but it made a curiously chaste impression. Running up from the wrists were two blue veins.

“Yes,” she said, “that might be amusing.” But she didn’t have anything to wear, not even a dress, for such an evening—

He interrupted her: there were still three working days to spare; she could get whatever she needed before Thursday. Oh sure, there was plenty of time! So was it an agreement?

Little by little she gave in.

After all, one mustn’t bury oneself completely, he said; that way one would only lose. And besides, with her eyes, her teeth, oh, what a pity! And those small bills on the table would be for her dress, oh yes, no more nonsense! The more so as it was his idea and it had required an effort on her part to humor him.

He said good night as usual, briefly, without giving her the slightest reason to feel uneasy. But when she saw him into the hallway, it was she who once again gave him her hand, thanking him for inviting her to the bazaar. Something like this hadn’t happened to her for many, many years, so she had lost the habit. She would behave nicely, though....

The big child, even promising to behave nicely, though he hadn’t asked her to!

XVI

THURSDAY CAME. It rained a little, but in the evening the bazaar still opened in style and before a crowded audience. The whole town had showed up, people even came from the countryside to participate in this rare entertainment.

When Johan Nagel entered the assembly hall around nine o’clock, there was a full house. He found a place way in the back, near the door, where he stood for a few minutes listening to a speech. Looking pale, he was wearing his yellow suit as always, but he had removed the bandage on his hand. The two wounds were almost healed.

Up front, near the platform, he saw Dr. and Mrs. Stenersen, and slightly to their right stood Miniman, with the other actors in the tableaux. But Dagny wasn’t there.

The heat from the lamps and the crush of people soon drove him out of the hall. At the door he met Mr. Reinert, the deputy, to whom he bowed, receiving barely a nod in return. He remained standing in the hallway.

Then he noticed something which occupied his thoughts and made him curious even a long time afterward: on his left, the door is open to a room where the visitors have left their wraps, and by the light of the lamp in there he clearly sees Dagny Kielland fingering his coat, which he had hung on a hook. He was not mistaken, no one else in town had a yellow spring coat like that; it was definitely his, apart from the fact that he remembered exactly where he had hung it. She was doing this and nothing else; she seemed to be looking for something, at the same time taking the opportunity to brush his coat with her hand again and again. He quickly turned around so as not to catch her unawares.

This little incident made him uneasy all at once. What was she looking for, and what business did she have with his coat? These questions constantly occupied his thoughts, he couldn’t put them out of his mind. Heaven knows, maybe she had wanted to find out if he had firearms in his pockets; maybe she thought him crazy enough for anything. But what if she had sneaked a letter to him?

He did, in fact, bring himself so far as to imagine this happy impossibility. No, no, she had probably just been looking for her coat, the whole thing was a coincidence; how could he harbor such hopeless fancies! ... A little later, however, seeing Dagny make her way through the hall, he at once went out and searched his coat pockets, his heart pounding. There was no letter, nothing at all, only his own gloves and a handkerchief.

There was a crashing applause in the hall, the opening speech by the justice of the peace was over. And now the crowd streamed into the hallways and the adjoining rooms, looking all around for cool places, where they settled down along the walls to enjoy refreshments. Dressed like waitresses, in white aprons and with napkins on their arms, several of the town’s young ladies rushed about with trays and glasses in their hands.

Nagel was looking for Dagny; she was nowhere to be seen. He said hello to Miss Andresen, who was also in a white apron; he asked for wine but she brought him champagne.

He looked at her in surprise. “You never drink anything else,” she said, smiling.

While rather malicious, this compliment nevertheless made him livelier than he had been so far. He asked her to have a drink with him, and she sat down then and there, though she was very busy. He thanked her for her courtesy, complimented her on her costume, and was delighted by an old filigree brooch she was wearing on her neck band. She made a good appearance: her long aristocratic face with its rather large nose was extremely fine, almost morbidly fine, and it never changed; there were no nervous tics. She spoke with quiet composure, her presence conveyed a sense of security; she was a lady, the epitome of woman.

When she got up he said, “There’s supposed to be someone here this evening to whom I would be glad to show a little attention, Miss Gude, Martha Gude; I don’t know whether you’re acquainted with her. I was told she had gone into this room. I can’t tell you how glad I would be to do something nice for her; she’s so lonely. Miniman has told me about her. Don’t you think, Miss Andresen, that I could ask her to join us? Provided you don’t mind having her here, of course?”

“No, not at all!” Miss Andresen replies. “I’ll be delighted to find her right away. I know where she’s sitting.”

“You will come back, too, won’t you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

While Nagel is waiting, Mr. Reinert, the teacher, and Dagny come in. Nagel rises and bows to them. Dagny was pale, like himself, despite the heat; she was wearing a yellowish dress with short sleeves, and a gold chain around her neck that was far too heavy. The chain was most unbecoming. She paused by the door for a moment, holding one hand behind her back and picking at her braid.

Nagel walked up to her. In a few passionate words he begged her to forgive him for having offended her so cruelly last Friday; it would be the last time, the very last, she would never again have reason to forgive him anything. He spoke in a low voice, said what had to be said and stopped.

She listened to what he was saying, even looked at him, and when he finished she said, “I hardly know what you’re talking about, I’ve forgotten it—I want to forget it.”

With that she left. She had looked at him with great indifference.

People were buzzing everywhere; there was a clattering of cups and glasses, the popping of corks, laughter and cries, and from the hall came the strains of the town brass band, which was playing very poorly....

When Miss Andresen and Martha appeared, they had Miniman in tow; they all sat down at Nagel’s table, where they remained for a quarter of an hour. Miss Andresen occasionally went around with a tray to serve people who called for coffee; finally she disappeared altogether, having too much to do.

Now there followed the various items on the program: a quartet sang, Øien recited his own poem in a strong voice, two women played the piano, and the organist gave his first violin solo. Dagny was still sitting with the two gentlemen. Finally, Miniman was wanted for running errands; more glasses, more cups, more sandwiches had to be provided—they hadn’t figured on such a crowd, very big for this little town.

When Nagel was left alone with Martha, she too got up to go. She couldn’t sit there alone; she had already noticed Mr. Reinert remarking on it, making Miss Kielland laugh. No, she had better leave.

But Nagel persuaded her to have another nip anyway. Martha was dressed in black; her new dress fitted her nicely, but was not becoming, making the quaint-looking spinster look older and contrasting too sharply with her white hair. However, her eyes were smoldering, and when she laughed her ardent face came vividly alive.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked. “Do you feel happy this evening?”

“Yes, thank you!” she replied, “I feel great.”

He kept the conversation going without a break. In an attempt to humor her, he hit on the idea of telling her an anecdote, which made her laugh a lot, the story of how he had obtained one of his most precious cowbells. A treasure, a priceless antique! The name of a cow was engraved on it; the cow was called Øystein, of all things, so it must almost certainly have been a bull....

This set her laughing in no time. Forgetting herself and where she was, she shook her head and laughed like a child at this poor piece of drollery. She was positively radiant.

“Can you imagine,” he said, “I think Miniman was jealous.”

“No,” she replied hesitantly.

“I had that impression. For that matter, I do prefer to sit here alone with you. It’s such fun to hear you laugh.”

She didn’t reply, merely lowered her eyes.

They went on talking. He sat all along in such a way that he could keep an eye on Dagny’s table.

A few minutes went by. Miss Andresen came back for a moment, said a few words, took a sip from her glass and went off again.

Suddenly Dagny left her seat and came over to Nagel’s table. “You’re having a great time, aren’t you?” she said, a slight tremor in her voice. “Good evening, Martha! What are you both laughing about?”

“We’re amusing ourselves as best we can,” Nagel replied. “I chatter away and Miss Gude is much too easy on me; she has laughed a great many times.... May we offer you a glass?”

Dagny sat down.

An exceptionally loud roar of applause from the hall gave Martha a pretext to get up and see what was going on. She drew farther and farther away, until finally she called back, “It’s a magician, that I have to see!” And she went off.

Pause.

“You’ve abandoned your companions,” Nagel said. He would have said more, but suddenly Dagny interrupted him, “And yours has abandoned you.”

“Oh, she’s sure to come back. Doesn’t Miss Gude look wonderful? She’s happy as a child this evening.”

Dagny made no reply, but asked, “You’ve been away for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“Do you really find it so enjoyable here this evening?”

“I? I don’t even know what’s going on,” he replied. “I didn’t exactly come here to enjoy myself.”

“Then what did you come here for?”

“To see you again, naturally. Well, only at a distance, of course, without a word—”

“I see. And that’s why you brought a partner, is it?”

That he failed to understand. He looked at her and considered a moment.

“Are you referring to Miss Gude? I don’t know how to answer you. I’ve heard so much about her; she sits at home year after year alone, she doesn’t have a single joy in her life. It wasn’t I who brought her here, I only wanted to entertain her a little so she wouldn’t be bored, that’s all. Miss Andresen got her to come over to this table. Good grief, how that woman has suffered! No wonder her hair has turned white....”

“But you don’t think, do you—you don’t imagine I’m jealous, do you? You’re mistaken! Oh, I remember what you told me about some madman who went for a drive with twenty-four carriages; the man was a s-stammerer, as you said, and he fell in love with a girl named Klara. Oh sure, I remember it well enough. And since Klara refused to have anything to do with the man, she couldn’t stand the idea of her hunchbacked sister having him either. I don’t know why you told me this, that you know best yourself, and I don’t care. But you won’t succeed in making me jealous, if that’s what you’ve been trying to do this evening. Neither you nor your s-stammerer!”

“But good Lord!” he said. “You can’t possibly mean what you’re saying.”

Pause.

“Yes, I do mean it,” she replied.

“You mean to say that this is what I would do if I wanted to make you jealous? Show up with a forty-year-old woman and let her go, drop her, as soon as you appeared? You must take me for a fool.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are, I only know that you sneaked up on me and caused me the most painful hours of my entire life, and that I no longer understand myself. I don’t know whether you’re a fool, any more than I know whether you are a madman, and I’m not going to bother to find out; I don’t care what you are.”

“Yes, I expect you don’t,” he said.

“And why should I care?” she went on, irritated by his compliance. “What on earth do I have to do with you? You’ve behaved badly toward me, so how can you expect me to occupy myself with you, on top of everything? Still, you told me a story full of insinuations—I’m quite sure you didn’t tell me this thing about Klara and her sister without some reason, no, you didn’t! But why are you pursuing me? I don’t mean at this moment, right now it was I who sought you out, but generally; why don’t you just leave me alone? I suppose you see my stopping for a minute to have a few words with you as a sign of how important it is to me, how urgent—”

“My dear Miss Kielland, I labor under no such delusions.”

“No? But I can never tell whether you’re telling the truth, no, I can’t. I have doubts about you, I distrust you, I suspect you may be capable of just about anything. It’s quite possible I’m being unjust to you right now, but why shouldn’t I be allowed to hurt you for once? I’m so tired of all your insinuations and your scheming ways....”

He said not a word, just slowly turned his glass around on the table. And when she said again that she didn’t believe him, he merely answered, “I deserve that.”

“Yes,” she went on, “my belief is extremely limited as far as you’re concerned. I’ve even suspected your shoulders, that your broad shoulders might be cotton wool.[1] To be quite frank, a short while ago I was in that room over there to examine your coat, to check whether the shoulders were padded. And though I was mistaken and there was nothing wrong with the shoulders, I’m still suspicious, I can’t help it. I’m fairly certain, for instance, that you would be capable of using any means whatsoever to add a couple of inches to your height, since you’re not very tall. I’m quite confident you would, if such means were available. Good God, how could one help being mistrustful of you! Who are you, really? And why did you come to this town? You aren’t even using your own name, your real name is Simonsen, quite simply Simonsen! This I have from the hotel. They say you had a visit from a lady who knew you and called out Simonsen before you could stop her. Again, good Lord, how mean and absurd! They also say in town that you hand out cigars to little boys for a joke, and that you commit one scandal after another in the streets. Thus, I’m told you accosted a servant girl you met in Market Square one day, asking her something in the presence of several people. But despite all this you think it quite all right to make me declarations and to present yourself to me time after time and—. That’s what pains me so unspeakably, that you have the audacity to—”

She broke off. The corners of her mouth twitched, betraying her emotion. Every word she spoke was impetuous and sincere, she meant what she said and pulled no punches. There was a brief pause before he answered. “You’re right, I’ve caused you great pain.... Obviously, when people watch you day after day for a whole month, taking note of your every word and deed, they can always find something bad to latch on to. They may even do you an injustice, though not serious enough to do much harm, I admit. This is not a big town, I catch people’s eyes, they trip over me; they keep their eyes peeled when I am within sight, there’s no avoiding it. And, of course, I’m not as I should be.”

“Heavens, yes! Naturally it is because the town is so small that you are watched so closely,” she said in a curt, sharp tone of voice, “that stands to reason. In a larger town you wouldn’t be the only man to attract people’s attention.”

This cold and very correct reply at first evoked downright admiration on his part. He was on the point of rewarding it with some compliment or other, but thought better of it. She was overly worked up and had too many things against him; besides, she might have gone too far in belittling him. That made him feel a bit hurt. What was he in her eyes, after all? A quite ordinary stranger in a little town, a man who was noticed simply because he was a stranger in town and wore a yellow suit. He said with some bitterness, “But aren’t they also saying that I once wrote a lewd verse on a tombstone, on Mina Meek’s tombstone? Didn’t anyone see it? It’s true, though, yes, it is. It’s also true that I went to the town pharmacy, this very town’s pharmacy, and ordered some medicines for a foul disease I’d written down on a slip of paper, but couldn’t get the medicines because I didn’t have a prescription. And while I remember, hasn’t Miniman told you that I tried to bribe him one day by offering him two hundred kroner to assume paternity for my child? That, too, is the simple truth, Miniman himself can testify to it. I’m sure I could add many more features, alas—”

“There’s no need, you have mentioned plenty,” she replied defiantly. And with her eyes turning cold and hard, she reminded him of the fake telegrams, the wealth he had telegraphically credited himself with, the violin case he was dragging about with him, though he didn’t have a violin or know how to play, of one thing after another, all his deceptions, even his lifesaving medal which, by his own admission, he hadn’t acquired in the most honorable way either. She remembered everything and didn’t spare him; at this moment every trifle took on significance for her, and she let him know that she now believed he had really perpetrated all those mean pranks she had previously thought were lies calculated to blacken himself with. He was an insolent, shady type, all right, no doubt about it! “And with all that,” she said, “you still try to catch me off guard and unnerve me, to inveigle me to some escapade. You have no sense of shame, no heart for anyone but yourself, you simply keep making me one declaration after another—”

At this moment she was interrupted by Dr. Stenersen, who was elbowing his way from the hall, looking very busy. He was taken up with the bazaar and didn’t spare himself.

“Good evening, Mr. Nagel!” he cried. “I remember with pleasure that night in your place. What a wild time we had of it—. Oh say, Miss Kielland, you’d better watch out, we shall be getting up the tableaux presently.”

With that the doctor disappeared again.

Another musical number started up, and a sense of excitement swept through the hall. Dagny leaned forward and peeked through the door, before she again turned to Nagel and said, “Here’s Martha coming back.”

Pause.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Oh yes,” he replied absentmindedly. Without looking up, he just continued to turn his full glass around and around without drinking, his bowed head nearly touching the table.

“Hush!” she said mockingly, “they’re playing again. When one listens to that kind of music one should preferably be at some distance from it, don’t you think, in an adjoining room holding the hand of one’s beloved—isn’t that what you said once? I believe it’s the very same Lanner waltz, and now that Martha is coming—”

But suddenly she seemed to regret her spitefulness; she broke off, a glint appeared in her eyes, and she nervously shifted on her chair. His head was still bent over, she could only see how quick and irregular his breathing was. Rising, she picked up her glass and was going to say something, a few last words, more amiable and not apt to cause him pain. She began by saying, “I have to go now.”

He gave her a quick glance, rose to his feet and picked up his glass. They both drank in silence. He forced himself to keep his hand from shaking, she could see he was struggling to appear composed. Suddenly this man, whom she had just thought annihilated, crushed by her mockery, says quite politely and nonchalantly, “By the way, Miss Kielland, will you be so kind—I don’t suppose I’ll see you again—will you be so kind when you write your fiancé to remind him sometime, at your own convenience, of a pair of shirts he promised Miniman once, two years ago now. I apologize for poking my nose into this, which after all doesn’t concern me, I’m only doing it for Miniman’s sake. I hope you will excuse my boldness. Tell him it was two woolen shirts, then he’ll be sure to remember.”

For a moment she was completely stunned; staring at him all agape, she couldn’t think of a word to say, even forgetting to put down her glass. This went on for a whole minute. Then she collected herself, threw him a furious glance imbued with all her inner tumult, from a pair of eyes that gave him a crushing answer, and abruptly turned her back on him. She slammed her glass down on a table by the door as she left. She disappeared into the hall.

She didn’t seem to remember that Mr. Reinert and the teacher were still sitting in the same place, waiting for her.

Nagel sat down again. His shoulders started twitching anew, and he repeatedly clutched his head. He sat all hunched up. When Martha came he jumped up, a grateful look brightened his face, and he put out a chair for her.

“How kind you are, how kind!” he said. “Sit down. I’ll be so attentive, I’ll tell you a world of stories if you like. You won’t believe how much fun I can get up if you’ll just sit down. Come on, please! You may leave whenever you wish, and I’ll have to come along, don’t you think? I won’t do you any harm, no, never! Look, you will have a tiny little drink now, won’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll tell you something amusing and make you laugh again. I’m so glad you came back; good heavens, how wonderful it is to hear you laugh, you who are always so serious! It wasn’t such great fun in the hall, eh? Let’s rather stay here awhile; it’s so hot in there, too. So, sit down!”

Martha hesitated, but did sit down.

And now Nagel speaks without letup, relating funny little stories and adventures one after the other; he jabbers on about this and that, feverishly and at a forced pace, fearful that she might leave if he stopped. The effort makes him flushed, he gets confused and, at his wits’ end, clutches his head trying to pick up the thread of his story; but Martha finds him amusing even then and laughs innocently. She’s anything but bored, her old heart swells, and she’s even moved to put in a word herself. How strangely warm and naive she was! When he said—and didn’t she agree?—that life was wretched past comprehension, she replied, “Let’s drink to that!”—this woman who eked out a meager living year after year by selling eggs in the marketplace, so that life ... No, it wasn’t so bad, often it was good!

Often life was good, she said!

“Oh, you’re certainly right about that,” he replied.... “But now we have to watch the tableaux! Let’s stand here in the doorway, then we can sit down again whenever you like. Can you see from there? If not, I’ll take you on my arm.”

She laughed and shook her head admonishingly.

As soon as he caught sight of Dagny on the stage, his mirth subsided, his eyes became fixed in a stare, and he saw nobody but her. He followed the direction of her glance, looked her up and down, observed her expression, and noticed that the rose on her bosom was bobbing up and down, up and down. She was standing at the very back of the thick cluster of people and was easily recognizable despite the painstaking disguise. Miss Andresen, as the queen, sat in the middle of the stage. The whole scene, bathed in red light, was a rebus-like arrangement of people and armor that Dr. Stenersen had put together with great effort and sacrifice.

“It’s beautiful!” Martha whispered.

“Hm.... What is beautiful?” he said.

“Up there, can’t you see? What are you looking at?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful.”

And not to arouse her suspicion that he was only looking at one spot, a single point of the whole scene, he began asking her who each of the performers was, though he barely listened to her answers. They didn’t move until the red light was on the verge of going out and the curtain came down.

And now the five tableaux followed one another at a few minutes’ interval. At twelve o’clock Martha and Nagel were still standing in the doorway, watching the last tableau. When it was finally over and the music started up afresh, they returned to their table and talked. Kind as she was, she became more and more compliant and no longer spoke of leaving.

A couple of young ladies came around with notebooks in their hands selling raffle tickets—for dolls, rocking chairs, embroideries, a tea service, and a mantel clock. There was commotion everywhere, people were letting themselves go and talked loudly; the multitude of voices in the hall and the adjacent rooms produced a roar reminiscent of a stock exchange. The bazaar would go on until two in the morning.

Miss Andresen again settled at Nagel’s table. Oh, she was so tired, so tired! Yes, thanks a lot, she would gladly take a glass, half a glass! Shouldn’t she fetch Dagny, too?

And she fetched Dagny. Miniman also came along.

At this point something happens. A table tips over nearby, cups and glasses fall on the floor, and Dagny gives a small cry, nervously clutching Martha’s arm. Afterward she laughed at herself and apologized, her face flushed with emotion. She was extremely agitated and laughed fitfully; her eyes glittered. She had put on her outdoor things and was ready to go home; she was only waiting for the teacher, who was to be her escort as usual.

But the teacher, who was still sitting with Mr. Reinert and hadn’t left his chair for over an hour, was getting rather intoxicated.

“I’m sure Mr. Nagel will walk you home, Dagny,” Miss Andresen said.

Dagny burst out laughing. Miss Andresen looked at her in surprise.

“No,” Dagny replied, “I don’t dare walk with Mr. Nagel anymore. He’s so full of whims. Between you and me, he even asked me for a rendezvous once. It’s the truth! ‘Under a tree,’ he said, ‘a big aspen, it stands in such and such a place’! No, Mr. Nagel is too unpredictable for me! Just now he solemnly pressed me for a pair of shirts which my fiance is supposed to have promised Grøgaard at one time. And Grøgaard himself has no idea what it’s all about! Isn’t that so, Grøgaard? Ha-ha-ha, it’s all very odd!”

With that she quickly got up, still laughing, and went over to the teacher, to whom she said a few words. Evidently she was trying to make him come along.

Miniman had become very uneasy. He attempted to say something, to explain himself, but got confused and gave up. He looked from one to the other with anxious eyes. Even Martha was surprised and afraid; Nagel spoke to her, whispering a few soothing words, and proceeded to fill their glasses. Miss Andresen quickly broached the subject of the bazaar: what a big crowd despite the rainy weather! Oh, it was going to bring in a lot of money, there weren’t terribly many expenses....

“Who was that attractive woman who played the harp?” Nagel asked, “the one with the Byronic mouth and a silver arrow in her hair?”

She was a stranger, in town on a visit. Was she that attractive?

Yes, he thought she was attractive. And he asked several questions about her, though everybody could see that his mind was elsewhere. What was he up to? Why had that angry frown suddenly appeared on his forehead? Slowly he turned his glass.

Then Dagny returned and tarried once more. As she stands behind Miss Andresen’s chair buttoning her gloves, she again opens her mouth, saying in her clear, lovely voice, “What did you really mean by asking me for that rendezvous, Mr. Nagel? What was your purpose? Tell me, will you.”

“Oh, but Dagny!” Miss Andresen whispers, rising. Miniman also rises. They are all very unpleasantly affected. Nagel looked up; his face didn’t betray much emotion, but they all noticed that he let go of his glass and wrung his hands, breathing rapidly. What would he do? What was the meaning of that faint smile, replaced at once by seriousness. To everyone’s surprise, he replied in a calm voice, “Why I asked you for that rendezvous? Miss Kielland, wouldn’t you rather I spare you the explanation? I have caused you enough trouble as it is. I’m sorry about that, and God knows I would do anything to have it undone. But surely you understand why I asked you to meet me; I have made no secret of it, though I ought to have done so. You must show me some mercy. There’s nothing more I can say....”

He fell silent. Nor did she say anything more; evidently she had expected a different answer from him. Finally the teacher appeared, just in time to break up this painful scene; he was very drunk and could barely stand on his legs.

Dagny took his arm and walked out.

From now on those who still remained of the small party became far more lively; they all breathed more easily, and Martha laughed for joy at nothing and clapped her hands. Now and then, when she realized that she might be laughing too much, she turned red and checked herself, looking around at the others to see whether they had noticed. This charming confusion, which was repeated time and again, sent Nagel into raptures and made him commit many tomfooleries just to hold her attention. Thus he hit on playing “Old Man Noah” on a cork that he placed between his teeth.

In the meantime Mrs. Stenersen had joined them. She declared she wouldn’t budge until it was all over; there was still a number left, a performance by two turners that she simply had to see. She invariably held out to the end; the night was so long, it was always so dreary to come home and find herself alone. But shouldn’t they go in and watch the two turners?

And they all went into the hall.

As they sit there, a tall bearded man comes walking down the center aisle. He is carrying a violin case in his hand. It’s the organist; he had performed his numbers and was ready to leave. Pausing to say hello, he immediately starts a conversation with Nagel about the violin. Sure enough, Miniman had been to see him and offered to buy it, but that was out of the question; it was an heirloom, so dear to him that he regarded it just as a little person. It even had his name on it. Anybody could see it was no ordinary violin.... And he carefully opens the case.

There lies the delicate dark-brown instrument, neatly packed in pink silk, its strings swathed in cotton wool.

It looked nice, didn’t it? And the three initials in tiny little Cape rubies here at the upper end of the fingerboard stood for Gustav Adolf Christensen. No, it would be wrong to sell a thing like that! What would then be left to be happy about on days when time hung heavy on one’s hands? It was something else if it was only a question of trying it out for a moment, making a stroke or two—.

No, Nagel didn’t want to try it out.

All the same, by now the organist had taken the instrument completely out of its case, and while the two turners were doing their final springs and the public applauded around the hall, he went on talking about this remarkable violin, which had been handed down through three generations. It was light as a feather—“feel it yourself, go on and hold it....”

And Nagel, too, thought it was light as a feather. But once he had gotten hold of the violin, he began turning it around and fingering the strings. With the air of a semi-connoisseur, he said, “It’s a Mittelwalder, I see.” But its being a Mittelwalder wasn’t difficult to find out, since it was evident from a printed label on the back of the sound box. So why this air of being a connoisseur? Then, when the turners were gone and nobody applauded anymore, he rises; without speaking, not a word, he puts out his hand for the bow. The next moment, as they are all about to get up from their seats and leave the hall, with noise and loud conversation all around, he suddenly begins to play, little by little commanding general silence. This small broad-shouldered man who appeared in the middle of the hall in a loud yellow suit, struck everybody with amazement. And what did he play? A ballad, a barcarole, a dance, a Hungarian dance by Brahms, a passionate potpourri—playing with a raw, swelling sound that penetrated everywhere. As he tilted his head sharply to one side, the entire scene took on an air of near-mystery, what with his sudden unscheduled appearance in the middle of the dimly lighted hall, his conspicuous exterior, and a bewildering, frenzied finger technique which produced the image of a wizard. He went on for several minutes, with the public still motionless in their seats; then, standing stock-still, with only his arm moving and his head tilted as before, he switched to a weighty, powerful pathos, a fortissimo passage with the force of a fanfare. Having turned up so unexpectedly, catching even the program committee off guard, he took these ordinary townspeople and peasants by storm. They couldn’t figure it out—in their eyes this performance became much better than it actually was, better than everything else, that’s how excellent it seemed, though he was playing with reckless vehemence. But after four or five minutes had elapsed, he suddenly produced some ghastly strokes, a desperate howl, a sound of woe so intolerable, so shocking, that nobody knew any longer where he was going; he made three or four such strokes and then abruptly broke off. He removed the violin from under his chin and ceased playing.

A full minute passed before people collected themselves; finally they burst into a wild applause, which went on and on, mingled with cries of bravo—some jumped on their seats and shouted bravo. The organist accepted his violin with a deep bow, patted it with his hand and put it gently down; then he took Nagel’s hand and thanked him repeatedly. In the midst of the general pandemonium, Dr. Stenersen came rushing up, grabbed Nagel by the arm and exclaimed, “God damn it, man, you do play, despite everything—despite everything!”

Miss Andresen, sitting next to him, was still looking at him, quite flabbergasted. “Why, you told us you couldn’t play!” she said.

“And I can’t,” he replied, “not much, nothing worth speaking of, and I frankly admit it. If you only knew how false, how little authentic, it was! But I made it look very authentic, didn’t I? Heh-heh-heh, one has to make the world sit up and take notice, one mustn’t cramp one’s style! ... But shouldn’t we get back to our drinks? And, please, ask Miss Gude to join us!”

They returned to their tables. Everyone was still taken up with this mysterious person who had so dazzled them; even Mr. Reinert paused for a moment and told him in passing, “I want to thank you for being so kind as to invite me to a bachelor party at your place the other evening. I couldn’t come, I was engaged; but I’m very grateful, it was awfully kind of you.”

“But why did you make those terrible strokes at the end?” Miss Andresen asked.

“I don’t really know,” Nagel replied. “But that’s how it turned out. I wanted to catch a devil by the tail.”

Dr. Stenersen again came up to offer his compliments, and once more Nagel replied that his playing was sheer farce, humbug, full of cheap effects; if they only knew how mediocre it was! The double fingerings were false, oh yes, most of them were a bit off key, he was quite aware of it but couldn’t do any better-he’ d been out of practice for so long.[2]

More and more stragglers came by their table; they sat there to the very last minute, while people were streaming out. By the time they got up to go, the lights in the hall were being turned out. It was two-thirty in the morning.

Nagel leaned over to Martha and whispered, “I’ll have to walk you home, don’t you think? I want to tell you something.”

He hastened to pay his bill, said good night to Miss Andresen and followed Martha out. She had no coat, only an umbrella, which she tried to hide because it was so full of holes. As they left, Nagel noticed that Miniman was watching them with a pained, lingering look in his eyes. His face was even more twisted than usual.[3]

They went straight to Martha’s house. Nagel peered about him, but there was no one to be seen. “If you let me come in for a moment, I would be very grateful,” he said.

She hesitated. “It’s so late,” she said.

“You know I’ve promised never to hurt you in any way. I must talk to you.”

She opened the door.

Once inside, she lighted a candle, while he again hung something before the window. He remained silent until she was ready for him, whereupon he said, “So, did you enjoy yourself this evening?”

“Yes, thank you!” she replied.

“Well, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Come and sit a little closer. You mustn’t be afraid of me, will you promise me that? Good, let’s shake hands on it.”

She gave him her hand, and he didn’t relinquish it.

“Now, you don’t believe I’m a liar, do you, that I would lie to you? I want to tell you something. So you don’t believe I would lie to you?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll explain it all to you eventually, don’t worry.... But how firm is your belief in me? I mean, how far are you prepared to go in your belief? Rubbish! What nonsense I’m talking! But, you see, it is a rather difficult matter. Would you believe me, for instance, if I told you I’m very—that I’m really very fond of you? Well, you must’ve noticed that yourself. But what if I went a bit further, I mean ... In short, I simply want to ask you to be my wife. Yes, my wife, there I’ve said it. Not just my sweetheart, but my wife.... God help me, how you take on! No, no, let me keep your hand; I can explain myself far better than that, it’ll all be perfectly clear. Now, consider the possibility that you’re hearing correctly: that I’m simply, and without any beating around the bush, proposing to you, and also that I really mean every word I say—consider this possibility first and then allow me to continue. Good! How old are you? O-o-h, I wasn’t going to ask about that; but I’m twenty-nine myself, well beyond the age of fluttering frivolity. You may be four, five, six years older, that doesn’t mean—”

“I’m twelve years older,” she says.

“Twelve years older!” he exclaims, delighted that she’s paying attention, that she isn’t losing her head completely. “So, you’re twelve years older, that’s splendid, it’s simply grand! You don’t think, do you, that twelve years is an obstacle? Why, you must be mad! But however that may be—even if you were three times twelve years older, what difference would it make, as long as I’m in love with you and mean every word that passes my lips at this moment? I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, well, not that long, but for several days anyway, that’s the truth; for heaven’s sake, believe me, I implore you. I’ve been thinking about it for a number of days and spent sleepless nights because of it. You have such strange eyes, I was drawn by them from the moment I saw you; I could be drawn to the world’s end by a pair of eyes. Once an old man, alas, dragged me around a forest for half a night by his eyes alone. The man was possessed—. Well, that’s another story. But your eyes have affected me. Do you remember the day you were standing here in the middle of the room watching me as I passed by? You didn’t turn your head, you only followed me with your eyes, I’ll never forget it. But once I met you and had a chance to talk to you, I was also moved by your smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody laugh with such heartfelt warmth as you; but that’s something you don’t know about, which is just the wonder and the beauty of it, that you don’t know about it.... Oh, what frightful drivel I’m talking. I can hear it well enough, but I have the feeling that I must talk continuously, otherwise you won’t believe me, and that makes me confused.[4] If only you didn’t sit there like that, about to take off—I mean, ready to get up and go—I would do better right away. Please let me hold your hand again, then I’ll be sure to speak more lucidly. There, thank you! ... You see, all I really want from you is what I’ve just told you, nothing more; I have no ulterior motives. So what have I said that you find so disconcerting? You can’t fathom how I came up with this crazy idea, you can’t understand that I—that I—really want to, right? And you don’t think it possible, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

“Yes—. Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop it!”

“But look: I really don’t deserve that you should still suspect me of putting on an act—”

“No,” Martha says, suddenly remorseful, “I don’t suspect you of anything; still, it’s impossible.”

“Why is it impossible? Are you bound to someone else?”

“No, no.”

“Not at all? Because if you’re bound to someone else—let’s say, just to mention a name, to Miniman, for example—”

“No!” she cries out, giving his hand a palpable squeeze.

“No? All right, so nothing stands in our way as far as that goes. Let me continue. You mustn’t think I’m so far above you that it would be impossible for that reason. I won’t keep anything from you, in many respects I’m not as I ought to be; well, you heard yourself what Miss Kielland said this evening. You have probably also heard from other people in town what a mean creature I am in more ways than one. Occasionally they may do me an injustice, but in the main they’re right; as a man, I have grave faults. So, in fact, you with your pure heart and sensitive, childlike mind are infinitely above me, instead of the other way around. But I would promise always to be kind to you, it wouldn’t be difficult, believe me; my greatest joy would be to make you happy.... Something else is that perhaps you’re afraid of what the town might say? Well, first of all, the town would simply have to accept your becoming my wife, in its own church, if you like. But secondly, the town has already got enough to talk about; it has scarcely gone entirely unnoticed that we’ve met a few times before, and that I enjoyed your company at the bazaar this evening. So as far as that goes it won’t get much worse than it is already. And good heavens, what does it matter? You should feel blithely indifferent to what the world thinks.... You’re crying? Oh dear, you feel hurt that I’ve exposed you to gossip this evening, don’t you?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

She doesn’t answer.

Something occurs to him and he asks, “Do you feel I’m treating you badly? Tell me, you didn’t drink that much champagne, did you? I don’t believe you even had two glasses. Can you possibly have gotten the impression that I mean to take advantage of you, get you to give in more quickly, now that you’ve had a mouthful of wine? Is that why you’re crying?”

“No, not at all.”

“So why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.”

“At least, you don’t believe I mean to betray you in any way. By God in heaven, I’m honest through and through, believe me!”

“I do believe you, but I don’t understand, it upsets me so. You just cannot want—cannot want it.”

Oh yes, he did want it! And he explains more fully, holding her delicate little hand in his and hearing the rain beat against the windowpanes. Speaking very softly, he humors her, at times indulging in the most inane, childish prattle. Oh, they would be sure to make a go of it![5] They would go away, far away, God knows where; but they would steal off so that nobody knew what had become of them. That’s what they would do, right? Then they would buy a little cottage and a plot of ground in the forest, a lovely forest someplace or other; it would be their very own and they would call it Eden, and he would cultivate it—oh, would he cultivate it! But he might get to feel a little sad from time to time; dear, yes, it was quite possible. Something might cross his mind, a recollection, some bitter experience or other that came back to him perhaps; how easily that could happen! But then she would be patient with him, wouldn’t she? Anyway, he wasn’t going to let her notice it very much, never, that he promised. He would only want to be left alone to grapple with it, or he would withdraw, go farther into the woods, and return in a little while. Oh, but no harsh word would ever be uttered in their cottage! And they would trim it with the most beautiful wildflowers and moss and stones they could find; the floor would be sprinkled with juniper he’d brought home himself. And at Christmas they would always remember to put out a sheaf for the birds. Just think how they would while the time away and how happy they would be! They must always be together; they would run in and out and never be parted. In the summer they would go on long hikes and observe the trembling grass and trees, and how they grew year after year. And how helpful they would be to strangers and wayfarers who might be passing by, yes indeed! They had to have some cattle, a couple of large, sleek animals which they would train to eat out of their hands, and while he dug and chopped and tilled the ground, she would tend the animals....

“Yes,” Martha replied. She said it spontaneously, and he heard it.

Further, they had to take a day or two off every week, he went on. They would go hunting and fishing together, the two of them, hand in hand, she in a short belted dress, he in a tunic and buckled shoes. They would sing and talk and shout to make the whole forest re-echo with their voices! “Don’t you agree, hand in hand?”

“Yes,” she said again.

Little by little she was carried away, he described it all so clearly to her; he had worked everything out in his head, down to the minutest detail. He even mentioned how important it was to find a spot with easy access to water. But he would see to that, oh sure, he would see to everything; she simply had to trust him. Oh, with his strength he could certainly set up this home in the middle of the dense forest, he had a pair of fists ike—well, she could see for herself! ... And smiling, he measured her delicate child’s hand against his own.

She let him do whatever he wanted with her; she sat still and looked at him even when he patted her on the cheek. Then he asked her straight out, with his lips close to her ear, if she dared, and if she wanted to. And, indeed, she answered yes, a pensive, dreamy answer in a mere whisper. But a little later she began to waver: No, when she thought it over, it just wasn’t possible. How could he really want it! What was she, anyway!

And again he convinced her that he wanted it, wanted it, in fact, as much as he could ever want anything. She wasn’t going to suffer privation even if things didn’t pan out for a while; he would toil for them both, she need have no fear. He talked for a whole hour, shaking her resistance bit by bit. Twice during this hour she refused to go along, covering her face with her hands and crying, “No, no!” And yet she gave in to him; studying his face, she understood that he didn’t merely want to win a momentary victory. In God’s name, then, since he wanted it that way! She was conquered, it was no use to fight him anymore. In the end she gave him a clear yes.

The candle was burning itself out in the empty bottle; they were still sitting on their separate chairs, holding each other’s hands and talking together. She was quite overcome by emotion, frequently getting tears in her eyes, but still smiling.

“To get back to Miniman,” he said, “I’m quite certain he was jealous at the bazaar.”

“Yes, maybe he was,” she replied. “But it can’t be helped.”

“No, it can’t be helped, can it? ... Look, I would love to do something nice for you this evening, what might it be? Something to make you clap your hands to your breast with delight! Name it, ask me for something or other! Alas, you’re too kind, my little friend, you never ask for anything! Well, Martha, remember what I’m telling you: I’m going to protect you, I’ll try to anticipate your wishes and to take care of you till my dying breath. Please, remember that, won’t you! You will never have to say that I’ve forgotten my promise.”

It was four o’clock.

They stood up. She took a step toward him and he clasped her to his breast. She put her arms around his neck, and they remained standing like that for a few moments, her pure, timorous nun’s heart going pitapat against his hand; feeling it, he stroked her hair to calm her down. They were agreed.

Then she started talking: “I’ll lie awake all night thinking. Maybe we’ll meet tomorrow? If you’d like to?”

“Sure, tomorrow. Yes, I’d like to! What time? May I come at eight?”

“Yes—. Would you like me to wear the same dress again?”

This touching question, her quivering lips, those two wide-open eyes looking up at him—it all moved him, going straight to his heart. “My dear sweet child,” he replied, “you decide! How good you are! ... But you mustn’t lie awake tonight, you mustn’t! Think about me, say good night and go to sleep. You aren’t scared to be here alone, are you?”

“No! ... You’ll get wet walking home.”

She even thought of that, his getting wet!

“Stay happy and sleep well!” he said.

But no sooner had he stepped into the hallway than he remembered something, and turning to her, he said, “I forgot to tell you something: I’m not a rich man. Perhaps you thought I was rich?”

“I know nothing about that,” she replied, shaking her head.

“No, I’m not rich. But we can buy ourselves a home and what more we’ll need, I’m rich enough for that. And later, as time goes by, I’ll take care of everything, bear every burden, that’s what I’ve got my two hands for.... You aren’t disappointed that I’m not rich, are you?”

“No,” she said, taking his hands, which she pressed once more. At the last minute he told her to close the door securely behind him and stepped into the street.

It was pouring, and very dark.

He didn’t go back to the hotel, but headed for the Parsonage Woods. He walked for a quarter of an hour; the darkness was so dense that he could barely see anything. Finally he slackened his pace, walked off the road and found his way to a large tree. It was an aspen. There he stopped.

The wind soughs through the forest and it’s still pouring, but otherwise there’s dead silence all around. He whispers a few words to himself, a name, says “Dagny, Dagny,” falls silent and says it again. He stands bolt upright by the tree as he says this. A moment later he speaks louder, saying “Dagny” in a clear voice. She insulted him last evening, venting all her contempt on his head; he still feels every word she spat out in his heart, and yet here he stands talking about her. He kneels down by the tree, takes out his pocketknife and carves her name in the trunk in the darkness. He works at this for several minutes, feeling his way, carving and again feeling his way, until it’s done....

He had been without his cap the whole time he was busy with this.

When he got back to the road he stopped, hesitated for a moment, and then turned around. He gropes his way back to the tree, runs his fingers over the trunk and finds the letters. Then he kneels down a second time, leans forward and kisses this name, these letters, as though he would never see them again, stands up at last and quickly walks off.

It was five o’clock when he reached the hotel.

XVII

THE FOLLOWING DAY the same rain, the same dark, heavy weather. With all that water steadily gushing through the downspouts and beating against the windowpanes, it looked as though it would never cease. Hour after hour went by, the entire forenoon went by, and the sky grew no clearer. In the small garden behind the hotel everything was bent and broken; the leaves were pressed into the ground, buried in mud and water.

Nagel stayed indoors all day; he read, pacing the floor in his usual way, while continually looking at his watch. It was an endless day! He waited with the utmost impatience for evening.

On the stroke of eight he set out for Martha’s place. He was quite unsuspecting, but she received him with a suffering air, red-eyed with weeping. When he spoke to her, she answered curtly and evasively, without even looking at him. She repeatedly asked him to forgive her and not to feel let down.

When he took her hand she began to tremble and tried to pull back, though in the end she sat down on a chair next to him. There she remained until he left an hour or so later. What had happened? He plied her with questions, asking for an explanation, but she couldn’t give much of an account of herself.

No, she was not ill. It was just that she had thought it over—.

So that was what she meant to say, that she regretted her promise, that perhaps she couldn’t love him?

Yes, that was it.... “But forgive me, and don’t feel let down!” She had thought it over last night, all night long, and found it more and more impossible. Well, she had also consulted her heart, and she was afraid she couldn’t love him as she ought to.

Ah, that was it! Pause. But didn’t she think she might get to love him in time?[1] He had looked forward to the chance of starting a new life. Oh, he would be so kind to her!

Moved by this, she pressed her hand to her bosom; but her eyes were still lowered and she didn’t say anything.

So she didn’t believe, did she, that he could make her love him later on, when they would always be together?

She whispered, “No.” A few tears trickled down from her long eyelashes.

Pause. His body was shaking, the blue veins in his temples stood out sharply.

Oh dear. Well, there was nothing to be done about that! She mustn’t cry anymore on that account. The whole thing couldn’t be helped. She had to forgive him for pressing her with his entreaties. He had meant it for the best—.

She quickly grasped his hand and held it firmly. Rather surprised by this sudden emotion, he asked, Was there something in particular about him that was offensive to her? He would correct it, remedy it, if it was in his power. Perhaps she didn’t like that he—

Suddenly cutting him off, she said, “No, there’s nothing, nothing! But it’s all so unthinkable; for example, I don’t even know who you are. Well, I do know you wish me well, don’t misunderstand me—”

“Who I am, for example?” he said, looking at her. He’s instantly struck by a suspicion—he understands that something has undermined her confidence in him, something hostile that has forced its way between them. “Has anyone been to see you today?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer.

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t matter, I have no right to ask you any more questions.”

“Oh, I was so happy last night!” she said. “Good God, how I waited for the morning to come, and how I waited for you too! But today I’m full of doubts.”

“Just tell me one thing: so you don’t believe I’ve been honest with you, you still suspect me, in spite of everything, isn’t that so?”

“No, not always. Please, don’t be angry with me! You’re such a stranger here, I only know what you tell me; you may mean it sincerely now but regret it all later. How can I know what ideas may enter your head?”

Pause.

He puts his hand under her chin, raises her head slightly and says, “And what else did Miss Kielland say?”

Bewildered, she gave him a timid glance that betrayed her dismay. “I didn’t say that, did I?” she exclaimed. “No, I didn’t say that!”

“No, no, you didn’t.” He became lost in thought, his eyes staring unseeingly at one spot. “No, you didn’t say it was her, you didn’t mention her name, you may feel easy on that score.... And yet, Miss Kielland has certainly been here; she came in through that door and left the same way after accomplishing her errand. It was so important to her that she simply had to go out today, in this weather! How strange! ... Dear, kind Martha, you good soul, I kneel before you because you are good! Trust me in spite of everything, trust me just for tonight, and I’ll show you later how little I mean to deceive you. Don’t take back your promise. Think it over again, won’t you? Think it over till tomorrow and let me see you then[2]—”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she broke in.

“You don’t know? So you’d rather get rid of me once and for all now, this evening? Oh well.”

“I would rather come visit you sometime after you—well, after you’re married and it’s finished—the house, that is—I mean after ... I would rather be a maid in your house. Yes, I would.”

Pause. Her mistrust of him had already struck deep roots; no longer able to overcome it, he couldn’t set her mind at ease as before. And he felt, regretfully, that the more he talked, the more she slipped away from him. But why did she cry so bitterly? What was tormenting her? And why wasn’t she letting go of his hand? Once more he reverted to Miniman; it was a test. He wanted to make her grant him a meeting tomorrow, after she had reconsidered everything.

“Forgive me for bringing up Miniman again, it’ll be the last time,” he said. “Now, take it easy, I have good reasons for saying this. I’m not going to badmouth the man; on the contrary, you will recall I spoke to you about him in the most favorable way. I thought he might possibly stand in my way with you, and so I spoke to you about him; I maintained, among other things, that he could support a family like anyone else, and I still believe he can, if he gets some help to start with. But you flatly refused to listen, you had nothing to do with Miniman! You even begged me never to mention him again. Fine! But I’m still a bit suspicious, you haven’t convinced me, and I ask you again if there’s something going on between you and Miniman. If so, I withdraw at once. Ah, you shake your head; but then I don’t understand why you refuse to think the matter over till tomorrow and let me know then. That’s only fair. And you who are so kind!”

Then she relented; what’s more, she rose to her feet and, her emotion running away with her, stroked his hair as she had done once before, smiling through her tears. She would meet him tomorrow, she would be glad to; he just had to come a little earlier, at four or five, while it was still light, then nobody could say anything. But now he had to go, he had better leave at once. Yes, and come back tomorrow, she would be home and keep a lookout....

What a queer child of an old maid! At one word, half a remark, her heart was ablaze, making her tender and smiling. She held his hand till the moment he left, she was still holding it as she walked him to the door. On the steps she said a very loud good night, as if there might be someone around whom she wanted to defy.[3]

It had stopped raining—finally, it had almost stopped; here and there one could already see a patch of blue sky between the turbid clouds, and only an occasional raindrop fell on the damp ground.

Nagel again breathed more freely. Sure, he would regain her trust, what was to stop him? He didn’t return to the hotel but strolled by the docks, along the shore, passed the last houses in town and entered Parsonage Road. There was no one to be seen.

After he had walked another few steps, someone jumps up from the edge of the road and begins to walk in front of him. It was Dagny; the blond braid hung down her back over her raincoat.

A tremor shot through him from top to toe, and he almost came to a standstill for a moment; he was astounded. So she hadn’t gone to the bazaar this evening? Or was she simply taking a short walk before the tableaux began? She walked at an infinitely slow pace, even stopping once or twice to look up at the birds that were beginning to dart among the trees again. Had she seen him? Did she want to test him? Had she gotten up when he came to find out once more whether he dared accost her?

She could feel at ease about that, he would never again intrude upon her! And suddenly anger stirs within him, a dull, blind anger at this woman who might still want to tempt him to forget himself, simply to have the satisfaction of humiliating him afterward. She was quite capable of telling the people at the bazaar that he had had another rendezvous with her. Hadn’t she just been to see Martha and spoiled his chances there as well? Why couldn’t she simply stop putting mischief in his way? She had wanted to pay him back what he deserved, fair enough, but her payback was more extreme than was necessary.

They both walk equally slow, one behind the other, always about fifty steps apart. This goes on for several minutes. Suddenly her handkerchief falls to the ground. He can see it slip from her side, flutter along her raincoat and hit the road. Was she aware that she dropped it?

He tells himself that she wanted to test him; her rage had not yet abated, she wanted to make him pick up this handkerchief and bring it to her, so she could look him squarely in the face and really gloat over his defeat with Martha. His anger rising, he purses his lips and stamps a passionate wrinkle on his brow. Heh-heh, oh sure, he was to present himself before her, expose his face to her and let her laugh him to scorn! Look, there she dropped her handkerchief, it’s lying on the road, in the middle of the road. It’s white and extremely fine, a lace handkerchief at that; one could bend down and pick it up....

He walked at the same slow pace, and when he got to the handkerchief he stepped on it and kept walking.

They went on like that for another few minutes; then he saw her suddenly look at her watch and turn abruptly. She was coming straight at him. Had she missed her handkerchief? He turned also and walked slowly ahead of her. When he again reached the handkerchief, he stepped on it anew, a second time and under her very eyes. And he continued walking. He felt she was right behind him, and yet he didn’t increase his pace. They kept this up until they reached town.

Sure enough, she turned off in the direction of the bazaar; he went up to his room.

He opened a window and leaned forward, his elbows on the sill, broken, crushed by emotion. His anger was gone; clinching up, he started sobbing, sobbing with his head in his hands, mutely, with dry eyes, his body shaking. How could this have happened? Oh, how he regretted it, how he wished it undone! She had tossed her handkerchief down, maybe on purpose, maybe to humiliate him, but so what? He could have picked it up, stolen it, and kept it in his bosom for the rest of his life. It was white as snow, and he had trampled it in the mud! Once he had gotten hold of it, perhaps she would have refused to take it back; perhaps she would have let him keep it! Heaven knows. But if she had held out her hand for it, he would have thrown himself at her feet and pleaded, imploring her with raised hands to let him keep it as a remembrance, out of pity. And what would it matter if she had mocked him once more?

Suddenly he starts up, negotiates the stairs in two jumps, rushes into the street, leaves the town behind him in a couple of minutes and finds himself back on Parsonage Road. Maybe he could still find the handkerchief! And sure enough, she had left it there, although he was certain she had seen him step on it the second time. How lucky he was, though, despite everything! Thank God for that! His heart throbbing, he puts it away, rushes back to the hotel and rinses it, changing the water countless times, and gently spreads it out. It was pretty badly messed up, one corner even torn by his heel, but what did that matter! Oh, how happy he was to have found it!

Not until he sat down by the window again did he discover that he had made this latest walk through town without his cap. Sure, he was mad, quite mad! Suppose she had noticed! She had wanted to test him, and when all was said and done he had again failed miserably. No, this would have to stop, the sooner the better! He must be able to look at her with a tranquil heart, his head held high and his eyes cold, without betraying himself. He would certainly make an effort. He would go away and take Martha with him. She was much too good for him, alas, but he would make himself worthy of her; never rest, never allow himself an hour’s rest, until he had made himself worthy of her.

The weather was getting milder and milder, gentle puffs of wind carried the fragrance of damp grass and earth in through his window and revived him more and more. Tomorrow he would go see Martha again and beg her most humbly to give in....

But already the following morning, his hopes were completely undone.

XVIII

FIRST, DR. STENERSEN CAME; Nagel hadn’t even risen yet. The doctor excused himself, that confounded bazaar kept him busy night and day. He did have an errand, though, a mission: it was a question of getting him—Nagel—to appear at the bazaar again this evening. His playing was rumored to have been simply wonderful, the town had been sleepless from curiosity; it was the honest truth! “You read the papers, I see? Oh, politics! Did you notice the latest government appointments? In general, the election didn’t turn out the way it should, the Swedes didn’t get their faces slapped.... You sleep rather late, it seems to me; it’s ten o’clock. Some weather we’re having, the air is quivering with heat! You ought to go for a morning walk.”

Yes, Nagel would get up right away.

Well, what was his answer to the program committee?

No, Nagel wouldn’t play.

He wouldn’t? But it was a cause of national importance! Was it right of him to refuse such a small favor?

Well, he couldn’t.

Tut, tut! With such a strong feeling in his favor right now, especially among the ladies; they had made a real nuisance of themselves last night, begging him to make it come off. Miss Andresen hadn’t given him a moment’s rest, and Miss Kielland had actually taken him aside and asked him to flatly refuse letting Nagel go until he had promised to come.

Ah, but Miss Kielland didn’t have the faintest idea how he played. She had never heard him.

Still, she was the most enthusiastic; she had even offered to accompany him.... “She ended by saying, ‘Tell him we all beg him to come....’ You could give us the pleasure of doing some ten or twelve strokes, couldn’t you?”

He couldn‘t, he just couldn’t!

Why, those were nothing but excuses; he could Thursday evening, right?

Nagel squirmed. Suppose he knew only this poor fragment, this incoherent potpourri, that he had practiced these few dances to the highest level he could achieve to astonish people some evening! And besides, his playing was criminally out of tune; he couldn’t bear listening to himself, no, by Jove, he couldn’t!

“Yes but—”

“Doctor, I won’t do it!” “If not tonight, how about tomorrow night? Tomorrow is Sunday, the last day of the bazaar, and we’re anticipating a big turnout.”

“No, you’ll have to excuse me, I won’t play tomorrow night either. It’s simply idiotic to touch a violin when one cannot play any better than I do. How curious that you didn’t hear any better!”

This appeal to the doctor was effective.

“Well,” he said, “I did feel you made a few mistakes here and there; but what the hell, we aren’t all of us connoisseurs, you know.”

It was no use, the doctor got nothing but no all along and had to leave.

Nagel began getting dressed. So, even Dagny had been eager to make him do this, she would even have accompanied him! Another trap, eh? She failed last night, and now she would use this to even the score? ... But oh dear, maybe he was doing her an injustice, perhaps she wouldn’t hate him any more now, but leave him alone! And in his heart, he begged her pardon for his distrustfulness. He looked out at Market Square; there was the most glorious sunshine, the sky as lofty as could be. He began humming to himself.

When he was almost ready to go down, Sara slipped a letter through the door; it hadn’t come through the mail, a messenger had brought it. The letter was from Martha and contained only a few lines: he mustn’t come this evening, after all, she had gone away. For heaven’s sake, he must forgive her everything and not call on her anymore; it would give her pain to see him again. Goodbye. At the bottom of the page, below her name, she had added that she would never forget him. “I’ll never forget you,” she wrote. Altogether, this letter of three or four lines was filled with a note of sadness; even the characters looked sad and pitiful.

He collapsed on a chair. Everything was lost, lost! Even there he had been rejected! How strange it was, the way everything was conspiring against him! Had he ever been more honest or more well-intentioned? And yet—and yet it didn’t help! He sits motionless for several minutes.

All at once he jumps up from his chair; he looks at his watch, it’s eleven. If he dashed off at once, perhaps he could still catch Martha before she left! He goes straight to her place; it’s locked and empty. He peeks through the windows of both rooms and sees no trace of anybody.

Beaten and speechless, he turns back to the hotel without knowing where he is going, without taking his eyes off the ground. How could she do it, how could she! After all, he would have wanted to say goodbye to her and wish her every happiness, wherever she was going. He would have liked to kneel before her despite everything, for the sake of her goodness, because she had an utterly pure heart, and she hadn’t been able to endure his doing that. Well, never mind!

When he met Sara in the hallway, he learned that the letter had been brought by messenger from the parsonage. So that, too, was Dagny’s doing, she had arranged it all, had carefully calculated everything and acted swiftly. No, she would never forgive him!

He wandered about all day—in the streets, in his room, out in the woods, everywhere; he didn’t rest for a moment. He always walked with his head bowed, his eyes wide-open and unseeing.

The next day went by in the same manner. It was a Sunday, and lots of country people had come to town to visit the bazaar and see the tableaux on the last day. Nagel received another request to play, just one number, through another member of the program committee, Consul Andresen, Fredrikke’s father; but again he declined. For four whole days he walked about like a lunatic, in a strangely absent mood, as though engrossed by one single thought, one feeling. He walked down to Martha’s house several times a day to see whether she might have returned. Where had she gone? But even if he found her, it wouldn’t do him any good. Nothing would any longer!

One evening he barely escaped running into Dagny. She was coming out of a shop and nearly brushed his elbow. She moved her lips as if to talk to him, but suddenly blushed and said nothing. Failing to recognize her at first, in his bewilderment he paused for a moment to look at her before turning abruptly and moving off. She followed him, he could tell by her footsteps that she was walking faster and faster; he had a feeling that she was trying to overtake him and quickened his pace to get away, to give her the slip. He was afraid of her—she would never stop making trouble for him! Finally he escaped to the hotel, rushed in, and hurried up to his room in the utmost agitation. Thank God, he was saved!

This was on July 14, a Tuesday.

In the morning he seemed to have made a decision to do something. During the past few days his face had completely changed; it was gray and stiff, and his eyes were lifeless. Also, more and more often he would be way down the street before discovering he had forgotten his cap. On such occasions he would clench his fist and tell himself that this had got to stop, be done with once and for all.

When he got out of bed Wednesday morning he first examined the little poison vial in his vest pocket, shook it, smelled it, and put it away again. Getting dressed he began, as was his wont, to grapple with one of those long, untidy trains of thought which were constantly occupying him, giving his weary head no rest. His brain worked frantically, at tremendous speed; his emotions were in turmoil, and he felt so desperate that he often had difficulty holding back his tears. And in the midst of all this a swarm of thoughts crowded in on him.

Thank God, he still had his vial! It smelled of almonds, and the liquid was clear as water. Sure enough, he would be needing it very soon, despite everything, very soon, since there was no other way out. That’s how it would end, after all. And why not? He had had such a ridiculously beautiful dream of a mission in the world, something that would “count,” some achievement that would scandalize the carnivores—and it had turned out so badly; he hadn’t been up to the task. Why shouldn’t he make use of that liquid? All he had to do was to swallow it without making too many faces. Well, he would do it in the fullness of time, when the clock struck the hour.

Dagny would win....

What power that woman had,[1] quite ordinary as she was, with her long braid and her wise heart! He understood the poor man who refused to live without her, the one with the steel and the final no. He was no longer surprised at him; the poor devil had quit, what else could he have done? ... How her blue velvet eyes will sparkle when I soon take the same path! But I love you, I love you for that too, not only for your virtues, but also for your malice. If anything, I suffer all too much by your being so indulgent with me; why do you tolerate that I have more than one eye? You should take one of them, well, both, why not? You shouldn’t put up with my being allowed to walk the street in peace and having a roof over my head. You have torn Martha away from me, but I love you in spite of it, and you know I love you in spite of it; it makes you snicker at me, and I also love you because you snicker at me. Can you ask for more? Isn’t that enough? Your long white hands, your voice, your blond hair, your breath and your soul—I love them all as I’ve never loved anything before; honest to God, I cannot help it, it’s beyond my control! You may mock me to your heart’s content and laugh at me, I don’t mind; what does it matter, Dagny, since I love you? I don’t see that it makes any difference; as far as I’m concerned, you can do whatever strikes your fancy, you’ll still be just as beautiful and lovable in my eyes, I willingly admit it. Somehow or other I’ve disappointed you; you regard me as wicked and mean and believe me capable of anything. If I could add to my low stature by some deception or other, I would even do that. Well, what about it? If you say so, it’s true for me as well, and a good thing; I assure you that my love begins to sing within me when you say it. Even if you look disdainfully at me or turn your back on me without answering my question, or you try to overtake me in the street to humiliate me, even so my heart thrills with love for you. Try to understand, I’m deluding neither you nor myself: it doesn’t really matter to me if you laugh again, it doesn’t change my feelings. That’s the way it is. And if I should find a diamond some day it would be called Dagny, because your name is enough to make me warm with joy. I would even go so far as to wish to hear your name perpetually, hear it spoken by all men and beasts, by every mountain and every star, as to wish I were deaf to everything else and only heard your name as an endless note in my ear night and day all my life long. I would want to institute a new oath in your name, an oath that all the peoples on earth would swear by, in your honor. And if that would be a sin and God warned me against it, I would answer him: charge it to my account, enter it on the books, I’ll pay for it with my soul in the fullness of time, when the clock strikes....

How strange it all is! I’ve been stopped everywhere, and yet I’m the same, in strength, in spirit. The same possibilities are open to me as before, I could accomplish the same tasks. Why, then, have I been stopped, and why have all possibilities become impossible to me all of a sudden? Is it my own fault? I do not see how. All my senses are intact, I have no harmful habits, I’m not addicted to a single vice, nor do I rush blindly into danger. I think as before, feel as before, I’m in control of my movements as before, and, yes, I appreciate people as before. I’ll go to Martha, I know that she’s my salvation, a kind soul, my guardian angel. She’s timid, very apprehensive; but in the end she will want what I want and we’ll be in agreement. Good! I’m dreaming of a life of happy tranquillity; we shall withdraw into solitude, live in a cottage with a spring nearby, roam about the woods in short togs and buckled shoes[2]—just as her kind, sentimental heart demands. Why not? Mohammed goes to the mountain! And Martha is with me, filling my days with purity and my nights with rest, and the Lord on high is over us. But then the world sticks its nose into it, the world takes umbrage, the world decides it’s madness. The world says that such and such a reasonable man or woman wouldn’t have done it, consequently it’s mad. And I, a single solitary individual, stand up, stamp my feet and say it is reasonable! What does the world know? Nothing! You simply get used to something, you accept it and acknowledge it, because your teacher has acknowledged it before you; everything is just a supposition—indeed, even time, space, motion, matter are suppositions. The world knows nothing, it merely accepts things....

Nagel covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, swaying his head back and forth as if his thoughts were in a whirl. He was standing in the middle of the room.

What was I just thinking about? ... All right, she’s afraid of me, but we are in agreement. And I feel in my heart that I’ll always be good to her. I shall break with the world, I’ll return the ring; I’ve been romping like a fool among other fools, committing crazy pranks, even playing the violin, and the people shouted: well roared, lion! I’m nauseated by the unspeakably crude triumph of hearing the carnivores applauding, I refuse to compete any longer with a telegraph operator from Kabelvåg; I shall go to the valley of peace and be the most peaceable creature in the woods, worshiping my god, humming happy songs, turning superstitious, shaving only at flood tide, and noting the cries of certain birds before I sow my grain. And when I’m tired from work, my wife will wave to me from the doorway, and I’ll give her my blessing and thank her for all her endearing smiles.... Martha, we did agree, didn’t we? Your promise was so definite; when I explained it all to you, you wanted it yourself at the end, didn’t you? And yet nothing came of the whole thing. You were abducted, caught off guard and abducted, not to your ruin but to mine....

Dagny, I do not love you, you have blocked me everywhere; I do not love your name, it exasperates me and I sneer at it, calling you Dangni and sticking out my tongue. Listen to me, for Christ’s sake! I’ll come to you at the stroke of the hour, when I’m dead; I’ll show myself to you on the fire wall with the face of the jack of clubs, and I’ll haunt you as a skeleton, dance around you on one leg, and paralyze your arms by my touch. I’ll do it, I’ll do it! God save me from you henceforth and always—I swear it by holy hell, that’s how fervently I pray for it....

And so what? For the seventh and last time, so what? I love you all the same, and you know very well, Dagny, that I love you all the same and that I regret my bitter words. But so what? What good does it do me? And besides, who knows whether it isn’t better this way? If you say it is, then in fact it is so; I feel the same as you, I’m a wanderer brought to a halt. But suppose you had gone along, that you had broken with everyone else and committed yourself to me—which I didn’t deserve, but let’s suppose it anyway—what would it have led to? At most you would have wanted to help me perform my tasks, fulfill my mission in the world. I tell you, it makes me feel ashamed, my heart stops with shame at the thought. I would do as you wished because I loved you, but it would make my soul suffer.... But what on earth is the use of supposing one thing after another, of setting up these impossible points of departure? You refused to break with everybody and commit yourself to me—you decline with thanks, laugh me to scorn, mock me; so what have I to do with you? Period.

Pause. Then, vehemently: For the rest, let me say that I’m drinking this good glass of water and telling you to go straight to hell! It is unspeakably stupid of you to think I love you, that I really should want to bother with that now, when the fullness of time is so near. I loathe your whole taxpayer’s existence, dolled up, groomed, and inane as it is. I loathe it, God knows I do, and I feel indignation rising within me like a rushing mighty wind of the Holy Spirit when I think of you. What would you have turned me into? Heh-heh, I bet you’d have turned me into a great man. Heh-heh, go and show thyself to the priests! In my heart I’m ashamed of your great men.

A great man! How many great men are there in the world? First, there are the great men in Norway, they are the greatest. Then there are the great men in France, in the land of Hugo and the poets. Next come the great men yonder, in the kingdom of Barnum. And all these great men are tumbling about on a planet that, compared to Sirius, is no bigger than the back of a louse. But a great man is not a little man, a great man doesn’t live in Paris, he occupies Paris. A great man stands so tall that he can see himself over his own head. Lavoisier asked to have his beheading postponed until he had completed a chemical experiment; he said, to wit: “Don’t step on my circles!” Heh-heh, what a farce! When not even Euclid, no, not even Euclid with his axioms added more than a pennyworth to the stock of fundamental values! Oh, how poor, frugal and pusillanimous they have made life on God’s earth!

There they go and make great men out of the most incidental experts who, quite by chance, improved the electrical condenser, or quite by chance had the muscle power to straddle their way through Sweden on a bicycle. And they let great men write books to promote the veneration of other great men! Heh-heh, it’s really amusing, it’s worth your money! In the end every village will have its great man, a law graduate, a novelist, a polar skipper of immense stature. And the earth will become perfectly flat and so simple and easy to survey—.

Dagny, it’s my turn now: I decline with thanks, I laugh you to scorn, I mock you; so what do you have to do with me? I’ll never be a great man.

But let us just suppose there is a multitude of great men, a legion of geniuses of this or that magnitude; why not! And so what? Should I be impressed by their number, perhaps? On the contrary, the more of a kind, the more ordinary they will be! Or should I do as the world does? The world is always true to form: here, too, it accepts what the world has accepted previously; it admires, falls on its knees, and runs at the heels of great men shouting hurrah. And should I do the same? What a farce! The great man walks along the street, and one mortal nudges another mortal in the ribs and says, There goes this or that great man! The great man sits in the theater, and one schoolmistress pinches another schoolmistress’ sexless thigh and whispers, Over there, in that white-tie box, sits this or that great man! Heh-heh. And he himself, the great man? He cashes in! He sure does. Those mortals are right, he thinks, accepting their tokens of esteem as his due; he doesn’t reject them, he doesn’t blush. Why should he? Isn’t he a great man?

But here Øien, the student, would protest. He is going to be a great man himself, he is working on a novel during the holidays. He would point out another inconsistency: Mr. Nagel, you’re not consistent, explain what you mean!

And I would explain what I meant.

But young Øien wouldn’t be satisfied; he would ask, So there really aren’t any great men, is that it?

Yes, that’s what he would ask, even after I’d explained what I meant! Heh-heh, that’s how it would look to him. Well, I would still answer him as best I could; feeling in my element, I would say, There is simply a legion of great men. Do you hear what I’m saying? There is a legion of them! But of the greatest men there aren’t, no, there aren’t many. That’s the difference, you see. Soon there will be a great man in every village, but of the greatest men there will probably never be one even in a thousand years. What the world means by a great man is quite simply a talent, a genius, and genius, after all, is a very democratic concept: a diet of so many pounds of beef a day will produce genius in the third, fourth, fifth, or tenth generation. Genius in the popular sense is not the unprecedented, but merely a human apropos: it makes you stop, but not rear up. Imagine the following: You are standing in an observatory some starry night, looking through a telescope at the Orion nebula. Then you hear Fearnley say, “Good evening, good evening!” You look around, Fearnley makes a deep bow—a great man has just come in, a genius, the gentleman in the white-tie box. You smile to yourself and go back to the Orion nebula, isn’t that right? This happened to me once.... Do you understand what I mean? I’m saying that, instead of admiring the ordinary great men who make mortals nudge each other in the ribs with awe, I prefer the small, unknown geniuses, youths who die in their school days because their souls shatter them, delicate, dazzling glowworms one must have met in their lifetimes to know they really existed. That’s how I feel. But above all I say it’s important to distinguish between the highest and the high genius, to keep the highest afloat so that it doesn’t drown amid the proletariat of geniuses. I want to see the unprecedented arch-spirit in his proper place. Do make a selection, force me to sit up, get rid of all those village geniuses! We have to find what exceeds the standard, His Eminence Excess....

Whereupon young Øien will say—oh, I know him, he’ll say, But really, this is just theory, paradoxes.

I cannot see it as just theory, I just cannot, God help me, so hopelessly different is my view of things. Is it my fault? I mean, am I personally to blame for it? I’m an alien, a stranger on earth, God’s idée fixe, call me what you will....

With increasing vehemence: I’m telling you, it makes no difference what you call me; I’ll not surrender, never in all my life. I clench my teeth and harden my heart because I’m right; I will stand before the world, one man against all, and not give in! I know what I know, in my heart I’m right; once in a while, at certain moments, I have a hunch of the infinite interconnectedness of all things. I still have something to add which I forgot, I won’t yield: I’ll knock down all your stupid assumptions concerning the great men. Young Øien maintains that my view is nothing but a theory. Good; if my view is a theory I’ll chuck it and come up with one that’s better still. I stick at nothing. And I say—wait a moment, I’m convinced I can say something still better, because my heart is full of rightness: I despise and deride that great man in the white-tie box; my heart tells me he’s a clown and a fool, my lips purse with contempt when I see his puffed-up breast and his supremely confident air. Has the great man fought his way to genius by himself? Wasn’t he born with it? Why, then, make such a song and dance about him?

Young Øien remarks, But you yourself want to put His Eminence Excess in his rightful place; you do, after all, admire the arch-spirit, who didn’t fight his way to genius by himself, either!

Young Øien believes he has caught me once more in an inconsistency, that’s how it looks to him! But I answer him again, because my sense of holy rightness has taken possession of me: I don’t admire the arch-spirit either, I shall crush even His Eminence Excess, if necessary, and sweep the earth clean. The arch-spirit is admired for his greatness, for his excess of genius—as though he had only himself to thank for his genius, as though the genius didn’t belong to our collective humanity, being, literally, a property of matter itself! The fact that the arch-spirit has coincidentally sucked up his great-grandfather‘s, his grandfather’s, his father‘s, his son’s, his grandson’s and his great-grandson’s share of genius, and has laid waste to his lineage for centuries—this is not the fault of the arch-spirit himself, no, it’s not! He discovered the genius within him, understood its purpose and used it.... Theory? No, it’s not theory; consider it my heartfelt conviction! But if this too is theory, I’ll search my brain and find a fresh solution; and more, I’ll come up with a third, fourth, and fifth crushing contradiction, as best I can, and not give up.

But young Øien doesn’t give up either, because he’s backed by the whole world, and he says, Then there’s nothing left to admire, no great man, no genius!

And I answer, making him feel more and more ill at ease as time goes on, because he’s going to be a great man himself. I again throw cold water on him, replying, No, I don’t admire the genius. But I admire and love the result of the genius’s activity in the world, of which the great man is only the poor necessary tool, only, so to speak, the paltry awl to bore with.... Will that do? Have you understood me now?

Suddenly, his hands outstretched: Ah, there again I saw the infinite interconnectedness of all things! Oh, what brightness, what brightness! The great explanation was just vouchsafed to me, at this very moment, in the middle of the room! There were no riddles anymore, I saw to the bottom of everything. Oh, what brightness, what brightness!

Pause.

Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay! I’m a stranger among my fellow humans, and soon the clock will strike. Oh well ... And besides, what do I have to do with the great men? Nothing! Except that I find the very idea of great men to be a farce, just humbug and fraud! Good! But isn’t everything a farce, sheer humbug and fraud? To be sure, to be sure, everything is a fraud. Kamma and Miniman and everyone else, love and life—all is a fraud; everything I see and hear and perceive is a fraud, even the blue of the sky is ozone, poison, insidious poison.... And when the sky is quite clear and blue, I quietly sail about up there, letting my boat ripple on through the fraudulent blue ozone. And the boat is of aromatic wood, and the sail—

Dagny herself said it was very beautiful. Dagny, you did say it! Anyway, thank you for saying it, and for making me so happy that I trembled with joy. I remember every word and carry it all with me as I walk along the road pondering everything, I won’t ever forget.... And now you’re going to win, when the hour strikes. I won’t pester you anymore. Nor will I show myself on the fire wall; I said that out of revenge, and you must forgive me. No, I’ll come to you and wave my white wings around you as you sleep, and follow you when you are awake, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. And when you hear me, perhaps you will even give me a smile, yes, perhaps you will, if you feel like it. And if I won’t have white wings myself—if, that is, my wings shouldn’t be very white—I’ll ask an angel of God to do it for me, and I won’t come near you myself but hide in a corner and see you smile at him, perhaps. That’s what I’ll do, if I can, to atone for some of the worst harm I’ve done you. Oh, the very thought makes me happy, I wish I could do it at once. Perhaps I can please you in other wonderful ways as well. I’ll be glad to sing above your head on Sunday morning as you go to church, and I’ll ask the angel to do the same. And if he won’t do it for me and I can’t persuade him to, I’ll throw myself down before him and beseech him more and more humbly until he answers my prayers. I’ll promise to do him a kindness in return, and I’ll also give him something and do him ever so many good turns if he’ll be so kind.... I’m pretty sure I’ll manage, I can’t wait to begin, I’m overjoyed at the thought of it. And it won’t be long now before the time comes, I’ll try to speed it up, with pleasure at that.... “Think of the day when all mists will have vanished, la la la la....”[3]

Happy and exalted, he ran down the stairs and entered the dining room. He was still singing. Then by mere chance his jubilant high spirits were promptly dashed, making him feel embittered for several hours. He sang as he ate a hurried breakfast, standing up at the table; though he was not alone, he didn’t sit down. When he noticed that the other two guests were sending him angry looks, he quickly apologized: had he noticed them before, he would have behaved more discreetly. He neither saw nor heard anything on such days! Wasn’t it a glorious morning? Why, the flies were buzzing already!

But he received no answer, the two strangers looked as displeased as before and went on with their dignified political discussion. Nagel’s mood plummeted. He fell silent and quietly left the dining room. After visiting a shop down the street to get some cigars, he set out for the woods as usual. It was half-past eleven.

People never changed, did they! There they sat, those two lawyers or agents or landowners, or whatever they were, discussing politics in the dining room and looking hateful and sour just because he happened to be humming for joy in their presence. Chewing away at their breakfasts with an exceedingly reasonable air, they couldn’t tolerate being interrupted. Heh-heh, they both had swag bellies and fat, pudgy fingers; their napkins were tucked under their chins. By rights, he ought to go back to the hotel and taunt them a little. What sort of high and mighty gentlemen were they anyway? Agents in grits, in American hides—God knows if it wasn’t in cheap crockery. Truly something to bowl you over! And yet they had put an end to his happy thoughts in an instant. They weren’t even particularly good-looking! Well, one of them didn’t look too bad, but the other—the one with the hides—had a crooked mouth that only opened on one side, so that it reminded you of a buttonhole. He also had a lot of gray hair growing out of his ears. He was ugly as sin, pfui! But, of course, one mustn’t express one’s joy in a snatch of song when that man had his face in the food trough!

No, people never changed, they certainly didn’t! The gentlemen discuss politics, the gentlemen have noted the latest government appointments; thank God, it wasn’t yet too late for Buskerud County to be saved for the Conservatives! Heh-heh, how amusing to observe their mine owners’ faces as they said it. As if Norwegian politics were anything but rotgut wisdom and peasant flimflam! I, Ola Olsen from Lista, agree to a compensation of one hundred and seventy-five kroner to a widow in Nordland, provided I get in return a parish road at three hundred kroner in Fjære parish, Ryfylke County. Heh-heh, flimflam.

But start up a merry song and disturb Ola Upnorth in his parliamentary business, and all hell breaks loose! That gets you into big trouble. For mind you, Ola is thinking, Ola is pondering something. What is he up to? What bill is he going to propose tomorrow? Heh-heh-heh, there he is, a trusted man in Norway’s minuscule world, elected by the people to contribute his lines to the country’s royal farce, dressed in the sacred national shaggy-goat style, puffing away to his heart’s content at his chewing-tobacco pipe, his paper collar soggy with true and honest sweat! Out of the way for the chosen one, stand aside, damn it, give him some elbowroom![4]

Good Lord, how those fat round zeros make the numbers big!

Anyway, that’s the end of that. To hell with the zeros! You eventually get tired of humbug and can’t bother to touch it anymore. You take to the woods and lie down under the open sky; it has wider spaces, more room for the stranger and for the flying birds.... And you find yourself a lair in some wet spot, lie down on your stomach on the damp boggy ground and positively revel in getting badly soaked. And you bury your head in reed grass and spongy leaves, and crawling insects and worms and soft little lizards creep up your clothes and into your face, looking at you with their silky green eyes, while from all around comes the calm,[5] silent soughing of the woods and the air, and while the Lord sits on high staring down at you as though you were the most fixed of all his idées fixes. Ho-ho, you begin to warm up, experiencing a rare, strange infernal glee the like of which you have never felt before; you do every wild thing imaginable, confound right and wrong, turn the world topsy-turvy and feel delighted by it, as though it were a meritorious deed. Why not? You are subject to peculiar influences and give in to them, letting yourself be carried away by desire and by a hardened joy. Everything you used to sneer at, you now feel an inordinate need to exalt and praise to the skies: you gloat over seeing your way to fight a royal battle for universal peace, you might want to appoint a commission for improving the footwear of mail carriers, you put in a good word for Pontus Wikner and vindicate the cosmos and God in general. To hell with the true interconnectedness of all things, it doesn’t concern you anymore; you let out a roar at it and let things take their course. Ho-ho and hooray, the sun shines on the brae! That’s right, you let yourself go, tune your harp and sing psalms and p-songs that defy all description!

At the same time you let your inmost being drift, given over to the worst gibberish. Let it drift, let it drift, it’s so pleasant to give in without a struggle. And why put up a struggle? Heh-heh, shouldn’t a stopped wanderer be allowed to spend his last moments as he sees fit? Yes or no? Period. And you arrange matters as you see fit.

There is something you could do, though: you could bring your influence to bear in favor of the Home Mission, Japanese art, the Hallingdal Railroad, anything whatever, as long as you bring your influence to bear in favor of something, help something get started. It dawns on you that a man like J. Hansen, the respectable tailor from whom you once may have bought a coat for Miniman—that this man has enormous merits as a citizen and a human being; you begin by venerating him and end up loving him. Why do you love him? From inclination, from spite, from hardened joy, because you are affected by and give in to certain peculiar influences. You whisper your admiration in his ear, you sincerely wish him lots of cattle and sheep and goats, and as you leave him, God help me, you slip your lifesaving medal into his hand. Why shouldn’t you, once you have begun to give in to those peculiar influences? What’s more, you even regret that you may at one time have spoken disrespectfully of Ola Upnorth, elected Storting representative. Only now do you leave yourself at the mercy of the sweetest madness—ho-ho, how you let yourself go:

Look at what Ola Upnorth has accomplished in the Storting for Ryfylke County and for the kingdom! Little by little you begin to appreciate his faithful, honest labor, and your heart melts. Your kindness runs away with you, you cry and sob with compassion for him and swear in your heart to make twofold, even threefold, amends. The thought of this graybeard from the struggling, suffering folk, this man in the modest shaggy coat, spurs you to such a wild, blissful desire to do good deeds that it makes you bawl. To make amends to Ola you malign everybody else, the whole world, take pleasure in despoiling everyone else for his benefit, and search for the most extravagant, glorious words to extol him. You actually say that Ola has done most of the things that have been done in this world, that he has written the only treatise on spectral analysis which is worth reading, that in the year 1719 he single-handedly turned up America’s prairies, that he invented the telegraph, and that, to top it off, he has been on Saturn and talked to God five times. You know very well that Ola hasn’t done all this, but in your desperate kindness you say nonetheless that he has done it, he has done it, and you shed hot tears and swear, viciously damning yourself to the worst torments of hell, that it’s precisely Ola and no one else who has done it. Why? Out of kindness, to make reparation to Ola many times over! And you burst out singing to give him a huge reparation; indeed, you sing a bawdy, blasphemous song to the effect that it was Ola who created the world and put the sun and the stars in their orbits, and will maintain it all from now on, adding a slew of horrible curses to vouch for its truth. In short, you allow your mind to abandon itself to the most singular, most charming excesses of kindheartedness, to the point of the most subtle whoring around with oaths and outrageousness. And every time you’ve come up with something truly unheard-of to say, you pull your knees up under you and chuckle with glee over the happy amends Ola will finally get. Sure, Ola shall have it all, Ola deserves it because you once spoke disrespectfully of him and now regret it.

Pause.

How was it, didn’t I once tell a stale joke about a body that—well, that died—wait a moment, it was a young girl; she died thanking God for the loan of her body, which she had never used. Stop, it was Mina Meek, I remember it now and feel ashamed from head to foot. How often we talk through our hats, saying things we later regret and groan with shame at—oh, the shame of it makes us stop in our tracks and let out a scream! True, Miniman was the only one who knew about it, but I’m ashamed of it on my own account. Not to mention an even more disgraceful blunder I once made that I’ll never forget, having to do with an Eskimo and a letter case. Ugh, go away; good God, it’s enough to make you sink into the ground! ... Quiet, keep your wits about you, the hell with scruples! “Behold the congregations saved by the cross that Jesus bore, gathered from all the nations in glory for evermore, in heavenly glory for evermore.” Do you get me? Oh God, how boring it all is, Gawd how boring it all is....

On entering the woods, Nagel threw himself down on the first patch of heather he saw and covered his head with his hands. What a turmoil in his brain, what a swarm of impossible thoughts! After a while he fell asleep. It was no more than four hours since he’d gotten out of bed, and yet he fell asleep, dead tired and exhausted.

When he awoke it was evening. Looking about him, he saw the sun going down behind the steam mill at Indviken Cove, and the small birds darting from tree to tree and singing. His head was quite clear—no more confused thoughts, no bitterness, he was completely calm. He leaned against a tree and thought for a moment. Should he do it now? Why not sooner rather than later? No, he had several things to take care of first: write a letter to his sister, leave a small memento in an envelope for Martha; he couldn’t die tonight. He hadn’t paid his hotel bill either, and he would like to remember Miniman, too, with ...

He headed back to the hotel, going dead slow. But tomorrow night it would be done, around midnight, without any fuss, quickly and to the point, quickly and to the point!

At three o’clock in the morning he was still standing by the window of his room looking out on Market Square.

XIX

AROUND TWELVE O’CLOCK the following night Nagel finally left the hotel. He had made no preparations, though he had written to his sister and put some money in an envelope for Martha; his bags, his violin case, and the old chair he had bought stood in their usual place, and some books were lying around on the table. And he still hadn’t paid his bill; he had completely forgotten about it. Just before he left the hotel, he asked Sara to dust the windows before he came back, and Sara had promised to do so, though it was the middle of the night. Then he carefully washed his face and hands and left the room.

He was calm all along, almost listless. Goodness, why play it up and make a fuss about it! A year sooner or later didn’t make any difference; besides, he had been thinking about it for a long time. And now he was sick and tired of all his disappointments, his many failed hopes, of the humbug everywhere, the subtle daily deceit on the part of everyone. Again he happened to think of Miniman, whom he had also remembered with an envelope with something inside, though his suspicion of the poor decrepit dwarf never left him. He thought of Mrs. Stenersen who, sick and asthmatic, cheated on her husband right to his face without batting an eye; of Kamma, that money-grubbing little tart who stretched her false arms out for him wherever he went and was constantly rummaging in his pockets for more, always more. East and west, at home and abroad, he had found people to be the same; everything was vulgar and sham and disgracefully perfidious, from the bum who wore his healthy arm in a sling to the blue sky overflowing with ozone. And he himself, was he any better? No, no, he was no better himself! But now he was really at the end.

He walked by way of the docks to have yet another look at the ships, and on passing the last pier he suddenly removed the iron ring from his finger and tossed it into the sea. He saw it hit the water way out. There! At the last moment, one did at least make a small attempt to rid oneself of humbug!

He came to a halt at Martha Gude’s little house and peeked through the windows for the last time. Everything was as usual in there, quiet and still, and nobody was to be seen.

“Goodbye!” he said.

And he went on.

Without himself being aware of it, he bent his steps toward the parsonage. He only realized how far he had come when he made out the yard, looking like a clearing in the forest. He stopped. Where was he going? What was he doing on these paths? A last look at the two windows on the second floor, a vain hope of seeing a face that never appeared? No, never—he wouldn’t go there! To be sure, he had been minded to do so all along, but he just wouldn’t! He stood there a moment longer, looking wistfully at the parsonage yard—he wavered, a prayer going through him....

“Goodbye!” he said again.

Then he turned abruptly and took a side road that led deeper into the forest.

Now he simply had to follow his nose and settle in any old place. Above all, no calculation and no sentimentality; look what Karlsen had come up with in his ridiculous despair! As if this trifling matter was worth making so much fuss about! ... Noticing that one of his shoelaces is undone, he stops, puts his foot on a tussock and ties it. A moment later he sits down.

He had sat down without thinking, without being aware of it. He looked about him: big pines, big pines everywhere, here and there a cluster of juniper, the ground covered with heather. Good, good!

He takes out his wallet, where he’s keeping the letters to Martha and Miniman. Dagny’s handkerchief is in a separate pocket, wrapped in paper; he takes it out, kisses it again and again, kneels and goes on kissing it, and then slowly tears it to shreds. This occupies him for a long time; it gets to be one, one-thirty, and he’s still tearing and tearing at these tiny little shreds. In the end he has made the handkerchief completely unrecognizable, hardly anything but threads is left. He gets up and puts it under a stone, hiding it very carefully so that nobody can find it, and sits down again. Well, was there anything else? He tries to remember, but can’t think of anything. Then he winds his watch, as he used to do every night before going to bed.

He peers about him, it’s rather dark in the forest; he cannot see anything suspicious. He listens, holds his breath and listens; there isn’t a sound, the birds are silent, the night is mild and dead. He puts his fingers into his vest pocket and takes out the little bottle.

The bottle has a glass stopper, and over the stopper is a triple paper cap tied on with blue pharmacist’s string. He unties the string and pulls out the stopper. Clear as water, with a faint scent of almonds! He holds the bottle up to his eyes—it’s half full. Right then he hears a sound far away, a couple of plangent strokes; it was the church bell striking two in town. He whispers, “The bell has tolled!” And he quickly raises the vial to his lips and empties it.

The first few moments he still sat upright, his eyes closed, the empty vial in one hand and the stopper in the other. The whole thing had gone so briskly that he hadn’t quite kept up with it. Now, afterward, his thoughts gradually began to crowd in on him, he opened his eyes and looked about him in a daze. These trees, this sky, this earth—all this he would now never see again. How strange! The poison was already sneaking about inside him, seeping through the fine tissues, making its blue way into his veins; in a moment he would go into convulsions, and a little later he would be dead and stiff.

He has a distinctly bitter taste in his mouth and feels his tongue crumpling up more and more. He makes absurd gestures with his arms to see how far he has already died, begins to count the trees around him, gets as far as ten and gives up. Why, was he going to die, really die tonight? No, oh no! No, not tonight, eh? How strange!

Yes, he was going to die, he clearly felt the acid doing something to his insides. No, why now, why at once? Good grief, it mustn’t happen just yet, must it? How his eyes were growing dim already! What a soughing was sweeping through the forest, though there wasn’t a breath of wind! And why were red clouds beginning to drift above the treetops? ... Ah, not just now, not just now! No, do you hear, no! What shall I do? I don’t want to! God in heaven, what shall I do?

And suddenly all sorts of thoughts crowd in on him with overwhelming force. He wasn’t ready yet, there were a thousand things to be done first, and his brain flares and sparkles with all that remained to be done. He still hasn’t paid his hotel bill, he’d forgotten about it; heavens, yes, it was just an oversight, and he would put it right again! Oh, he must be spared overnight—mercy, an hour’s mercy, a little more than an hour! Great God, there was also a letter he had forgotten to write, another letter, a couple of lines to a man in Finland; it concerned his sister, her whole estate! ... So conscious was he in the midst of his desperation, and with such marvelous intensity was his brain working, that he even thought of his newspaper subscriptions. O-o-h, he hadn’t canceled his subscriptions either, the papers would be arriving continually; they would never stop, filling up his room from floor to ceiling. What should he do? And now he was practically half dead!

He tears up the heather with both hands, turns over on his stomach and tries to bring up the poison by sticking his finger down his throat, but to no avail. No, he didn’t want to die, not tonight, not tomorrow either; he would never want to die, he wanted to live, yes, to still see the sun for an eternity. He would simply refuse to keep this bit of poison down, he had to get it up before it killed him—up, up, come hell or high water!

Frantic with terror he jumps to his feet and begins to stagger about the woods looking for water. He calls “Water! Water!” so that it echoes far away. He raves on for several minutes, running around in all directions, bumping into trees, doing high jumps over juniper patches and groaning loudly. He doesn’t find any water. Finally he stumbles and falls on his face, his hands scrabble the heather-covered ground as he falls, and he feels a slight pain in one cheek. He tries to move, to rise, but the fall has dazed him and he sinks back again; he feels more and more faint and doesn’t rise.

Well, so be it, there was no getting out of it! Oh good Lord, then he would have to die after all! If he’d had the strength to find water somewhere, perhaps he would’ve been saved! Oh, what a bad end he would come to, regardless how sweet he’d once imagined it. He was going to die of poison under the open sky! But why wasn’t he stiff already? He could still move his fingers and raise his eyelids; strange how it dragged on and on!

He feels his face, it’s cold and bathed in sweat. Having fallen forward, with his head turned downhill, he just lies there, making no fuss about it. Every limb of his body is still quivering; he has a cut on one cheek and calmly lets it bleed. How it dragged on and on! He lies there patiently, waiting. Again he hears the church bell strike the hour, it strikes three. He starts: could he have had the poison in him for a whole hour without being dead? He raises himself on his elbow and looks at his watch; yes, it was three o’clock. What a long time it was taking!

Well, if he must, maybe he had better die now, despite everything! And suddenly, as he came to think of Dagny, how he would sing for her every Sunday morning and do her many kindnesses, he felt resigned to his fate and got tears in his eyes. Mawkishly, to the accompaniment of prayers and silent tears, he began to focus his thoughts on all the things he would do for Dagny. Oh, how he would protect her, keeping all evil away from her! Perhaps he would be able to fly to her and be near her already tomorrow—good God, if only he could do it by tomorrow and have her wake up truly radiant! It was mean of him not to want to die a moment ago, when he could make her happy that way; in fact, he regretted it and asked her forgiveness. He couldn’t understand what he had been thinking of. But now she could depend on him, he yearned to come sailing into her room and stand before her bed. In a few hours, maybe within the hour, he would be there, oh yes, he would be there. And he would surely get an angel of the Lord to do it for him if he couldn’t do it himself; he would promise him lots of nice things in return. He would say: I’m not white, but you can do it, you’re white; in return you can do with me whatever you like. You’re staring at me because I’m black, aren’t you? Certainly I’m black, is that anything to stare at? And I’ll gladly promise to stay black for a long, long time yet if you’ll do me the favor I ask of you. I can stay black for an extra million years, and much blacker than I’m now, if you insist, and, if you like, we can add another million years for every Sunday you sing for her. Believe me, I’ll dream up any number of things to offer you in return, not sparing any trouble, if you’ll just listen to me! You won’t be flying alone, I’ll come with you, I’ll carry you and do the flying for both of us; I’ll do it with pleasure and without staining you, black as I am. I’ll take care of everything, all you have to do is rest. God knows, perhaps I might even have a present I could give you; maybe you would find some use for it. I’ll keep it in mind in case anybody should give me something; perhaps I might be lucky and earn lots of things for you, one never knows....

Sure, he hadn’t the least doubt that he would eventually persuade an angel of the Lord to do this for him....

Again the church bell strikes the hour. Half absent, he counts the four strokes and thinks no more of it. He had to be patient. Then he folded his hands and prayed to be allowed to die quickly, within the next few minutes; that way he might be able to reach Dagny before she awoke. If he did, he would offer thanks and praise to everything and everybody; it was a great favor, and he had only this one fervent wish....

He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

He slept for three hours. When he awoke the sun was shining down at him, and the whole forest was filled with a loud murmur of chirping birds. He sat up and looked about him; suddenly he remembered all he had done during the night. The bottle was still lying beside him, and he recalled how fervently he had prayed to God at the end, asking to be allowed to die real soon. And here he was, still alive! Once again some evil circumstance he’d not foreseen had crossed his path! Completely at sea, he thought it all through to no avail, being aware of only one thing: that thus far he was not dead!

He got up, took the bottle and walked a few steps. Why did he always come up against obstacles whenever he honestly tried to do something? What was wrong with the poison? It was genuine Prussic acid, a doctor had confirmed it was enough, more than enough; also, the parson’s dog had dropped stone dead after a mere taste of it. And it was the very same vial, it had been half full, that he remembered having seen with his own eyes before he emptied it. The vial had never been in anyone else’s hands either; he always carried it in his vest pocket. What were these insidious powers shadowing him everywhere?

Like a flash it hits him that the vial had been in strange hands, after all. Coming to a halt, he instinctively snaps his fingers. Hm, it was obvious: Miniman had had it in his possession for a whole night. He had given Miniman his vest at the bachelor party in the hotel; the vial, his watch, and some papers were left in the pockets. Early the following morning Miniman had returned the articles. Oh, that old foolish cripple, once again he had been there with his crafty goodness! How clever, what an artful trick!

Nagel clenched his teeth with indignation. What had he said that night in his room? Hadn’t he explicitly stated that he didn’t have the courage to use the poison on himself? And yet, that utterly rotten, hypocritical freak of a dwarf had been sitting on the chair next to him, secretly doubting his words! What a wretch, a real mole! He had gone straight home and emptied the vial, had perhaps even rinsed it thoroughly and then filled it half full with water. And after this noble deed he had gone to bed and slept soundly!

Nagel began walking toward town. Being fairly rested, he thought things over bitterly and clearly. The events of the night had humiliated him and made him seem ridiculous in his own eyes. To think that he had actually scented almonds in this water, felt his tongue shrivel up from it, and sensed death inside him because of it! And this mouthful of perfectly ordinary christening water from the well had made him rave and jump sky-high over stock and stone! Angry and blushing with shame, he stopped and let out a wild scream; but the next moment he looked about him, afraid someone might have heard him, and broke into a song to cover it up.

As he walked on, his mood was softened by the bright, warm morning and the unceasing birdsong in the air. A cart came driving toward him; the boy driver says hello, Nagel does likewise, and a trailing dog wags his tail and looks him straight in the eye.... But why hadn’t he managed to die last night, fairly and squarely? He still grieved over it. He had laid himself to rest feeling quite satisfied to have reached the end; he was filled with a gentle happiness until he closed his eyes and fell asleep. By this time Dagny was up, maybe she had already gone out, and he hadn’t been able to do anything nice for her. He couldn’t have felt more ignominiously taken in! Miniman had added one more kindness to the many others his heart overflowed with, he had done him a favor and saved his life—the very same favor he himself had once done a stranger, an unfortunate who didn’t want to land in Hamburg. It was on that occasion he had earned his lifesaving medal, heh-heh, earned his lifesaving medal! Oh sure, you save people, you don’t hesitate to do a good deed sometimes, you go straight ahead and save people from death!

Feeling positively sheepish, he sneaked up to his room in the hotel and sat down. There everything was clean and cozy; the windows had been shined and newly ironed curtains hung. On the table was a bouquet of wildflowers in water. He had never seen any flowers there before, the surprise threw him into a state of happy wonderment and made him rub his hands. What a stroke of luck on such a morning! What a charming idea on the part of a poor chambermaid! A good person, that Sara! Yes, it really was a delightful morning. Even the faces down in the marketplace looked happy; the plasterer sat at his table quietly smoking his clay pipe, though he didn’t sell a pennyworth. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, after all, that those wild plans of his last night had come to nothing! He thought with horror of the fear he had experienced as he was rushing about in search of water; he still trembled at the thought of it, and sitting safely in his chair in this pleasant bright room with the sun shining in, he had at that moment a wonderful feeling of having been delivered from evil. But as a last resort, there was still a good, unerring expedient left which he hadn’t tried! You might not succeed the first time—you didn’t die, you stood up again; but there was, for example, a little reliable six-shooter you could get from any old arms dealer whenever it was needed. The account was not settled yet....

Sara knocked on the door. She had heard he had come in and wanted to let him know that breakfast was served. As she was about to leave, he called her back and asked if the flowers were from her.

Yes, they were from her, nothing worth mentioning.

Still he took her hand.

“Where have you been all night?” she asked, smiling. “You weren’t home at all, were you?”

“Look,” he said, “this thing with the flowers was really a charming gesture on your part; you also shined the windows and gave me fresh curtains last night. I cannot tell you how much pleasure you have given me by this, I wish you every happiness in return for it.” Suddenly he experiences one of those crazy moments in which he becomes sheer mood, nothing but unpredictable whims, and says, “Listen, I had a fur coat with me when I came to this hotel. God only knows what has become of it, but I definitely had a fur coat with me, and I’m going to give it to you. Oh yes, I’m doing it to show my gratitude, my mind is made up, the coat is yours.”

Sara burst into a loud, hearty laugh. What was she to do with a fur coat?

Well, he saw her point, but that was her business; all she had to do was to accept it, give him the pleasure of accepting it.... Her cheerful laughter made him laugh as well, and he began bantering with her: Heavens, what beautiful shoulders she had! But would she believe it, one day he’d seen a little more of her than she realized. Well, it happened in the dining room, she was standing on a table washing the ceiling when he saw her through the crack in the door; her skirt was tucked up, he saw a foot, part of a leg—in fact, he had seen a good dozen inches of lovely leg. Heh-heh-heh. But however that might be, before nightfall, in a few hours, he would present her with a bracelet; she could take his word for it. Besides, she mustn’t forget that the fur coat was hers....

The crazy man, had he gone completely out of his mind? Sara laughed, but she was getting half frightened by his many strange ideas. The day before yesterday he had given a woman much more money than she had coming to her when she brought him his laundry; today he wanted to give away his fur coat. They were also saying all sorts of things about him in town.

XX

SURE, HE WAS CRAZY, completely crazy. He had to be, for Sara offered him coffee, milk, tea, offered him beer, offered him everything she could think of, and yet he got up from the breakfast table soon after he had sat down, leaving the food untouched. He had suddenly remembered that Martha used to bring her eggs to the market just at this time; maybe she had returned by now. What a wonderful stroke of luck it would be if he could see her again, today of all days! He goes back to his room and positions himself by the window.

All of Market Square is before him, but he sees no Martha. He waits half an hour, an hour, keeping a sharp lookout for every corner, but to no avail. At length he concentrates his attention on a scene by the steps of the post office which has attracted many interested spectators: surrounded by a circle of people, in the middle of the sanded street, he sees Miniman jumping up and down, dancing. He has no coat on and has also taken off his shoes; he dances away and keeps wiping the sweat off his face, and when he stops he collects his pennies from the spectators. Sure enough, Miniman had resumed his old activity, he had started dancing again.

Nagel waits until he stops and people have dispersed before sending for him. And Miniman appears, respectful as ever, with bowed head and downcast eyes.

“I have a letter for you,” Nagel says. He gives him the letter, pushing it deep into his coat pocket, and starts talking to him. “You’ve put me in a very awkward position, my friend; you’ve fooled me, led me by the nose with a cunning I can’t help admiring, even though it has caused me great chagrin. Do you have a few moments? You’ll recall that I once promised you an explanation of something. All right, I’ll give you that explanation, I find that the moment has come. By the way, may I first ask you: have you heard that people in town are talking about me, saying I’m mad? Let me reassure you: I’m not mad, as you can see for yourself. Right? I admit I’ve been a bit confused lately, quite a few things have happened to me and not all of them pleasant; fate would have it that way. But now I’m quite well again, there’s nothing wrong with me. I ask you to bear this in mind.... I suppose it’s no use offering you anything to drink?”

No, Miniman didn’t want anything.

“Well, I knew that.... To come to the point, I’m full of mistrust toward you, Grøgaard. Maybe you understand what I’m referring to. You’ve cheated me so atrociously that I’ll no longer try to put the best face on it. You’ve simply hoodwinked me in a very important matter, out of pure altruism on your part, out of the kindness of your heart, if you will, but still you’ve done it. You once had this little bottle in your hands, right?”

Miniman squints up at the bottle but doesn’t answer.

“There was poison in it; it’s been emptied and filled half full with water. Last night there was only water in it.”

Miniman still says nothing.

“Well, actually, no evil deed has been committed. In fact, the perpetrator did it with a pure heart, to forestall evil. But it was you who did it.”

Pause.

“You did it, right?”

“Yes,” Miniman answers at last.

“Yes. And seen with your eyes it was the right thing to do, but seen with mine it appears quite different. Why did you do it?”

“I thought you might perhaps want to—”

Pause.

“Ah, there you see! But you were mistaken, Grøgaard, your kind heart led you astray. Didn’t I say expressly that night when you walked off with the poison that I would never have the courage to take it myself?”

“But I still feared you might do it. And now you have done it.”

“I have? What are you saying? Heh-heh, you’ve fooled yourself, my good man. It’s quite true I emptied the bottle last night, but take note: I didn’t taste a drop of its contents.”

Miniman looks at him in surprise.

“There you see, you’re laughing on the wrong side of your mouth! One takes a walk in the course of the night, one gets down to the quayside, runs across a cat writhing in the most terrible agony as it drags itself along the whole length of the pier. One stops and takes a good look at it; there’s something stuck in its throat, it’s a fish hook, and it coughs and squirms and can get it neither up nor down; but blood is streaming from its mouth. All right, one grabs the cat and tries to do something about that fish hook, but because of the pain the cat can’t keep still, rolls over on its back, makes a furious upward jab with its claws and gashes one’s cheek in a trice, much as, say, you can see my cheek has been gashed. But now the cat is on the verge of choking, and its throat is still bleeding. What should one do about it? While one ponders this, the church bell strikes two, so it’s too late to get any outside help; it’s two o’clock in the morning. Then one suddenly remembers the wonderful vial of poison in one’s vest pocket; wanting to put the animal out of its misery, one empties the vial into its throat. The animal suspects it’s swallowing something terribly dangerous, clinches up and, staring around with perplexed eyes, jumps sky-high—it breaks away and jumps sky-high, then continues to wriggle its way along the pier. How could that be? Well, you see, there was only water in the vial, it couldn’t kill, it could only add to its misery. The cat still has the hook in its throat and is bleeding and gasping for breath. Sooner or later it will bleed to death, or it will choke in some corner, mutely and horribly, alone.”

“It was done with the best intentions,” Miniman says.

“Of course! Everything you do is sincere and well-intentioned. One simply cannot catch you deviating from that, and in a way your noble, honorable trickery with my poison is nothing new for you. Take, for instance, your dancing in Market Square a moment ago. I was standing here by the window watching you. I’m not going to reproach you for it, I just want to ask you something: why had you taken off your shoes? You are wearing shoes now, after all, so why had you taken them off when you danced?”

“So I wouldn’t wear them out.”

“Just what I expected! I knew that would be your answer, that’s why I asked you. You are a walking image of immaculate purity, the most irreproachable soul in town. Everything about you is kind and unselfish, you’re without blemish or flaws. I tried to test you once, offering to pay you to assume the paternity of a strange child. Although you were poor and might need the money very badly, you promptly turned down the offer. Your soul revolted at the mere thought of such a shady deal, and I could get nowhere with you, though I offered you two hundred kroner. Had I known what I know now, I wouldn’t have insulted you so grossly. I didn’t yet have a clear impression of you, whereas now I know that vis-à-vis you one must at once spur one’s steed and rein him in. Well, that’s all right! But let’s go on with what we were talking about.... The fact that you take your shoes off and dance barefoot, without calling attention to yourself, without heeding the pain or complaining, just shows one of your character traits. You don’t whine, you don’t say, for instance: Look, I’m taking my shoes off so I won’t wear them out, I just have to, I’m so poor! No, you work, if I may say so, in silence. It’s a consistent principle of yours never to beg anything from anybody; you get all you want anyway, without opening your mouth. You are absolutely irreproachable, vis-à-vis other people as well as yourself, in your own consciousness. I place on record this character trait of yours and move on; you mustn’t be impatient, I’ll get to the explanation eventually.... You once said something about Miss Gude which I’ve often pondered; you said that she might not be quite so unapproachable at that, if one went about it in a nice way; at any rate, you had gotten quite far with her—”

“Oh but—”

“You see, I remember. It was the evening when the two of us were sitting here drinking together; that is, I was doing the drinking and you were looking on. You said that Martha—yes, you called her simply Martha, and you also said that she always called you Johannes, I’m telling the truth. She does call you Johannes, isn’t that so? I definitely remember your telling me that! All right. But you also said that Martha had gone so far as to allow you all kinds of liberties with her, and what’s more, you made a most disgusting gesture with your finger as you said it—”

Miniman jumps up, red in the face, and interrupts in a loud voice, “That I never said! I never said that!”

“You didn’t? What? You really didn’t say it? What if I called Sara and asked her to testify that she was in the next room during our conversation and heard every word through these thin walls? Well, I never! But anyway, your denial has knocked the bottom out of it. I would’ve liked to pump you a little more about this, it interests me, and I’ve often thought about it; but since you deny having said it, well. By the way, please sit down again, don’t leave head over heels as you did last time. Besides, the door is locked, I’ve locked it.”

Nagel lights a cigar, and as he lights it he suddenly checks himself.

“Oh, but dear me!” he says, “good heavens, what a mistake I’m making! Mr. Grøgaard, please forgive me; you’re right, you didn’t say that! Forget it, my friend, it was someone else who said it, not you, I remember it now; I heard it a couple of weeks ago. How could I think for a moment that you would compromise a lady—and above all compromise yourself—in such a way! I don’t understand how it could have occurred to me, I must be pretty mad, after all.... But look: I acknowledge it when I’ve made a mistake and apologize at once, so I can’t be mad, can I? And if, for all that, my talk is a bit disorganized, a bit wild, you mustn’t think it’s done on purpose; I’m not trying to turn your head with talk, you mustn’t think that. In any case, since you scarcely utter a word, that would be pretty impossible. No, the fact of the matter is I talk in this odd, unpremeditated way because that’s how I feel at the moment, no other reason. Pardon this digression. You’re getting impatient, anxious to hear that explanation, aren’t you?”

Miniman remains silent. Nagel rises and begins to walk nervously back and forth between the window and the door. Suddenly he stops and says, sick and tired of it all, “I really can’t be bothered to play games with you any longer, I’ll tell you my honest opinion! Sure enough, I have been talking confusingly to you, and until this moment I’ve been doing so on purpose, to get something out of you. I’ve been feeling my way, using every possible tack, but it’s all no use and I’m getting tired of it. All right, I’ll give you that explanation, Grøgaard! I believe in my heart that you are a secret scoundrel. A secret scoundrel.”

When Miniman begins to shake, his eyes casting anxious and perplexed looks in every direction, Nagel continues, “You don’t say a word, you don’t give yourself away. I can’t make you budge, you are a mute power of a rather rare sort, I admire you and take a great interest in you. Do you remember the time I talked to you for a whole evening and, among other things, stared hard at you and thought you gave a start? I did it to feel my way. I’ve kept an eye on you and tried all sorts of ways, almost always without success, I admit, because you are irreproachable. But I haven’t doubted for a moment that you were a quiet, sanctimonious secret sinner of some kind. I have no evidence against you, I’m afraid that is lacking, so you can feel quite safe, it will all be between the two of us. But since I have no evidence, how can I be so confident that I’m right, can you understand that? No, that you cannot grasp. And yet you have a way of ducking your head when we talk about certain things; you show a pair of eyes with this or that expression, eyes that blink at the very moment you utter such and such words or when we approach such and such questions. Besides, you have a voice with a sort of whistling sound, oh, what a voice! Ultimately, your person affects me with repugnance; I feel it in the air when you approach, my soul immediately winces with aversion. You can’t understand that, can you? Nor can I, but that’s the way it is. Even at this moment I feel convinced that I am on the right track, God knows I do, but I cannot catch you for lack of evidence. The last time you were here I asked you where you were on June 6—would you like to know why I asked you about that? All right, June 6 was the day Karlsen died, and until then I believed that you had murdered Karlsen.”

Thunderstruck, Miniman repeats, “That I had murdered Karlsen!” and falls silent.

“Yes, I had believed that all along until then. I suspected you’d done it—that’s how far my feeling that you were some kind of crook had driven me. I no longer believe that, I admit I was mistaken; I went too far, and I ask your forgiveness. Whether you believe me or not, I feel very sorry to have done you this great wrong, I’ve begged your pardon for it many an evening when I was alone. But though I was mistaken on this point, I’m still confident that you are an unclean, unctuous soul; I’ll be damned, but you are! I can feel it in my heart of hearts as I stand here looking at you, and strike me dead, you are! Why do I feel so certain? Note that, from the beginning, I had no reason to entertain anything but the best opinion of you, and all you’ve done and said subsequently has also been right and proper, even noble. Besides, I had an unusually beautiful dream about you—that you were in the middle of an open marsh, suffering terribly from my importunities, but that you kept thanking me all the same, throwing yourself on the ground and thanking me for my not tormenting you even more, for not doing you even more harm. That’s what I dreamed about you, and it was very beautiful. And there isn’t a soul in this town who thinks you capable of wrongdoing; you receive the best character reference from everybody, you have everybody’s sympathy—that shows how secretive you’ve been in your life. And yet, in my heart, I see you as a cowardly, groveling angel of the Lord, with a kind word about everybody and a good deed every day. But haven’t you slandered me, done me harm, given away my secrets? No, no, you haven’t; that’s just part of your insinuating ways—you do right by everyone, you never do wrong, you are pious and irreproachable and ever free from sin in people’s eyes. And to the world that’s enough, but to me it’s not; I still suspect you. The first time I saw you a curious thing happened to me. It was a few days after my arrival in town, at two o’clock in the morning. I saw you outside Martha Gude’s house down by the quayside. All of a sudden you were standing in the middle of the street, I hadn’t seen where you came from; you waited to let me pass, and as I went by you stole a sidelong glance at me. I hadn’t yet spoken to you, but a voice inside me drew attention to you, and the voice said your name was Johannes. If it’s the last word I’ll ever utter, my heart sang out that your name was Johannes and that I should take note of you. Only much later did I learn that it really was your name. I’ve been aware of you from that night on, but you have always evaded me, I haven’t been able to drive you into a corner. Finally you even go and adulterate a mouthful of poison for me, simply because of a kind and noble fear that I might possibly want to drink it. How can I explain to you how I feel about all this? Your purity brutalizes me, all your beautiful words and deeds only bring me further away from my goal: to knock you down. I shall rip off your mask and make you betray your true nature; my blood bridles with repugnance every time I see your mendacious blue eyes, and I shrink from you because I feel you have the soul of a counterfeiter.[1] Even at this moment it appears to me you’re sitting there laughing inwardly, that despite your despairing, crushed expression you are still laughing a secret, filthy laugh over my inability to do you any harm for lack of evidence.”

Miniman still doesn’t utter a word. Nagel goes on, “You think, naturally, that I’m an uncouth bandit and boor to attack you with these accusations straight to your face. That’s all right, I can’t consider that, have whatever opinion of me you like. You know in your heart right now that I’ve hit you off, and that’s enough for me. But how can you tolerate my treating you like this? Why don’t you get up, spit in my face and go your way?”

Seemingly himself again, Miniman looked up and said, “But you locked the door!”

“We-e-ll,” Nagel replies, “you’re waking up! You really want me to believe you think the door is locked? The door is open, look here, now it’s wide open! I said it was locked to test you, I set a trap for you. The truth is you’ve known all along that the door was open, but you pretended not to know it so you could sit here pure and innocent, as always, and let yourself be ill-used by me. You didn’t leave the room, no, you didn’t budge. As soon as I gave you to understand that I suspected you of something, you pricked up your ears, wanting to hear how much I knew, how much of a danger I might be to you. By Jove, I’m convinced that’s the way it is, deny it as much as you like, it’s all the same to me.... But why am I having it out with you right now? You have good reason to ask me that, the whole thing might seem none of my business. My friend, it is my business. First of all, I would like to give you a warning. Believe me, at this moment I honestly mean what I’m saying. You’re leading some sort of hidden life, the life of a scoundrel, and that can work only for a certain time. One fine day you’ll be laid low before all the world, and whoever wants to may trample on you. That’s one thing. Secondly, I have a hunch that, despite all your denials, you are closer to Miss Gude than you want to let on. Well, what concern is Miss Gude to me? Again you’re right. Faced with a question like that I can only be silent, Miss Gude couldn’t concern me less. But in a general sense I may be permitted to feel distressed if you should associate with her and possibly infect her with your sanctimonious depravity.[2] That’s why I’ve had it out with you.”

Having lighted his cigar afresh, Nagel says, “And now I’ve finished, and the door is not locked. So, have you been ill-used? You may answer or not, as you please, but let your inner voice speak for you if you do answer. My dear friend, let me also tell you before you leave: I wish you no harm.”

Pause.

Miniman rises, puts his hand in his coat pocket and pulls out the letter. “I can’t accept this now,” he says.

Having forgotten about the letter, Nagel was caught unawares. “You won’t accept it?” he said. “Why not?”

“I can’t accept it.”

Miniman puts the letter on the table and walks to the door. Nagel follows after him with the letter in his hand, his eyes watering and his voice trembling all of a sudden.

“Take it, Grøgaard, just the same!” he said.

“No!” Miniman replies. And he opens the door.

Nagel pushes the door back and says again, “Take it, take it! I’d rather you think me mad and forget about everything I’ve said today. I am quite mad, you mustn’t mind the ravings and the poppycock I’ve inflicted on you for the past hour. You surely realize I can’t be taken seriously if I’m not in my right mind, don’t you? Do take the letter, I wish you no harm, even though I’m quite beside myself. For heaven’s sake, take it, there isn’t very much inside, believe me, it’s very little, but I did want to give you a letter eventually; it’s been on my mind all along, that I was going to give you a letter with practically nothing inside, as long as it was a letter. It’s only a greeting. There, I’m sincerely grateful to you.”

With that he stuck the letter into Miniman’s hand and ran over to the window to avoid taking it back. But Miniman didn’t give in; he put the letter on the table and shook his head.

Then he left.

XXI

OH, EVERYTHING TURNED OUT so badly. Whether he stayed indoors or wandered about the streets, he couldn’t calm down; he had a thousand things on his mind and each caused him its own dull pain. Why was everything going wrong for him? He couldn’t figure it out; he was getting more and more caught up in a tightening web. Things had reached a point where he hadn’t even been able to persuade Miniman to accept a letter he’d wanted to give him.

Everything was gloomy and hopeless. Moreover, he began to be racked with nervous anxiety about something, as if a secret danger were lying in ambush for him somewhere. He would often start up in a vague terror merely from hearing the fluttering of the window curtains. What were these fresh torments that were cropping up? His rather hard features, which had never been handsome, had now become even less attractive due to the dark stubble on his chin and cheeks. It also seemed to him that his hair had grayed some more at the temples.

Well, so what? Wasn’t the sun shining and wasn’t he glad to be still alive and free to go wherever he liked? Was any felicity off limits for him? The sun lay upon the square and the sea, and the birds were singing in the lovely little gardens in front of every home, darting continually from branch to branch. Everything was awash with a golden glow; the gravel in the streets was bathed in it, and the silver ball on top of the church spire trembled against the sky like a huge diamond.

He feels a wild joy, a rapture so strong and uncontrollable that on the spur of the moment he leans out of the window and drops some silver coins to a couple of children who are playing on the hotel steps.

“Now be good, children!” he says, barely able to utter the words for emotion. What did he have to be anxious about? His looks were no worse than usual; besides, who could prevent him from shaving and sprucing himself up? That was up to him. And he went to the barber’s.

He also remembers some purchases he should have made; and he mustn’t forget the bracelet he had promised Sara. Humming jubilantly, he runs his errands in a mood of carefree contentment with the world, like a child. The idea that he had anything to fear was a mere fancy.

His good mood persists and he is lost in cheerful thoughts. The harsh showdown he had had with Miniman recently was already half erased from his memory; it seemed like something from a dream. Miniman had refused to accept his letter. But hadn’t he also a letter for Martha? In his desire to share his exuberant joy with others, he now decided to find a way of getting the letter sent. How should he go about it? He checked his wallet and found the letter. He didn’t dare send it secretly to Dagny, did he? No, he didn’t dare send it to Dagny. After a moment’s thought, he was determined to get the letter off at once; it contained a couple of bank notes, no message, not a word. Maybe he could ask Dr. Stenersen to take care of it? And happy at this thought, he goes to see Dr. Stenersen.

It was six o’clock.

He knocks on the door to the doctor’s office; it was locked. Deciding to inquire in the kitchen, he tries the back entrance; at that moment Mrs. Stenersen calls to him from the garden.

There the family sits drinking coffee at a large stone table. Several people were present, a few ladies, a few gentlemen; Dagny Kielland was also there, in a pure-white hat trimmed all around with little bright flowers.

Trying to get away, Nagel stammers, “The doctor,” it was the doctor—

Good heavens, was he ill?

No, no, he wasn’t ill.

Well, then he mustn’t go away.

Mrs. Stenersen pulled him by the arm. Dagny even got up and offered him her chair. He looked at her, their eyes met. She had even got up for him, saying in a low voice, “Please, take this chair!”

But he found a place next to the doctor and sat down.

This reception made him feel rather dazed. Not only did Dagny have a soft look in her eyes, she had actually offered him her chair. His heart went pitapat; perhaps he could give her Martha’s letter regardless.

After a short while his composure returned. The conversation was refreshingly lively, moving from one topic to another; once again his keen joy took possession of him, making his voice tremble. He was alive, after all, not dead, nor was he going to die. Sitting in this green leafy garden, at a table with a white tablecloth and bright silverware, in the company of happy, laughing, bright-eyed people, what reason did he have to feel uneasy?

“To oblige us, why don’t you get your violin and play a little for us?” Mrs. Stenersen says.

How did she ever get that idea!

When the others also asked him to, he laughed aloud and said, “I don’t even have a violin!”

But they would send for the violin of the organist, it would be there in a minute.

It was no use, he wouldn’t touch it. Moreover, the organist’s violin had been ruined by those tiny inlaid rubies on the fingerboard, which made it sound glassy; they should never have been put there, it was unbearable. Besides, he couldn’t wield the bow anymore—well, for that matter, he had never been able to; who would know that better than himself? ... And now he related what had happened to him the first and only time his playing had received public mention; it almost seemed symbolic. He’d got the paper in the evening and feasted on it in bed; he was very young at the time and living at home, and it was a local paper that had reviewed him. Oh, how happy that paper had made him! He read the review several times and fell asleep without snuffing out the candles. When he awoke during the night he was still dead tired; the candles had burned out and it was dark in the room. But he glimpsed something white on the floor, and since he knew there was a white spittoon in his room, he thought: That must be the spittoon, I imagine! He was ashamed to say it, but he gave a spit, and he heard that it hit the target. And since his aim was so excellent the first time, he spat again and made another hit. Then he went back to sleep. But in the morning he saw that,what he’d spat on was that precious newspaper, that it was the very favorable public opinion of him he’d spat on. Heh-heh, it was quite tragic!

They all laughed at this, and their spirits were rising by the minute. Mrs. Stenersen, however, said, “You do look a little paler than usual.”

“Ah,” Nagel replied, “that doesn’t mean anything, there’s nothing wrong with me.” And he laughed aloud at the idea that there should be something the matter with him.

Suddenly his cheeks flush, he rises from his seat and says there is something wrong with him all the same. He couldn’t understand it, but it was as though something unexpected was going to happen to him, and he was rather anxious. Heh-heh, who would believe it! It was quite absurd and didn’t mean anything—or did it? Something had happened to him, though.

They asked him to tell them what it was.

No, why? It was without importance, it was foolish, so why should he take up their time with it? Besides, they might find it boring.

No, they wouldn’t find it boring at all.

But it was such a long story. It began as far away as San Francisco and dated from a time when he’d smoked opium—

“Opium ? Good God, how interesting!”

“No, Mrs. Stenersen, if anything it’s rather embarrassing, since I’m right now walking around in broad daylight feeling anxious about something. You mustn’t think that smoking opium is an everyday thing with me; I’ve smoked only twice, and the second time is of no interest. But the first time I really experienced something strange, that’s true. I’d gone down into a so-called den. How I got there? Quite by chance. Now and then I roam the streets watching people; I pick out an individual whom I follow at a distance to see where he finally ends up. I don’t shrink from going straight into a house and up the stairs to see where he ends up. At night in a big city this can be extremely interesting and lead to the most curious contacts. Well, we won’t talk about that. Anyway, there I am in San Francisco, roaming the streets. It’s night, I have a tall, thin woman ahead of me on whom I’m keeping an eye; in the light of the street lamps we pass I can see she’s very lightly clad, but she’s wearing a crucifix of green precious stones around her neck. Where was she going? She passes several blocks of houses, turns corners and walks and walks, with me constantly at her heels. At last we find ourselves in the Chinese quarter, the woman steps down into a basement and I follow her; she passes through a long corridor and I do the same. On our right hand is a brick wall, but on our left are cafés, barbershops and laundries. The woman stops at a door and knocks; a face with a pair of slanting eyes looks out through a little window in the door and the woman is admitted. I wait a few moments, standing stock-still, before I knock; the door opens again and I’m admitted.

“The room was filled with smoke and loud conversation. Over by the counter, the skinny woman is arguing with a Chinese in a blue shirt that laps over his trousers. Walking a bit closer, I hear she’s trying to pawn her crucifix but is reluctant to hand it over, she wants to hang on to it. It was a matter of two dollars, and she also owed them some money previously, so that it came to three dollars all in all. Well, she carries on, sheds an occasional tear and wrings her hands; I found her very interesting. The shirt-clad Chinese was also interesting, he wasn’t going to do business unless the crucifix was handed over: cash or a pawn!

“‘I’ll sit here and wait a moment,’ the woman says; ‘I know I’ll end up doing it, agreeing to it. But I shouldn’t do it!’ And she sobs right to the Chinese’s face and wrings her hands.

“‘What is it you shouldn’t do?’ I ask.

“But she can hear I’m a foreigner and doesn’t answer.

“She was unusually interesting and I decided to do something. I could lend her that money just to see how it would turn out. I did it purely out of curiosity, and afterward I slipped an extra dollar into her hand, to see what she would make of that, too. That should be most amusing.

“She stares at me and thanks me; she doesn’t say anything, but nods repeatedly and looks at me with tearful eyes, though I had done it only out of curiosity. All right, she pays at the counter and asks for a room at once. She had handed over all her money.

“She goes off and I follow her. We again stroll through a long corridor; there are numbered rooms on both sides, and the woman slips into one of these rooms and slams the door. I wait a while, but she doesn’t come back; I try the door, it’s locked.

“Then I step into the next room and begin to wait. It has a red divan and an electric bell; the room is illuminated by a lamp wedged into the wall. I lie down on the divan, time hangs heavy and I’m bored. Just to do something, I press the button and ring the bell. I don’t want anything, but ring anyway.

“A Chinese boy appears, looks at me and disappears again. A few moments go by. Come, let me have another look at you! I say, to pass the time; why don’t you come back? And I ring again.

“The boy comes back, soundlessly, as if he were a ghost, gliding in his felt shoes. He doesn’t say anything, nor do I; but he hands me a tiny little porcelain pipe with a long, thin stem, and I accept it. Then he puts a live coal to it and I smoke. I hadn’t asked for the pipe, but I’m smoking. Soon my ears start buzzing....

“Now I can’t recall anything until I feel I’m somewhere high up, that I’m ascending, soaring. The light around me was too bright for words, and the clouds I passed were white. Who was I, and where was I flying? Trying to jog my memory, I couldn’t remember anything, but I was wonderfully high up, gliding along. I saw green meadows far away, blue lakes, valleys and mountains in a golden light; I heard music from the stars, and the space around me swayed up and down with the melodies. The white clouds gave me immense pleasure; floating right through me, they made me feel as though I would die with delight. This went on and on, I knew nothing of time, and I had forgotten who I was. Then an earthly recollection flickers through my heart, and all of a sudden I begin to fall through the air.

“I fall and fall, the light diminishes, it gets darker and darker around me; I can see the earth below and I recognize where I am—there are cities, wind and smoke. Then I stop. Looking around, I see ocean everywhere. My happy feeling is gone, I bump against the rocks and feel cold. There is a white sandy bottom under my feet, and above me I see nothing but water. I swim a few strokes and pass many strange plants, thick green foliage plants, marine flowers swaying back and forth on their stems-a a mute world where not a sound is heard but where everything lives and moves. Another few strokes take me to a coral reef. There were no corals anymore, the reef had been plundered, but I said to myself: Someone has been here before me! And I no longer felt so lonely, since someone had been there before. I start swimming again, hoping to hit land, but this time I take only a stroke or two before I stop. I stop because someone is lying on the bottom in front of me; it’s a woman, tall and thin, and she lies on a rock, badly cut up. As I touch her, I realize that I know her, but she’s dead, and I don’t understand how she can be, since I recognize her by the crucifix with the green stones. It’s the same woman I had recently followed through those long corridors with the numbered rooms. I want to swim on, but pause to straighten her out; she lies spread-eagled over a big rock, and it makes an uncanny impression on me. Her eyes are wide open, but I pull her to a white spot; I can see the crucifix around her neck and slip it under her dress so that the fishes won’t get at it. Then I swim away....

“The next morning I was told that the woman had died during the night. She had jumped into the sea outside the Chinese quarter ; they found her in the morning. However strange it might seem, she was dead. Perhaps I could meet her again if I tried! I thought. And I smoked opium a second time so I would meet her, but I didn’t meet her.

“How mysterious it all was! Something happened later on, too. I had come back to Europe, I was home. One warm night when I was wandering about, I came down to the harbor, to the pumping works, where I remained for a while listening to the talk aboard the ships. It was very quiet all around, the pumps weren’t running. Finally I grew tired, but I didn’t want to go home because it was so hot. I climbed the housing of one of the pumps and sat down. But the night was so still and warm, I couldn’t keep awake; soon I was fast asleep.

“I’m awakened by a voice calling me; looking down, I see a woman standing on the rocks. She’s tall and skinny; when the gas lamp flares up I can see that she’s very lightly clad.

“I say good evening.

“‘It’s raining,’ she says.

“‘Well, I don’t know whether it’s raining or not, but if it does one had better seek cover.’ And I scramble down from the pump housing. That very moment the pumps start rattling, a paddle turns in the air and disappears, another paddle turns in the air and disappears, the pumps are running. If I hadn’t gotten away in the nick of time, I would’ve been cut to pieces, completely crushed. That I understood right away.

“I look around me, and sure enough, a small rain begins to fall. The woman is walking away, I can see her in front of me; I knew her very well, she was still wearing the crucifix. I had recognized her from the beginning, but pretended I didn’t know her. Wanting to catch up with her, I walked for all I was worth; but I didn’t catch up with her. She didn’t use her feet, she glided along without stirring, turned a corner and disappeared.

“That was four years ago.”

Nagel pauses. The doctor seems almost inclined to laugh, but he still says, as seriously as he can, “And since then you haven’t met her?”

“Oh yes, I saw her again today. That’s why I have a feeling of dread off and on. I was standing by the window of my room looking out, and there she was, coming straight toward me across the square, as though from the docks and the sea; she stopped beneath my windows and looked up. I wasn’t quite sure it was me she was looking at, so I moved over to the other window ; but she turned her eyes and looked at me there, too. I waved a greeting to her, but on seeing that she quickly turned and floated back across the square to the docks again. Jakobsen, the puppy, raised her hackles and streaked out of the hotel, barking furiously. That somehow got to me. I had almost forgotten her after all that time, and here she turns up again. Maybe she wanted to warn me about something.”

Then the doctor burst out laughing.

“Sure,” he said, “she wanted to warn you against coming to see us.”

“Well, this time she’s mistaken, of course, there’s nothing to be afraid of. But the last time there were those paddles, I would’ve been torn to pieces. So I’ve become a bit uneasy. Well, it doesn’t mean anything, does it? Heh-heh, what a pretty pass it would be to come to grief in that way. I have to laugh at the whole thing.”

“Just nerves and superstition!” the doctor said shortly.

But now the others began telling stories of their own, and the clock struck one hour after the other; it was getting on toward evening. Meanwhile Nagel remained silent; he was beginning to feel chilly. Finally he got up to go. He probably shouldn’t bother Dagny with that letter, he’d better not; perhaps he could see the doctor tomorrow and hand it to him then. His happy mood was completely gone.

To his great surprise Dagny also stood up as he was about to leave. She said, “You’re all telling such creepy stories that I’m scared stiff, too. I have to find my way home before it gets any darker.”

They left the garden together. Nagel became warm with joy: now he could give her the letter! He would never have a better opportunity.

“Did you want to talk to me about something?” the doctor called after him.

“No, not really,” he replied, slightly confused. “I just wanted to say hello and ... It’s been such a long time since we met. Goodbye!”

As they walked down the street they were both ill at ease, Dagny as well as he. All she could think to talk about was the weather. How mild it was this evening!

“Yes, windless and mild!”

He couldn’t find anything to say either, he simply kept looking at her. She had the same velvet eyes and the same blond braid down her back; all the feelings in his heart revived, her closeness intoxicated him and he passed his hand over his eyes. She grew lovelier and lovelier every time he saw her, every time! He forgot everything-forgot her disdain, her hiding Martha from him, and her tempting him so mercilessly with the handkerchief. He had to turn away to ward off another passionate outburst. No, he must hold up his head, he’d driven her to extremes twice before ; he was a man, after all! And he fairly held his breath, making himself hard.

They had reached Main Street; the hotel was on the right. She looked as if she wanted to say something. He tacitly went along with her. Perhaps he could walk her through the forest? Suddenly she looked at him and said, “Thanks for your story! Do you feel anxious now? You shouldn’t!”[1]

Yes, she was kind and gentle today; he would bring up the letter right away.

“I would like to ask you a favor,” he said. “But I hardly dare-I don’t suppose you would do me any favors now?”

“Oh yes, I would be glad to,” she replied.

She would be glad to, she said! He dipped his hand in his pocket to get the letter.

“I would like you to deliver this letter. It’s only a message, something I—. It’s of no importance, but—. It’s for Miss Gude. Maybe you know where Miss Gude is? She has gone away.”

Dagny stopped. A curiously veiled glance crept into those blue eyes of hers; for a moment she stood as if frozen.

“For Miss Gude?” she said.

“Yes. If you would be so kind? But maybe it could wait, there’s no hurry—”

“But certainly! ” she said of a sudden. “Just let me have it, you can trust me; Miss Gude will get your letter.” After pocketing the letter, she nodded abruptly and said, “Well, thanks for a pleasant evening. I have to go now.”

With that she gave him another look and walked away.

He was left standing there. Why had she broken off so quickly? She hadn’t looked angry as she left; on the contrary. And yet she had left so abruptly! There she turned onto Parsonage Road—now she was gone....

When he could see her no longer, he went back to the hotel. She had been wearing a snow-white hat. And she had given him such a strange look....

XXII

WHAT A VEILED GLANCE she had given him! He couldn’t figure it out. But if he had crossed her again, he would make it up to her the next time they met. How heavy his head was feeling! But there was nothing at all to be anxious about, that much was certain, thank God!

He sat down on the sofa and began turning the pages of a book, but he didn’t read. He got up and walked nervously over to the window. Without admitting it to himself, he hardly dared look out on the street for fear his eyes might possibly meet another unusual sight. His knees began to quake; what was the matter with him? He moved back to the sofa and let the book fall on the floor. His head was throbbing, he felt downright sick. He was probably running a temperature; those two successive nights he had lain out in the woods were getting to him at last, penetrating him from top to toe. He had begun to feel shivery already while sitting in the doctor’s garden.

Well, it would no doubt pass! He wasn’t in the habit of giving up because of a slight cold; tomorrow he would be all right again! He rang for some cognac, but it had no effect on him; it didn’t even make him tipsy, though he drank several large glasses. The worst thing was that his head began to fail him, he couldn’t think clearly.

How badly he had been shaken in the course of an hour! What now, why were the curtains flapping so noisily when there was no wind? Did it mean something? He got up and looked at himself in the mirror: he looked sick and distraught. His hair had turned grayer and his eyes were red-rimmed.... “Do you still feel anxious? You shouldn’t.” Lovely Dagny! Imagine, a pure-white hat....

There is a knock on the door and the hotel keeper steps in. He is bringing him his bill at last, a long, two-page bill. However, he smiles and is extremely polite.

Nagel at once gets his wallet and begins to look through it, meanwhile asking how much he owes, trembling with misgivings ; the hotel keeper tells him. For that matter, it could easily wait until tomorrow or some other day, there was no hurry.

Well, God knows if he would be able to pay, perhaps he wouldn’t. Nagel can’t find any money. What, he didn’t have any money? He tosses the wallet on the table and begins searching his pockets, at a complete loss what to do and looking desperately everywhere. Finally he even goes through his trouser pockets, pulls out some change and says, “Here’s some money, but I suspect it won’t be enough, no, it probably won’t; count it yourself.”

“No,” says the hotel keeper too, “it’s not enough.”

Nagel breaks out in a sweat. He wants to give the hotel keeper these few kroner for the present; he even goes through his vest pockets, in case he might have some more change there. There was none. But he could surely borrow some money, maybe someone would oblige him with a small loan? Who knows, if he asked someone, maybe he would be helped out!

The hotel keeper no longer looks pleased, even his politeness deserts him; he picks up Nagel’s wallet, still lying on the table, and begins going through it himself.

“Go right ahead!” Nagel says. “You can see for yourself, there are only some papers. I just don’t understand.”

The hotel keeper unclasps the middle compartment; he drops the wallet instantly, his face one big smile of surprise.

“There it is!” he says. “Thousands of kroner! So you were joking, you only wanted to see if I could take a joke?”

Nagel was happy as a child and accepted this explanation. Heaving a delicious sigh of relief, he says, “Yes, of course, I was only joking; I suddenly felt like pulling a fast one on you. Sure, I still have lots of money, thank God; look here, just take a look!”

There were, in fact, many big bills, lots of money in thousand-kroner bills; the hotel keeper had to go out and change them before he could get his part. But even long after he had left, beads of perspiration stood out on Nagel’s forehead, and he was shaking with emotion. How upset he had been, and what an empty buzz there was in his head!

After a while he dropped into an uneasy slumber on the sofa; tossing and turning in his dreams, he talked aloud, sang, and called for cognac, which he drank, half asleep and feverish. Sara was constantly looking in on him, but though he talked to her almost all the time, she understood very little of what he said. He lay with his eyes closed.

No, he didn’t want to undress, what was she thinking of? Wasn’t it the middle of the day? He could still clearly hear the birds chirping. She mustn’t fetch the doctor either. Why, the doctor would only give him some yellow ointment and some white ointment, and then they would mistake one for the other and use them the wrong way, killing him on the spot. Karlsen had died of it; she remembered Karlsen, didn’t she? Yes, he’d died of it. Karlsen had somehow gotten a fish hook in his throat, but when the doctor came with his medicines it turned out he’d choked on a glass of quite ordinary christening water from the well. Heh-heh-heh, though it was no laughing matter.... “Sara, you mustn’t think I’m drunk; you don‘t, do you? ‘Association of ideas,‘ do you hear that? ‘Encyclopedists,’ and so forth. Count on your buttons, Sara, and see if I’m drunk.... Listen, the mills are running, the town mills! My God, what a godforsaken hole you live in, Sara; I would like to deliver you out of the hands of your enemies, as it says in Holy Writ. Oh, go to hell, go to hell! Who are you, anyway? You are all fakes, and I’ll get the better of you, one and all. You don’t believe me? Oh, but I’ve been keeping an eye on you! I’m convinced that Lieutenant Hansen promised Miniman two woolen shirts, but do you think he got them! And do you think Miniman dared admit it? Let me disabuse you on that score: Miniman did not dare admit it, he wriggled out of it. Do you get me? If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Grøgaard, you’re again laughing your dirty laugh behind your newspaper, aren’t you? No? Well, no matter.... Are you still there, Sara? Good! If you’ll sit here another five minutes, I’ll tell you something; is it an agreement? But first try to imagine a man whose eyebrows are gradually falling out. Can you hold on to that? Whose eyebrows are falling out. Next, may I ask if you’ve ever slept in a bed that creaked? Count on your buttons to see if you have. I’m very suspicious of you. For that matter, everyone in town is under suspicion, I’ve been keeping an eye on them all. For that matter. And I’ve acquitted myself well, I’ve given you all a score of extremely rich topics of conversation every time and turned your lives into disarray; I’ve contributed one turbulent scene after another to your respectable appendix-like existence. Ho-ho, how the mills have been whirring! Whereupon, my highly respected maiden, Sara Tosspot Josefsdatter, I advise you to eat your broth while it’s hot, because if you wait until it’s cold, I swear to God there won’t be anything left but water.... More cognac, Sara, I have a headache, on both sides of my head and in the middle. It’s quite strange, the way it hurts....”

“Wouldn’t you like something warm?” Sara asks.

Something warm? What sort of ideas she was coming up with all the time! It would be all over town in a wink that he’d drunk something warm. Keep in mind that he had no intention of causing a scandal, he would behave like a good taxpayer, walk by the book along Parsonage Road, and never view things in a cussedly different way from other people; three fingers up on that.... She need have no fear. But he really hurt here and there, that’s why he didn’t get undressed, so it would wear off sooner. One should give measure for measure....

He was constantly getting worse, and Sara was on tenterhooks. She would have liked to cut and run, but whenever she got up he noticed right away and asked if she was abandoning him. She waited for him to fall fast asleep, after he had tired himself out by his jabbering. Oh, what nonsense he talked, always with his eyes closed and his face red-hot with fever. He had contrived a new method of delousing Mrs. Stenersen’s red currant bushes. It consisted of his going into a store one fine day and buying a can of kerosene, after which he would go to Market Square, take off his shoes and fill them with kerosene. Then he would set fire to both shoes, one after the other, and conclude by dancing around them in his stocking feet and singing a song. This must be done some morning when he was well again. He would crack his whip and make a regular circus of it, a real horse opera.

He also kept dreaming up ridiculous quaint names and titles for his acquaintances. Thus, he called Reinert, the deputy, “Bilge,” saying that Bilge was a title. “Mr. Reinert, esteemed Town Bilge,” he said. In the end he began to rave about how high the ceiling might be in Consul Andresen’s apartment. “Seven feet, seven feet!” he cried again and again. “Seven feet, by a rough estimate. Am I not right?” But seriously, he was really lying there with a fish hook in his throat, he wasn’t making it up, and he was bleeding, it hurt quite a bit....

Finally, toward evening, he fell soundly asleep.

He awoke again about ten. Alone, he was still lying on the sofa. The blanket that Sara had spread over him had fallen on the floor, but he didn’t feel cold. Sara had also closed the windows, and he opened them again. His head seemed to be clear, but he felt faint and was trembling. Once more he was falling prey to a dull terror-pierced to the quick whenever the walls creaked or a shout came from the street. If he went to bed and slept till tomorrow morning, maybe it would pass. He undressed.

However, he wasn’t able to fall asleep. He lay there thinking about all his adventures in the last twenty-four hours, from yesterday evening when he went out into the woods and emptied the vial of water, until this moment as he lay in his room, quite worn out and plagued by fever. How endlessly long this day and night had been! And his anxiety refused to leave him; this dull, lurking sensation that he found himself on the verge of some danger, a misfortune, wouldn’t let go of him. Whatever had he done? What a whispering there was around his bed! The room was filled with a hissing murmur. He folded his hands and thought he was falling asleep....

Suddenly, looking at his fingers, he notices that his ring is gone. His heart instantly begins to beat faster. He takes a closer look: a faint dark streak around his finger, but no ring! God in heaven, the ring was gone! Yes, he’d thrown it into the sea; since he was going to die, he didn’t think he would need it anymore, and so he threw it into the sea. But now it was gone, the ring was gone!

He jumps out of bed, gets into his clothes and staggers about the room like a madman. It was ten o’clock. By twelve the ring must have been found, he thought; the stroke of twelve was the last second, the ring, the ring ...

He rushes down the stairs, into the street and down toward the docks. He is seen by people at the hotel, but he doesn’t care. He’s getting dead tired again, his knees wobbly, but he doesn’t heed that either. Ah, now he knew the reason for the oppressive anxiety that had weighed upon him all day: the iron ring was gone! And the woman with the crucifix had appeared to him.

Quite beside himself with terror, he jumps into the first boat he comes across at the jetty. It’s made fast on shore and he can’t unfasten it. He calls to a man, asking him to untie the boat, but the man answers he doesn’t dare, it isn’t his boat.—But Nagel would answer for everything, the ring was at stake, he would buy the boat.—But couldn’t he see that the boat was padlocked? Didn’t he see the iron chain?—All right, he would take another boat.

And Nagel jumped into another boat.

“Where are you going?” the man asks.

“I’m going to look for my ring. Perhaps you know me, I used to wear a ring here, you can see the mark yourself, it’s the honest truth. And now I’ve thrown the ring away, it’s lying out there somewhere.”

The man doesn’t understand this sort of talk.

“Are you going to look for a ring at the bottom of the sea?” he says.

“Exactly!” Nagel replies. “I can hear you understand. Because I must have my ring, you know, you too realize that, don’t you? Come and row me out.”

The man asks again, “Are you going to look for a ring you have thrown into the sea?”

“Yes, yes, come on! Don’t worry, I’ll give you lots of money for it.”

“God bless you, forget about it! Are you going to fish it out with your fingers?”

“Yes, with my fingers. It’s no matter. I can swim like an eel if it should come to that. Maybe we could find something else to fish it out with.”

And the stranger actually gets into the boat. He begins to talk about the matter in hand, but keeps his face averted. It was sheer folly to try something like that. If it had been an anchor or a chain, it might have made some sense, but a ring! Especially since he didn’t even know exactly where it was!

Nagel himself was also beginning to realize how impossible his undertaking was. But his mind couldn’t accept it, because then he was doomed! His eyes were fixed in a stare, and he was shaking with fever and dread. He makes as though he means to jump overboard, but the man grabs him. Nagel collapses at once, faint, dead tired, much too weak to wrestle anyone. Heavenly father, this was going from bad to worse! The ring was lost, it would soon be twelve o’clock and the ring was lost. He had also received the warning.

At this moment a glimpse of lucid awareness flashed through him, and during those two or three short minutes he thought of an incredible number of things. He also recalled something he’d so far forgotten, that already yesterday evening he’d written a farewell note to his sister and sent it off. He wasn’t dead yet, but the letter was hurrying along, it couldn’t be stopped, it had to take its course and was well on its way by now. And when his sister received it, he simply had to be dead. Anyway, the ring was gone, from now on everything was impossible....

His teeth chattering, he looks around, at a complete loss what to do-the water is only a short jump away. He squints at the man on the thwart in front of him; the man still keeps his face averted but is watching carefully, ready to intervene if necessary. But why does he keep his face averted all the time?

“Let me help you ashore,” the man says. And he grabs him under the arms and gets him ashore.

“Good night!” Nagel says, turning his back on him.

But the man is distrustful and goes after him, watching his every movement on the sly. Furious, Nagel turns around and says good night once more, whereupon he tries to jump off the jetty.

Again the man lays hold of him.

“You won’t make it,” he says, close to Nagel’s ear. “You’re too good a swimmer. You’ll come to the surface again.”

Taken aback, Nagel considers a moment. Sure, he was too good a swimmer, he would probably come to the surface again and be saved. He looks at the man, staring him in the face; his eyes meet the most hideous face ever-it’s Miniman.

Miniman again, once again Miniman.

“Go to hell, you miserable, crawling snake!” Nagel screams, and starts running. He staggers up the road like a drunk, stumbles, falls and gets up again; everything is spinning before his eyes and he’s still running, running in the direction of the town. For the second time Miniman had frustrated his plans! In heaven’s name, what would he finally have to dream up? What swirling confusion before his eyes! What a soughing noise above the town! Again he fell.

Having gotten to his knees, he rocked his head painfully back and forth. Listen, there was a call from the sea! It would soon be twelve o’clock and the ring had not been found. Some creature was after him, he could hear the sound of it, a scaly beast with a slack belly dragging itself along the ground, leaving a wet trail, a horrible hieroglyph with arms jutting out from its head and a yellow claw on its nose. Away, away! There was another call from the sea and, screaming, he put his hands over his ears so as not to hear it.

Again he jumps up. All hope was not lost, he could procure the remedy of last resort, a safe six-shooter, the best thing in the world! And he cries for gratitude, running as best he can-he cries for gratitude because of this fresh hope. Suddenly he remembers it’s night, he can’t get hold of a six-shooter, all the stores are closed. At that moment he gives up, pitches forward and bumps his head against the ground without a sound.

Just then the hotel keeper and a few other people finally came out of the hotel to see what had become of him....

He woke up and stared about him-he had dreamed the whole thing. Yes, he had slept, despite everything. Thank God, it was all a dream; he hadn’t left his bed.

He lies for a moment thinking things over. He looks at his hand, but the ring is gone; he looks at his watch, it’s midnight, twelve o‘clock, only a few minutes short. Perhaps he could be let off, perhaps he was saved, after all! But his heart is hammering, and he is shaking. Perhaps-perhaps twelve o’clock might come without anything happening? He takes the watch in his hand and his hand is shaking; he counts the minutes—the seconds-

Then the watch falls on the floor and he jumps out of bed. “Someone is calling!” he whispers, looking out of the window, his eyes popping. He quickly puts on some clothes, opens the doors and runs out into the street. He looks about him, no one is watching. Then he starts racing toward the harbor, the white back of his vest shining all the while. He reaches the docks, follows the road to the outermost jetty and jumps straight into the sea.

A few bubbles rise to the surface.

XXIII

LATE ONE NIGHT in April this year, Dagny and Martha were walking through town together; they had been to a party and were on their way home. It was dark, and the streets were iced over here and there, so they walked quite slowly.

“I’ve been thinking of all the things that were said about Nagel this evening,” Dagny said. “Much of it was new to me.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Martha replied, “I went out.”

“But there was one thing they didn’t know,” Dagny continued. “Nagel told me last summer that Miniman would come to a bad end. I can’t figure out how he’d seen it already then. He said it long, long before you told me what Miniman had done to you.”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

They had turned onto Parsonage Road. The forest stood dark and still around them, the only sounds to be heard were their footfalls on the frozen road.

After a long silence Dagny said again, “This is where he always used to walk.”

“Who?” Martha replied. “It’s slippery, won’t you take my arm?”

“Sure; but I’d rather you take mine.”

And they walked on in silence, arm in arm, holding tightly on to each other.

EXPLANATORY NOTES

PAGE

3 Napoleon III (1808-73), French emperor 1852-70.

8 “May your steel be as sharp as your final no”: in the first edition of Mysteries, this quotation is attributed to Victor Hugo (see textual note 8, chapter 4). Guy Rosa, who submitted the alleged quotation to the Hugo Seminar of the University of Paris VII, which he chairs, reports that the closest approximation is in a speech by Thisbe to Rodolfo in Angelo, Tyrant of Padua, Day Three, Part Three, Scene 3. To Thisbe’s question whether he ever loved her, Rodolfo answers, “Never!” to which she replies: “Ah, that word kills me, you wretch! Your dagger has only to finish me off.” Theatre complet, II (Paris: Gallimard, 1964), 67.

19 The person here referred to is Pastor Hans Jacob Grøgaard (1764-1836), a member of the Eidsvoll Constitutional Assembly (1814) who sided with the so-called Union Party, those who favored union with Sweden.

23 Arne Garborg (1851-1924) was a distinguished Norwegian novelist and poet who wrote chiefly in New Norwegian. Bondestudentar (1883; Peasant Students) was his first novel. The play Uforsonlige (1888; Irreconcilables), an excoriating attack on the cowardice of politicians, showed Garborg’s disenchantment with the Left.

23 Ivan Turgenev (1818-83), Russian novelist and short-story writer whose “superfluous man” in such novels as Rudin (1855), A Nest of Gentlefolk (1859), and On the Eve (1860) anticipates some of Hamsun’s heroes-or antiheroes-of the 1890s.

28 William Gladstone (1809-98), British statesman, leader of the Liberal Party from 1868 to 1894. A great reformer, Gladstone was premier four times, the beginning of the last one (1892-94) coinciding with the year in which Mysteries was completed and published.

28 “The little boy walked ...” is the first line of a poem in the peasant tale Arne (1858) by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (1832-1910).

29 Gjevik is a town in Oppland County, situated on the shores of Mjøsa, Norway’s largest lake, sixty miles north of Oslo. The Vardal Woods extend ca. ten miles west of Glovik. Hamsun knew the area well, having done roadwork there in 1880-81.

29 For Jairus’s daughter, raised from the dead by Jesus, see Mark 5:22ff. The heroine of Bjornson’s controversial play En Handske (1883; A Gauntlet, 1886), Svava Riis-here called Svava Bjørnson—challenges the double standard of sexual morality. A charismatic political leader, formidable orator, and social reformer as well as poet, playwright, and novelist, Bjornson was greatly admired by Hamsun despite his didactic strain. By changing the character’s name to Svava Bjornson, Nagel seems to equate her moral idealism with that of her creator. The biographer Per Amdam uses the name Svava Bjørnson Riis for this character, ostensibly for the same reason. See Bjørnstjerne Bjornson (Oslo, 1979), p. 167.

32 Kabelvag is a fishing station situated on the south side of Austvigoy, the largest of the Lofoten Islands, Nordland County, in North Norway.

34 Victor Hugo (1802-85), poet, novelist, and dramatist, and a giant in the intellectual life of his country, was viewed by many as the greatest French poet. Guy Rosa reports that the name Baron Lesdain meant nothing to any member of the Hugo Seminar and that the anecdote appears quite unbelievable. Hugo, he feels convinced, would never have allotted second place to Musset among living French writers. Alfred de Musset (1810-57) was not only a romantic poet renowned for his love lyrics, but also a novelist and playwright. -Nagel’s report on Hugo’s action during the Franco-German War is misleading. Hugo’s appeal of September 9, 1870, was not addressed to “the inhabitants of the earth” but “To the Germans” (“Aux Allemands”). In it, he challenges the German troops to “storm Paris, a city full of trembling families, where there are women, sisters, mothers, and where at this hour I, who speak to you, have my two grandchildren, one of which is still nursing.” (Actes et paroles: 1870-1871-1872 [Paris, 1872], pp. 8-9.)

35 Kungsbacka and Goteborg are within a few miles of each other on the Swedish west coast. The former is a small town, the latter a major city.

36 The “great poet” here referred to is Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906), whose “Et vers” (A Verse), a four-line epigrammatic poem starting, “Life is a war with trolls” (Digte, 1871), Nagel recalls.

37 Thomas Kingo (1634-1703), bishop of Odense, Denmark, was a baroque poet and hymn writer. The hymnal he edited in 1699 contained a broad selection of his hymns. Magnus Brostrup Landstad (1802-80) was a Norwegian pastor, hymn writer, and collector of folklore. His new collection of hymns was authorized for use in religious services in 1869.

37 Høivåg (or Høvåg), a parish in Lillesand township, East Agder County, was previously a township. Lillesand, a small coastal town located ca. 15 miles northeast of Kristiansand, is believed to be the setting of Mysteries. Hamsun knew the town well from spending some summer and fall months there in 1890.

37 Caiaphas, the high priest, was in charge of the trial of Jesus (Mt. 26:57-68). Pontius Pilate, Roman procurator of Judea, “delivered Jesus ... to be crucified” (Mark 15:15).

37 The expression “universal spirits on horseback” no doubt derives from Georg F. W. Hegel (1770-1831), who used it to describe the world-historical individuals, specifically Napoleon. In a letter to F. I. Niethammer of October 13, 1806, the day before Napoleon’s victory at Jena, Hegel writes, “I saw the Emperor—this world soul—riding through the city to a review of his troops.” According to Walter Kaufmann, the statement has often been misquoted to imply “Hegel ... said that he had met the Weltgeist zu Pferde”—literally, “the world spirit on horseback” (Hegel: A Reinterpretation [Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1978], pp. 318-19). In this translation the word verdensdnd (Weltgeist, Weltseele) has been translated as “universal spirit.”

38 The inclusion of the emperor of Brazil in the “worthless majority” may be due to the fact that the last emperor, Pedro II (b. 1825), had been deposed in 1889 and died in 1891, at the time when Hamsun was writing Mysteries.

38 The view of Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) expressed by Nagel is strongly influenced by the Russian writer’s development after 1876, when he underwent a spiritual crisis. Turning religious thinker and moral teacher, Tolstoy preached Christian love, nonviolence, and renunciation of wealth. He devoted much time to pedagogy, writing textbooks intended for the peasants in an attempt to combat illiteracy. His works from the mid-1880s are permeated with moral didacticism.

38 Hamsun shows an awareness, both in Hunger and Mysteries, of the philosophy of Immanuel Kant (1724-1804), epochal German philosopher who revolutionized the conception of time and space, viewed by him as “perceptual forms” rather than as objective realities.

39 Nagel is referring to the dramatic poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) published in two parts, in 1808 and after Goethe’s death, respectively. Faust is considered to be one of the greatest literary works of all time.

39 Ola Upnorth (Ola Nordistuen) denotes the typical or average Norwegian, also called “Ola Nordmann.”

39 Hallingdal, one of Norway’s long East Country valleys, is known for its crafts, with rich traditions in woodworking, knitting, and weaving.

39 Trondelag, the area around the Trondheim Fjord, comprising the counties of South and North Trondelag, was in ancient times briefly the center of the Norwegian kingdom. Its inhabitants, the Trønders, are thought of as a staunch, no-nonsense, down-to-earth lot.

46 Finnmark is Norway’s northernmost county.

47 Helsingfors is the Swedish name of Helsinki, the capital of Finland.

47 The county of Buskerud extends northwest from the Oslo Fjord to the watershed. Smalenene was the former name (until 1919) of Østfold County, southeast of Oslo.

52 The people of Setesdal, a rather isolated valley in East Agder County, are popularly known for their adherence to tradition and the preservation of regional arts and crafts.

52 Vetle Vetlesen is a made-up name. It is intended to connote an ultraconservative cultural policy.

52 Johann Arendt (1555-1621), a German Lutheran pastor, was widely known for his edifying religious writings. His books were translated into many languages and had a decisive influence on pietism.

64 After the Turks granted Serbia autonomy under a hereditary prince in 1829, it was torn by a feud between two rival clans for over fifty years. It gained full independence in 1878 and was proclaimed a kingdom in 1882. Six years prior to Hamsun’s writing of Mysteries, in 1885, it engaged in an unsuccessful war with Bulgaria.

64 Kristiania was the official name of Oslo until 1924. The ritzy Grand Hotel, located not far from the Royal Palace, is known for its rather exclusive café, with a long history as a gathering place for artists and other intellectuals.

66 Belgrade is the capital of Serbia.

67 The editor of the ultraconservative Morgenbladet (The Morning Paper) at the time, Christian Friele (1821-99), was both feared and hated for his sharp, sometimes malicious pen.

67 The Czar alluded to here is Alexander III (1845-94), whose reign was notorious for its reactionary policies.—Jean Constans (1833-1913) was a French politician who, as Minister of the Interior (1889-92), firmly combatted the opponents of the Third Republic led by Georges Boulanger (1837-91). In 1889, hoping to realize his dream of becoming France’s dictator, Boulanger had planned to march on the Elysée Palace with his Revenge Party supporters, but abandoned the idea and fled to Belgium. Having been accused of treason and condemned to life imprisonment, he committed suicide on the tomb of his mistress in 1891, a few months after the period referred to in Hamsun’s novel.—Charles Parnell (1846-91), the Irish nationalist leader, championed Home Rule for his country with considerable success. However, being named a corespondent in a divorce suit caused him to lose his influence, and he died a broken man.—The Balkan Question is linked to the centuries-long endeavor by the European powers to curtail the territory of the Ottoman Empire west of the Bosporus. The problem was particularly virulent in the latter half of the nineteenth century and continued to be so in the twentieth.—Statistische Monatschrift was published in Vienna.

68 Otto von Bismarck (1815-98), creator of the modern German state and chancellor of Germany 1871-90, ruled as a virtual dictator. After nearly two decades of conducting a successful foreign as well as domestic policy, he was dismissed by the Emperor, William II (1859-1941), a longtime enemy, soon after the latter’s accession to the throne.

68 The leading workers’ association in Norway was founded by Eilert Sundt (1817-75) in 1864. From 1879 on, when the Liberal Party took over political leadership from the Conservatives, it became an important forum of radical political propaganda. The Norwegian Labor Party was formed in 1887.

69 James Carey (1845-83) was a member of the Invincibles, an Irish terrorist association condemned by Parnell and the orthodox Fenians. After participating in the Phoenix Park murders on May 6, 1882, Carey informed on his associates and turned state’s evidence. Four of the principals involved were executed in 1883. Carey was shot dead on board ship to Cape Town.

74 The German thinker Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900) developed a philosophy of aristocratic individualism, epitomized by such concepts as the will to power, the eternal return, and the superman.

77 Joseph Lanner (1801-43) was co-creator, with the Strauss family, of the Viennese waltz and one of the chief generators of the early-nineteenth-century waltz fever. Lanner conducted a small orchestra for which he wrote waltzes and other dances, and Johann Strauss the Elder (1804-49) was his violin player.

80 the law against quacks: Since April 1871, when a new law was passed, persons without a medical degree were permitted, with certain restrictions, to engage in the business of healing in Norway.

91 Built in the first century B.C., the Tower of the Winds, a.k.a. the Horologion of Andronikos Kyrrhestes, stands not far from the site of the Roman agora, just outside the market enclosure. The tower served the triple purpose of sundial, water clock, and weather vane.

98 The Gudbrandsdal Valley in Oppland County extends ca. 130 miles northwest from Lillehammer at the northern end of Lake Mjøsa. The regional culture is marked by a certain “yeoman aristocracy.” The area has preserved many examples of old farm and stave church architecture and has produced a rich store of legends and fairy tales, such as the Peer Gynt story.

99 Nikolai F. S. Grundtvig (1783-1872), Danish poet, churchman, and educator. He founded the folk high school, a form of adult education designed to foster patriotism and religious convictions in young people. This particular line must have impressed Hamsun; it is repeated in his last work, På gjengrodde stier (1949). See On Overgrown Paths, trans. by Sverre Lyngstad (Los Angeles: Green Integer, 1999), p. 202.

128 Henri de Rochefort, Marquis de Rochefort-Luçay (1831-1913), a prolific French nineteenth-century journalist noted for his political adventurism. Over a few decades during the century’s second half he managed to enact a wide gamut of roles, of which the following is a sampling: as an extremely vocal critic of the Second Empire, with periods of exile and imprisonment; an elected deputy (1870), a position from which he resigned after a few days; a supporter of the Paris Commune, imprisoned and subsequently deported to New Caledonia ; and a passionate follower of General Boulanger. See note to p. 67.

129 The prime minister here referred to is Emil Stang (1834-1912), leader of the Conservative Party in the 1880s and 1890s and premier for two periods, including 1889—91. Lie and Haug, meaning “hill-side” and “hill” respectively, are more common Norwegian names.

146 “The Ramparts” most likely refers to Akershus Castle and Fortress, situated on a promontory by the Oslo Fjord. It is an important Oslo landmark.

147 The Drammen Road is a scenic street running in a westerly direction from the Oslo city center.

154 Adolf Stocker (1835-1909), Lutheran pastor and court preacher, in 1878 founded the Social-Christian Party, which became the first anti-Semitic organization in Germany, indeed, in all of Europe. An indefatigable traveler, he used his considerable oratorical gifts to spread anti-Semitism, to the point of urging the government to consider passing laws inimical to Jews. In 1882 he organized, in Dresden, the first international anti-Semitic congress, of which he was elected president. Though he was eventually censured by the Supreme Council of the Evangelical Churches, he remained a member of the Reichstag until 1908, a year before his death.

155 William Booth (1829-1912), a London evangelist and social reformer, in 1865 founded the movement which subsequently, in 1878, became the Salvation Army. He called himself “General.”

164 Guy de Maupassant (1850-93), a French psychological realist whose novels and short stories portray ordinary people and their appetites in a coolly objective, often ironic style.

165 torpedo under the ark: from Ibsen’s poem “Til min venn revolusjons-taleren!” (To my Friend, the Revolutionary Speech-maker). The last line of the poem reads, “I gladly place a torpedo under the ark,” the reference being to Noah’s Ark.

170 Gertrude Colbjornsen (1879) is the principal work of Hamsun’s friend Erik Skram (1847—1923), a Danish novelist and critic. The book attracted attention by its attack on conventional marriage.

187 La Glu is the title of a novel (1881) by Jean Richepin (1849-1926). It deals with a Parisian courtesan, an adventuress who, among other things, ensnares a young Breton lad and then abandons him. When the siren reappears on the scene, her interest in the youth reawakened by his attempted suicide on her account, she is murdered by the young man’s mother. Though Nagel’s anecdote echoes some elements of Richepin’s novel, it is wholesome by comparison with this sordid story. The woman’s name is appropriate: La Glu has a fatal attraction for susceptible males; they are entrapped by her, like birds caught by birdlime, the literal meaning of the French word glu.

208 Mittelwalder: The correct name would be “Mittenwalder,” derived from Mittenwald, a village in Bavaria, Germany, which has a school for making violins and other string instruments.

232 This biblical verse, in which Jesus addresses ten lepers who appealed to him for mercy, runs: “Go show yourselves unto the priests” (Luke 17:14).

232 The kingdom of Barnum: P. T. Barnum (1810-91), the American showman, became notorious for his extravagant self-advertising. His famous circus was opened in 1871. He was given the cognomen “king of humbug.”

232 Sirius, in the constellation Canis Major, is the brightest star in the heavens. It is also known as the Dog Star.

232 Antoine Lavoisier (1743-94), French scientist and a founder of modern chemistry, was guillotined during the Reign of Terror. The saying “Don’t step on my circles!” is traditionally attributed to Archimedes (ca. 287-212 B.C.), the Greek mathematician and inventor. He was killed by a Roman soldier at the capture of Syracuse, Sicily, during the Second Punic War, supposedly while working on a problem in geometry. Euclid (fl. 300 B.C.) was a Greek mathematician, best known for his Elements, a groundbreaking work employing a deductive system of proof in which he sums up the mathematics of his day.

234 Orion, one of the most conspicuous constellations, has a nebula that can be seen with the naked eye. It is located just below the belt of the hunter for whom the constellation is named.

234 Carl Frederik Fearnley (1818-90), Norwegian astronomer, was director of the Oslo Observatory from 1861 onward.

237 “Think of the day ... ”: a hymn written in 1841 by Wilhelm Andreas Wexels (1797-1866), Norwegian pastor, author, and editor of hymnals, to a melody composed in 1833 by the Italian-Swedish Mathilda B. V. M. Gyllenhaal, b. Orozco (1796-1863).

238 Ola Olsen from Lista: The name is a moniker for the average Norwegian. Lista is a coastal township in West Agder County. Fjære is a parish in the county of East Agder, not Ryfylke; it is located near the coastal town of Grimstad and not far from Lillesand, the probable setting of Mysteries.

239 Pontus Wikner (1837-88), professor of philosophy in Kristiania (now Oslo) 1884-88, was a religious idealist; he developed a personalist doctrine that was quite influential. His collected sermons were published in 1889.

240 When completed, the Hallingdal Railroad became known as the Bergen Railroad, between Oslo and Bergen. It was opened in 1909.

241 “Behold the congregations saved ... ”: from another hymn by Wexels, written to a tune of 1554 by the German cantor and composer Nikolaus Herman (1500-61).

TEXTUAL NOTES

The language of the first edition of Mysteries looks very much like Danish. The text was revised several times as the novel was reissued. In addition to Norwegianizing the spelling, grammar, and vocabulary and thoroughly overhauling the punctuation, these revisions entailed quite radical changes in style and substance. The diction of the original, whose emotional stridency occasionally approached the grotesque, was considerably muted, especially in the dialogue. Repetitions, expletives, and hyperbolic sallies were reduced, contributing, along with the deletion of many exclamations, of ah’s and oh’s, to a more sober tone in a work that still may seem to some readers to teeter on the brink of the hysterical. In particular, the extensive cuts in Nagel’s speeches and interior monologues help make the principal character, who in the original version comes across as excessively loquacious and verbose, more readily believable.

While the noted revisions are numerous, they account for only a fraction of the total; most minor changes have not been listed.

The first edition, published by P. G. Philipsen (Copenhagen, 1892) and, in facsimile, by Gyldendal (Oslo, 1994), will in these notes be indicated by “P”; the source text for the translation, Knut Hamsun’s Collected Works, vol. 1 (Samlede verker [Oslo: Gyldendal, 1992]), by “CW.” The page references to P are listed first.

CHAPTER I (pp. 1-8)

1 8/146. Deleted in CW: as if it didn’t concern him.

2 10/147. In P, the last clause reads: “and I like to have a good view.”

3 14/149. The P text reads: “What affectation!”

CHAPTER II (pp. 9-17)

1 20/152. In P, the word is “hotheaded.”

2 21/152. Deleted in CW: “But you have no discretion, none at all, though you are a splendid fellow.”

3 22/153. This exclamation is not in P.

CHAPTER III (pp. 18-27)

1 34/159. Sentence deleted in CW: “I hope you don’t think my hesitation had anything to do with the money.”

2 35/159. Deleted in CW: “It sounds funny, but I really landed on my right shoulder, after tumbling over several times.”

3 38/160. The last clause of this sentence is not in P.

4 38/160. The preceding clause is not in P.

5 39/161. Here CW omits the following:

“I see.... But you must drink a little; let us drink a toast to something, say, to the Kielland family, would you? They must be a nice family.”

When they had drunk, Nagel said,

6 41/162. Deleted in CW: “It’s for you alone to decide that.”

7 41/162. In P, the following paragraph begins: “You can do as you please, of course.”

8 45/163. The following exchange has been deleted in CW:

“Unlucky? Well, sure. So he fell and stabbed himself to death?”

“Yes, he was probably lost in thought, and so he stumbled and pierced the arteries in his fall. It was a tragic accident.”

9 46/164. Deleted in CW: “Those who have so much may not be very much happier.”

10 47/164. Deleted in CW: “That’s why I simply said, ‘I suppose that will be all for today.’ ”

CHAPTER IV (pp. 28—40)

1 49—50/165. From here to “The little boy walked ... ,” the P text reads: Well, why not, for that matter? What in the world is it supposed to be good for to try and keep afloat so desperately? Especially if one is laid to rest in consecrated ground despite everything, and with dispatches in all the newspapers. Heh-heh-heh. Anyway, what is the difference between carrying an open pocketknife in one’s hand and a little vial in one’s vest pocket? Beat that one, if you can, gentlemen and ladies. Heh-heh-heh!

Gladstone, though, is top dog. Gladstone will undoubtedly live until he dies a natural death from too much well-being. And let us hope that he will still keep humankind informed about his cold for many years to come. Gladstone is huge, Gladstone is absolutely the greatest man of our day. Who else should be our greatest man? Victor Hugo is dead and ... Suppose we wrote 1703, let’s say March 5, 1703: a world without Gladstone, the earth a wilderness, nothing but conservative newspapers!

“May your steel be as sharp as your final no!” How beautiful! How delightfully inane! Just bombastic enough to be human! It makes me think of a stuffed-up, runny kid’s nose. But he did have some spunk: among other things, he had chosen a sensible position, flat on his belly and his face buried in a puddle. But the time-oh, God help me! In broad daylight and with a goodbye note in his hand, ugh! However, the man had good taste, he took to the woods with the affair, and I side with him on that.

2 50-51/166. Up to this point of the paragraph, P reads:

But the time was absolutely unfortunate. I would have chosen a glorious stormy night, a raw pitch-darkness without a star. And there would be no question of a written farewell.... But why do I lie here thinking about this? What is it to me? What in the world do I have to do with that sentimental theologian, his steel and his last no? Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh, what the hell do I have to do with it! ...

How many strange sounds there are in a human being! Take laughter, for instance; where does it come from and where does it go? A disgusting sound, a shameless sound, a sound reminiscent of magpies and monkeys. Laughter must simply be a rudiment, ergo, laughter is a rudiment. And this meaningless, unarticulated sound is

3 52/166. Deleted in CW: Hey, up up up up up up up up!

4 55/168. Deleted in CW: ... But really, why should I give him a reminder ? What concern is it of mine? Here am again, meddling in other people’s business all the time; that will have to stop. As I hope to be saved, it will have to stop!

5 55-56/168. Here a couple of paragraphs are deleted in CW:

For example, do I get invited to take part in the debate when a club discusses religion? Absolutely not, absolutely not; no one has ever asked my opinion. Why, then, didn’t I let the young man present his excellent arguments? He knew a lot and spoke well, divided sun and wind equally among God and humans, and declared his agreement with Drawden and Spinoza. What fault can be found in that? And what fault could be found in the next speaker, the city engineer ? He went a smidgen further, but still observed the utmost moderation, in his own way. When he banged the table and insisted, in black and white, on God’s existence, he even made a strong impression; two old men nodded to themselves and came around to his view. In short, they were all in agreement on the matter, heh-heh. And so I could have kept my mouth shut and looked after my own business; after all, what was passed in the club didn’t concern me personally. But I stood up and made a nuisance of myself, confusing them all. I do believe I rose respectfully, but that was all for nothing, since I made fun of the audience and was shown the door. Heh-heh-heh.

No, one shouldn’t open one’s mouth, not at all. One ought to have a delicatessen shop and squeeze sausages, contemplate lard, chew leaf fat and quote Hugo. One ought to have a horse and buggy and an office in town, arrange things like a human being, make connections, invite Storting representatives, get on, have a house, a wife, and a dog. Period. Nagel.

Yes, a house! Good Lord, if one only had a house! And a wife! I would be sure to feel glad about it every day and to give something to the poor, according to my ability.

6 58/169. Deleted in CW: I’ll be damned, but all this stupidity is becoming rather unseemly!

7 58/169. Deleted in CW: Ah-ah-ee! There, I yawned on it. And that’s that.

8 62/170. The preceding sentence replaced the following passage in P: Upon my word, I can’t forget it, no, I can’t. There the good soul went and ruined his entire earthly reputation with a platitude! I swear it is by Victor Hugo, I can hear it so clearly; it is by the greatest man of that time.

9 62/170. P continues: at the humbug in which he trades.

10 63/171. Deleted in CW: ... No, quote a geographer; say, for example, that, Norway being so far north, it is absolutely necessary to live robustly, since blood is feelings and feelings are nerves, and nerves therefore are simply a question of climate.... Heh-heh, or perhaps this is ethnography? God only knows what it is, at the moment I can’t decide that. But quote something of the sort and leave it at that. Anything but Victor Hugo, that inflated spirit oozing purple, whose pen was a ham.... Give it a thought, I’m trying to save you.

11 64/171. Deleted in CW: Heh-heh-heh. But come to think, you don’t have a sense of humor....

12 64/171. Deleted in CW: What will she say when she comes in? Exactly, I mean, the very words? “Sorry you’ve had to wait so long for your shoes!” Or will she say nothing? It would be quite a trick if she said nothing at all. She is always in the habit of saying something, she’ll at least say “please,” she always does, so she won’t forget to now either. Well, but if she should really say nothing, what then? Let us assume that, if she says nothing, something will happen to me in the course of the day. Yes, we’ll assume that! So, if she doesn’t say anything, something bad will befall me. We’ll see! Heh-heh-heh. Ugh, what the hell! Drivel, twaddle, trifles and stupidities....

13 67/172. Here a brief paragraph is deleted in CW: Deedle-ee, deedle-ee, deedle-ee do. Knut of Rotnam, Knut of Røtnam, no guy is so stout he can chase him out....

14 67-68/172. In P, the rest of this paragraph reads: the unfortunate bluster of those who get their hackles up about all and everything—in an age where nobody, whether thistles, thorns, hedgehogs or Rochefort, can afford to prick anyone or anything.... Heh, heh. Oh yes, you have to put up with it, Croppy Boy. Hey, my steed, try again! But really, why? Let me rock the ground under a couple of erroneous ideas of life....

15 71/174. In starting a new paragraph here, I am following P.

16 73/175. Here P continues: Heh-heh-heh. Anyway, I should have known that beforehand. But how lovely she was, and she—

But now I have to get up, damn it, shoes or no shoes.

17 73-74/175. From this point until “Oh, I’m real sorry ...,” P reads: “Will she say something,” he said, actually talking aloud to himself. “Of course she will; she will say, ‘I’m sorry.’ But what if she doesn’t say anything, not a word, not a grunt, what then? Then nothing bad will happen to me today. Nothing bad, nothing bad! I wish to God she would keep her mouth shut!”

He thought things over for a moment after these words. Then he hears footsteps on the stairs, and no sooner has Sara opened the door than he calls, standing almost naked in the middle of the floor, “Well, what do you say, girl?”

CHAPTER V (pp. 41-48)

1 76/176. Here I follow P; CW reads: “Nagel went up to the grave,” which contradicts the logic of the sentence as well as the situation.

2 78/177. From here on until “As I was standing ... ,” P. reads: “In other words, she was a girl who used her spirit, eh? But as for her body, on the other hand, one could perhaps say that she returned it to the Lord, thanking him for the loan of it, saying, ‘I haven’t used it!’ ”

“I’m not very quick on the uptake, nor am I very gifted. It’s possible I don’t have an inkling of what you mean when you say that she thanked him for the loan of it.”

“That’s quite all right, I didn’t mean anything.”

Meanwhile Nagel was writing on the slab. He was writing a verse, and when he had written the verse he put the pencil back in his pocket.

“It’s quite unbelievable how much attention a stranger attracts in a small town,” Miniman said.

3 85/180. In P, this question by the doctor is preceded by: “Well, that figures. Because the Nordland dialect generally tends to be very distinctive.”

4 86/180. Deleted paragraph in CW:

Nagel didn’t agree. Religious feelings were an individual matter: some people had more, others less, and still others had no religious needs at all. But it would hardly do to say that the irreligious people were the only enlightened ones. On the contrary, many times—

CHAPTER VI (pp. 49-63)

1 99/186. From here to the end of the paragraph, P reads: “that this idea of the boat, a boat of that sort, is as beautiful as it is strange?”

2 104/189. CW’s “nice” replaced P’s “mysteriously beautiful.”

3 112/192. This sentence replaced the following one in P: “Will you condemn me for that?”

4 113/193. P continues: “at least I don’t think so.”

5 113/193. In P, the rest of the paragraph reads: “I thank you. I’m also certain that, now that I have spoken, you will understand me.”

6 113/193. Deleted in CW: she answered in a slightly offended tone.

7 114/193. Here a paragraph is deleted in CW:

“In any case,” Nagel said, “I’m happy I met you this evening and have had an opportunity to explain myself. It has pained me greatly that I annoyed you. Miss Kielland, I thank you once more for listening to me, and I’ll thank you for it a thousand times again after getting back to my room.”

8 114/193. This sentence was added in CW.

CHAPTER VII (pp. 64-83)

1 117/195. From “The Grand is a unique café” to “notorious place,” the P text reads:

“That is, the Grand is a nice exhibition hall.”

What did he mean by that?

He laughed. Kristiania had one cafe, and that was the Grand. The Grand and Kristiania were almost one and the same thing, therefore the Grand was the great place

2 117-18/195. From here to the end of the paragraph, P reads: showing off and being very clever-each delighted to be observed, listened to and appreciated by everyone else. Good God! Sure, it was the best comedy you would ever see! But essentially the Grand was nothing more than a small, much frequented pub where good burghers in the national homespun could get their drinks, a whiskey and soda shop where everyman would sit rejoicing that other everymen sat there watching him. That was the Grand.

3 119/195. Deleted in CW: though not a word had been said about Belgrade. There were smaller capitals than Kristiania, there were also capitals with far less art and other attractions, not to mention the fact that Kristiania had a sea lane that was quite exceptional. How could anyone talk like that!

4 120/195-96. Deleted in CW:

But Nagel had become bored with it all. What the hell had he opened his mouth for! After all, he had made up his mind to be silent, so as not to get into a brawl with people in a stranger’s house, and here he was in the midst of a controversy where he had everybody against him! Oh well, he would remedy that, and he would watch himself in the future. He wouldn’t leave himself open to criticism.

He gave a look around the room. The place wasn’t very tidy, nor was it quite clean everywhere; but there were pleasant colors, light from three large windows, and many comfortable chairs around the tables. The chairs were rather worn, as was the rest of the furniture, yet everything looked quite nice. Moreover, there were three walls with paintings by Heyerdahl, Hjalmar Johnssen, and a German; the one by Hjalmar Johnssen was a seascape.

5 121/196. The P text reads: Dagny was sitting by herself, tapping the table with her fingers and turning the pages of an album from time to time.

6 121/196. In P, this sentence reads: She was tall and on the ample side, but had a light, curiously seductive walk.

7 121-22/196. Deleted in CW: As soon as she saw him, she said eagerly, “Will you forgive me for what I said? Please! This thing about Kristiania; surely, you remember.”

He was greatly surprised and replied that he hadn’t given it a second thought; he wasn’t even certain he had heard it. No, indeed; for he had been jabbering about music with that young man over there the whole time.

“Oh yes, you heard it,” she said, “I could tell from looking at you. But it was thoughtless of me to stick my nose into it; I’ve never been abroad, and consequently I can’t have any opinion of how great our own things are.”

“And on my part, I should never get involved in argument with people about anything, because we don’t agree. And besides, what’s the use? Nobody gets converted in an argument; it never happens.”

“Anyway, I hope you will forgive me. That’s all I wanted to ask of you.”

He looked at her.

8 123/196. In P, the lawyer says: “But it seems to me the Liberal press is coarse enough.” The doctor’s reply is extended as follows: “it is at all comparable? Whatever some may think of the cabinet—”

9 125/197. At this point P reads: “but Gladstone simply knocks down every objection. I really wonder how long Bismarck will go on with his useless battle. He must surely be venomously angry internally by now....”

10 125/197. From here until the next sentence, P reads: He even tried with Emperor Wilhelm, but everyone agreed with him that the Emperor was half mad.

11 127/198. The next two paragraphs, plus the first sentence of the third, were added in CW. The P text reads:

“No, I really don’t know,” Nagel said, still laughing, “which time Mr. Øien is talking about. It may well be that I said something of the sort, but ... Well, if I didn’t express myself too scandalously on that occasion, I still acknowledge my words, heh-heh-heh; but obviously, if they were too wild, I’ll deny them.” And turning serious, he added, “I really disagree with you a bit about Gladstone. I’m afraid I do. When I say this I don’t mean to annoy anyone, and I beg your pardon for bringing it up at this gathering. I’m not a fanatic, I could easily keep silent.

12 131/199. Up to this point in the paragraph, the P text reads: “No,” Nagel replied almost meekly, “it rather demoralizes me.”

13 133-35/201. A long passage deleted in CW:

With that he got up and began pacing the floor.

“Well,” the Doctor said, “whether you are one or the other, you cannot help recognizing Gladstone’s importance, his invaluable work for the liberation of Ireland, for example—”

“Oh sure, after he was overthrown as premier.”

“Also earlier. Whoever heard the like! Are you saying that ... Damn it all, man, have you gone out of your mind!”

“Ssh, ssh, Peter dear!” Mrs. Stenersen admonished him from the rocking chair.

“There has always been some difference between Gladstone in office and as a leader of the opposition,” Nagel said. “I remember a little incident, only something that happened at the time of the Coercion Acts. Gladstone once excluded twenty-five-twenty-five-Irish members of Parliament, in order to get the Coercion Acts passed.”

“I really can’t understand how you dare ... When was that?”

“It was in 1883, I believe. Yes, ’83. But goodness, why shouldn’t it be permissible for a Minister of the Crown to do so when the cause demanded it! Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying that—”

“Pardon!” Mrs. Stenersen said, bringing her glass. She seemed to be afraid it might go too far and would like to forestall an outright quarrel. “May I drink with you? Sorry for interrupting, by the way.”

“I simply refuse to discuss this with you any further,” the Doctor exclaimed. But as if to make up for his vehemence, he quickly broke into a laugh and added, “Because we shall not agree, no, never! Anyway, I won’t ever let you get my goat again, I can promise you that. Ha-ha-ha.”

“I, too, had better keep quiet,” Nagel replied.

Then everybody sat down again, and there was a brief pause. Something strange had happened—the teacher had sobered up. No sooner had he had a bite to eat than his intoxication wore off, and now he was sitting in silence, unnoticed, as always when he hadn’t had a drop too many. He was still drinking heavily, but it didn’t seem to affect him; Hansen, the lawyer, on the other hand, was quite merry.

It was only ten o’clock; again cards were mentioned, but

14 139/202. Deleted in CW: Besides, without a brain you could, as a last resort, dig ditches or quarry stone.

15 141/204. Deleted in CW: “I sincerely wish I hadn’t done it. And you know, what he said was very amusing. Gudrun, I had the distinct impression that he sighed just now, as he turned around. Oh dear, I’m getting a guilty conscience! ...”

16 143/204. Sentence deleted in CW: One’s spirit had to be in it, one must be in the proper mood, right? “Sorry” was added in CW.

17 144/205. Instead of “Pause ... a stranger,” P reads:

After these nonsensical exchanges, which were empty and meaningless, they both became rather quiet; it was as though each was thinking about what the other could have meant, what secret was hidden behind the words, which insinuations they contained. For a moment everyone in the room was silent, but when Mrs. Stenersen shortly afterward entered from the bedroom with freshly washed hands and scented with Florida water, Nagel went up to her and made a remark about a canary whose song he had heard through the half-open door to the dining room.

18 145/205. This sentence is the remainder of a paragraph in P, which reads:

Now Nagel too seemed to become more communicative. He applauded the music enthusiastically and exchanged a few words both with the deputy and Miss Olsen. But when Dagny moved over to the fireplace, he too rose from the table and walked quietly back and forth by the windows. Then he went up to Dagny and said,

19 140-41l205. The preceding part of this paragraph was added in CW.

CHAPTER VIII (pp. 84-101)

1 156/210. Deleted in CW: “Aren’t you happy, too. You will also be happy, I promise you; do you hear what I’m saying? I heartily wish I could do something to give you pleasure right now, whatever you would demand of me; believe me, at any rate, goodness yes, do believe me!”

2 158-59/211. Here a long passage is deleted in CW.

“Oh, you heard that? Well, but since I got engaged nothing much is left of the admiration. Imagine, the whole town seems to have turned around in just a few days; only a couple of women friends are still sticking by me.”

“No, you must be deceiving yourself—”

“Oh, it doesn’t hurt me, don’t think that. You won’t think that, will you?”

These few words went to his head, and he interrupted her with, “Do you care at all what I think of you?”

He immediately regretted having asked her this aggressive question ; he blushed with shame and couldn’t forget this blunder for quite a while. Nor did she answer, pretending not to have heard anything. She began talking about Reinert, the deputy, a man who had always been very attentive and kind to her-ha-ha-ha-but whom she had also lost now, after she became engaged. “Are you sighing? A moment ago you were so happy. Don’t sigh!”

They looked at each other. This “Don’t sigh” was echoing within him, brushing him like a delicate, warm hand.

3 159/211. Deleted in CW: “There is also another thing: their sense of honor is usually extremely rigorous. Thus, you rarely find criminals among the officers. They are fine people, indeed.”

“Yes,” she said to herself.

She walked in silence for a while, pondering this, but then she says again,

4 160/211. Deleted in CW: “But it’s the first time I’ve been so brutal, believe me.”

5 162/212. This sentence replaced the following paragraph in P:

Pause. Nobody spoke for a long time. She was waiting, looking up at Nagel and down at the road by turns.

6 166/214. From here to the beginning of the next sentence, P reads: How unlucky he always was in what he did! How he was continually forgetting himself! If only she would forgive him, forgive him once more, only this one time, or if, at least, she wouldn’t be angry with him! Wouldn’t she let him show her an example of what he could do, to make it up to her? If she just would suggest something to him, give him a hint, show a twinkle in the corner of her eye! Oh, he was prepared for anything....

7 167/214. Deleted in CW:

“May I?”

“Yes, an adventure!” she cried spontaneously. She was again as pleased as a child, and egged him on to tell his story. All right, if he insisted, he could carry her parasol; what pleasure was there in that anyway? But the adventure! Why didn’t he begin?

8 174-75/218. “Pause” replaced the following exchange in P:

“Yes—unfortunately!” Nagel replied.

Pause.

“Why do you say ‘unfortunately’?”

“Hm. That I can’t tell you.”

“Ha-ha-ha, he can’t tell me! All right, and then? Oh, how strange it all is!”

9 181/221. Deleted in CW: but Dagny didn’t answer. Finally he began to laugh and make light of it.

“After all, it happened eight years ago,” he said, “I didn’t experience it today. Tell me,

10 181-82/221. The first third of the next paragraph was added, the following passage deleted, in CW:

“Are you still thinking about my fairy-tale adventure?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

He again made light of it, said it was too long ago to concern oneself with, it wasn’t immediate. Besides, it wasn’t really that uncanny, was it? Ah, she should hear people from the tropics tell fairy tales! He had, and many a time his blood had run cold with terror.

“No, I don’t think your story was that uncanny,” she said, “simply strange, mysterious. Thank you.”

Delighted that she again became more vivacious, he began once more to enlarge upon what the inhabitants of the tropics could relate when they felt like it. Come down to Ceylon, the ancient Taprobane, come into the mountains and forests at Mehavilla and hear fairy tales that will completely take your breath away. There one came upon one of the oldest peoples on earth, the ancient Veddas, the aborigines of Ceylon. They lived the most wretched life, were chased into the woods by the Singhalese and the European rabble; but how they could tell stories!

11 182/221. Deleted in CW: This people [the Veddas] was one that had a destiny, with wonderful traditions; every individual felt like a descendant of their greatest fairy-tale king. Standing there in rags, they forced strangers to lower their eyes before them when they spoke. —The deleted sentences were replaced by “flying ... silver.”

12 183/221. “Beef” replaced P’s “oatmeal porridge—oh, that Norwegian oatmeal porridge!”

13 183/221. Dagny’s question and Nagel’s response up to this point replaced the following passage in P:

Dagny laughed and contradicted him. So, oatmeal porridge wasn’t good enough, eh? But didn’t we, too, have the most beautiful fairy tales? How about those of Asbjørnsen?

He grew excited. Of course, of course, oats were excellent fare in countries that had no sun, who could say anything else? But what if there was sun? Could she imagine a sun that shone rather extravagantly, foaming into white-crested waves of light? Oh well, there were the fairy tales of the mountains, the legends about the wood nymph, those crude phantoms of a

14 184/221. The two preceding sentences replaced the following in P: we hadn’t managed to contrive anything finer; we had even borrowed some frills from others, stolen a bit here and there.

15 184/221. Deleted in CW: Didn’t they produce exactly the same mood as one feels when hearing a fisherman come stomping up from the shore, his boots greased with train-oil and filled with sea water?

16 184/222. The preceding sentence replaced the following passage in P: But in order to see something like that, one needs a bit of light, and to tell stories about it one needs brains that are rank with madness. No, the fact of the matter was that the sun didn’t shine, the Norwegian sun was a moon, a lantern that enabled the Norwegians to distinguish black from white, no more.

17 184-85/222. From “She must have grown tired ...” to the paragraph beginning “It just occurred to me ... ,” the P text reads:

“I can’t understand the way you see things,” she said, “and it really makes me laugh when I think about it. No matter what issue is raised, you always seem to be in opposition to everybody else. Whether it’s Gladstone, antirheumatic chains, or fairy tales, you are a living contradiction to everything other people think. Oh, it’s very amusing, so please go on—go on and tell me more! I’m eager to hear! What, for example, is your opinion of our national defense?”

He turned crimson and bowed his head. How this woman with the blue eyes could make fun of him! Well, why not? But on such a beautiful night, amid such profound peace! He merely said, quite perplexed, “National defense? National defense? What do you mean?”

18 185-86/222. Deleted in CW: “But you will forgive me, won’t you? Don’t you think, at least, that the adventure I told you about was rather beautiful? Some other time I might have been able to do a bit better, perhaps a little bit better, I don’t know; but this evening I’ve definitely been too happy to do justice to myself.”

19 186/222. Deleted in CW: “oh, I’m so sincerely, so sincerely grateful to you, believe me”;

20 186/222. This remark replaced the following in P: then she again rested her eyes on him and said, “And if you think that I’m not grateful to you too this evening, you’re mistaken.”

21 186-87/222-23. Most of the passage from here until “Look, let me just ...” is not in P, which reads: Nagel gave her face a close look and exclaimed, “You are? Really? How happy you make me! Oh, I’ll never forget this night. Would you like me to show you a little trick I know, with a straw and a twig, whereby the straw proves stronger than the twig? I would gladly do all you could possibly desire out of sheer gratitude, to show my devotion. But let’s rather talk, that’s better. Ah, it’s Midsummer Night! Oh, my, isn’t it intoxicatingly lovely?”

22 187/223. These two sentences were added in CW.

23 188/223. The translation follows P in beginning a new paragraph with this question. Deleted in CW at this point: “Yes, perhaps a little, that’s quite possible.”

24 188/223. Deleted in CW: How pure and beautiful she looked as she walked!

25 189/223. This line replaces the following in P:

She answered by changing the subject, somewhat impatiently, “Well, you don’t seem to be happy any longer. What time is it?”

“It’s a few minutes after two.”

26 191/224. This sentence replaces the following passage in P:

“You probably read a lot in your home,” he said.

“How do you know?” she replied.

“I believe I’ve heard about it; I also know that your father has books by Turgenev and Garborg, and that’s a good sign.”

“Yes, isn’t Turgenev wonderful! So, Miniman has gossiped again, you can’t have heard it from anyone else. Yes, we do read a lot; Dad is always reading, he’s got so many books. How do you like Tolstoy?”

“A good deal, of course. Tolstoy is a great and remarkable man.”

But now she laughed resoundingly and interrupted him: “You’re saying something you don’t mean again, I can tell from your looks. You don’t like Tolstoy at all.”

“Hm. That Is—. No, let’s not touch on issues again, because then I’ll become more boring than ever. I’m not lucky enough to agree with everyone, you know, and I would rather not make you tired of me. How do you like Tolstoy yourself?”

“You aren’t happy anymore; that’s it, you aren’t happy anymore. Anyway, we’ll turn around now.”

27 192/224. This sentence replaces a fairly long passage in P:

“The truth is,” he said, “that if I were to say how happy I am and why I am so happy, you would run away from me again, and that mustn’t happen. Permit me to keep it to myself—”

Again she interrupted him: “Yes, of course-. It has certainly been a delightful evening; but you’re probably very tired by now. Thanks for walking me home! But come to think, you mustn’t take my parasol with you. Oh, what a nice state of affairs that would be, if you did that, ha-ha-ha.”

When she had reached the gate, she turned around once more and said, “There’s also another reason why it’s good that I met you this evening”:

28 193/225. Deleted in CW: He had a happy, smiling expression on his face. -In P, there is an extra sentence at the end: How she had charmed him, the sweet, sunny girl!

CHAPTER IX (pp. 102-14)

1 195/225. “Thank you” replaces the following in P:

Nagel laughed and said, “Come, come, you don’t frighten me, you know!”

2 197/227. Deleted in CW: “And if your uncle says anything, I’ll be damned if I don’t shut him up straightaway; go home and tell him this minute. Have I made everything quite clear?”

“Yes, quite clear.”

3 200/228. The beginning of Nagel’s follow-up admonition was deleted in CW:

“For, as you recall, I thoroughly humiliated him, after all, calling him a puppy in the presence of many people. True, I have apologized for it, but nevertheless. So, when you receive the coat you just look innocent.”

4 201/228. The P text reads up to this point of the paragraph:

“No, no.”

Pause.

“Won’t you ever come up and see me again?” Nagel said. “Please do, my good friend! It’s not nice of you to stay away altogether. You won’t have to drink anything if you come.”

5 202/228. P reads instead: Her face had suddenly turned crimson, and

6 205/230. Deleted in CW: “For God’s sake, tell me if you are displeased by my looking at the chair!”

7 211/232. Deleted in CW: “What do you take me for, a miserable swine, a rascal? Yes or no? Or do you take me for a fool you can freely make fun of? I know what an antique is worth, it’s not the first one I’ve bought.”

But this trump card didn’t have any effect either.

8 211/233. Deleted in CW: “indeed, I ought to fall down on my knees and thank you, Miss Gude.”

9 211-12/233. Deleted in CW: “Can’t you understand that the price matters, that the article’s value can often be enhanced if its acquisition has entailed such and such great efforts and so and so many expenses?”

10 213/233. P reads: “the most shrewdly contrived offer.”

CHAPTER X (pp. 115-30)

1 217-18/235. Deleted in CW: “Oh yes! But people have been wonderful to me and given me many a good used suit of clothes to wear. And this evening I’m as happy as when I was a child. Can you understand that? All because of this new coat; thank you so much. But come to think,”

2 219/236. Deleted in CW: “That’s the whole reason; but forgive me if I say it straight out.”

3 220/236. Deleted in CW: “Ha-ha-ha! Forgive me for laughing, for heaven’s sake, forgive me!”

4 221/337. What follows the dash was added in CW.

5 223/238. This sentence was added in CW.

6 226/239. The item about free treatment is found only in CW.

7 227/240. Deleted in CW: “my using an expression like the ‘human soul’ and talking about it must surely make you realize that I’m terribly drunk, huh? Well, but to explain it to you to the best of my ability”:

8 228/240. Deleted in CW: “... Listen! If you were willing to take a glass with me now, everything would be just fine; I don’t understand how you can sit there so dry.”

9 235/243. Deleted in CW: “What is one to do with such thoughtlessness as mine in this instance? Pardon me for asking.”

10 239/245. In P, the parenthetical element reads: “let me tell you plainly, but come a little closer so I can whisper it to you, because the walls of this building are very thin and one must be careful”

CHAPTER XI (pp. 131-42)

1 255/252. Deleted in CW: “Wading about in tall boots where it’s necessary to flit from one nuance to the other!”

2 256/253. In P, this line reads: “Dear me, remove it altogether, it’s making me so nervous; I’m afraid you’ll lose it.”

3 257/253. Sentence added in CW.

4 259/254. Deleted in CW: “at that time we were talking about antirheumatic chains or whatever it might be, perhaps it was about the Norwegian fairy tales.”

5 263/256. Deleted in CW:

They began to walk.

“Dagny, Dagny!” he said suddenly. And before she realized it, he threw himself on his knees, threw himself down in the middle of the road and kept lying there like that for a minute, cap in hand and his head bowed, as if he expected a blow. She looked about her in the utmost fright; in her perplexity she even made a move to raise him up, but abandoned the attempt.

“No, get up, will you!” she cried just above his head, “this minute, do you hear! What’s the matter with you? In the middle of the road to boot!”

When he did get up, she even made him aware that he had to brush the sand off his knees. They didn’t walk any farther, but kept standing in the same spot. Then she said,

6 266/257. From here on to the end of the paragraph, P reads: “But one doesn’t dare, alas, no, one doesn’t have the courage; one wastes one opportunity after another without daring to, until the day comes when one can’t resist any longer.... Forgive me, Miss Kielland, I’ve been talking so much, I beg you to forgive me! Shall we go? Oh, Dagny, I love you so very dearly; I’m grateful just because I’ve been permitted to tell you so!”

7 266-67/257. From here to the end of the paragraph, P reads: “He is handsome, he is an officer, whereas you yourself are an agronomist, nobody; besides, he is already her fiance, and that’s the end of it. The heart doesn’t yield to anything, not even to the utmost impossibility. Miss Kielland, for my love’s sake put some kindness into your answer! I do not want to love you, but I can’t help myself. So, is there no hope? Are you completely lost to me forever? Oh, not yet, to be sure? Please, please, not yet!”

8 267/257. From here to the beginning of the next sentence, P reads: “If you knew how anxious I am! You will do me a great favor if you go back to your room and try to resign yourself. You won’t make me unhappy, will you?”

9 268/258. Deleted in CW: “Soon someone might come....”

10 269/258. Deleted in CW: He wouldn’t see her anymore; in fact, she hadn’t even wanted to make the promise as a joke, though he begged her to do so as a favor.

11 In P, the paragraph reads up to this point:

“Forgive me! It was mean of me to forget that. You mustn’t feel sad on account of me, I cannot be anything for you in any case.”

CHAPTER XII (pp. 143-51)

1 276/261. Deleted in CW: “You’re nodding, so you remember, don’t you? Well, there you see, I was right, wasn’t I?”

2 279/263. Deleted in CW: “So forgive me! I shouldn’t have hurt you; but sitting here I feel all the time”

3 285/266. The word “shamming” was added in CW.

CHAPTER XIII (pp. 152-68)

1 287/267. This sentence replaced the following in P: Miniman pulled Nagel aside and whispered a thank-you for the new trousers, which he had on already; they went so perfectly with the coat, his new coat, and they were likely to last for as long as he lived, his entire life, oh sure, his entire life.

2 289/268. The counterpart to this sentence in P reads: “Anyway, I willingly recognize Tolstoy as one of the most active fools of our age. And so I say the hell with it all! ...”

3 290/268. In P, the rest of this paragraph reads: “But if Tolstoy is a fool, where will we all end up?”

4 290—91/268. Deleted in CW: “one only has to except his inestimable qualities as a plowman, his torn tunic, the leather belt girding his loins, that is, the man’s clumsy affectation-this one has to except. What one is left with is a gifted man, simply a highly gifted man, who writes books and missionizes. His books are both good and long, but most of them could have been both longer and better; his mission abounds in personal sacrifice and in puffery, but”

5 291/268. Deleted in CW: “I see you’re becoming speechless with fright, and that wasn’t the idea.”

6 291/268. Deleted in CW: “and that’s good, for otherwise you might find me rather quarrelsome for a host”

7 292-93/269. The last two sentences replaced the following passage in P: “And he got it.... Upon my word, when I review Tolstoy’s thoughts, hear his well-meant moral boasting, and familiarize myself with the reflections of this ideal count, I have the feeling I’m eating green paint. That vociferous virtue which is never silent, the drudgery of drying up people’s sources of life, of wild and joyful life, drying them up and making the world flat like a griddle, that dirty drivel about chastity from a soul that in the olden days was so merry, that blustering morality which puffs itself up and appears at every opportunity-I assure you he fills my heart with shame.”

8 294/269. Deleted in CW: “he gets to be so common. But by becoming common he becomes classical, turning into the well-known classic type of a common imitator, and since anything classical—absolutely everything—is so damned boring, common classic virtue also becomes boring, ergo, Tolstoy becomes boring. Well, that’s quite another matter. So, he remains important—that is, important as a boring, common old man.” The phrase “Yes, that’s the trouble” was added in CW.

9 294/269. Deleted in CW: “and lunatics. I’ll just say, if only we had many such common, boring benefactors in the world. People with hearts like Tolstoy aren’t usually accused of being dried up, that I’ve never heard before. As far as I can see, it is precisely because their hearts are warm and young that they can make such personal sacrifices, as you yourself mentioned.”

10 295/270. Up to this point of the paragraph, the P text reads:

“Come, come!” Nagel said, laughing. “But let’s drink first, skoal! ... You should be able to produce better objections, come up with a stronger defense. I’m not very polite, am I? No, you’re quite right, I’m not. Well, you are free to reciprocate, of course.”

11 300-01/272. The teacher’s interruption was added in CW. The P text reads from “Bravo” to this point: “Well, we agreed, didn’t we, that we could express our opinions rather drastically—the more so as you yourself have set the tone?”

“Certainly we did! And you’re right in saying I’ve jabbered too much. But what was it I wanted to say? So, Tolstoy’s worldwide fame is supposed to be proof of his great mind! Why? Tolstoy’s fame is nothing but popularity, and to win popularity requires some measure of stupidity, moral and spiritual stupidity; one simply has to ... I see you’re getting impatient, Doctor, as you have every right to bell”;

12 304/274. In P, the rest of the paragraph reads: “If I understand you correctly, you’re not altogether contemptuous of the Salvation Army? It’s not just nonsense, is it?”

13 304/274. In P, the rest of the paragraph reads: really meant to defend that nonsense.

14 305/274. Instead of the rest of this sentence, P contains the following passage: “from you. I don’t know you, of course, but as far as I can tell, in several respects you are a more extreme radical than any of us, whereas here you’re completely off.”

15 305-06/274. So far this paragraph is new; the following long passage from P was deleted in CW:

“What if we suppose, Doctor, that to hold an opinion directly contrary to our loudmouthed liberalism is also radical, when all is said and done? Well, we’ll skip that! But I don’t agree with what you said about the criticism either. A critic takes a metaphysical problem on his fork and ‘cuts it up.’ By the way, have you ever visited a horse fair, witnessed a horse swap? No? Well, anyway, we were supposed to talk about criticism, those sharp, pointed, extremely talented stabs by the fork at the metaphysical realm. What do you think? I find it rather cheap, it’s vulgar hair-splitting, peasant logic. On page 34 Pastor Hjelm says such and such, but, on the other hand, on page 108 Pastor Hjelm says so and so; this shows Pastor Hjelm’s way with logic! It seems to me this is exceedingly short on tolerance, anything but highbrow. For we understood what the man meant in both instances, but we have to catch him in a formal contradiction, to entrap him with his own words. But despite this Chinese nitpicking, people still are attending that farce of Christ’s blood....”

“Which is all right?”

“Which is a fact! And”

16 307/274. Deleted in CW: “... Obviously this is not radical enough for you-unless it should happen to be all too radical. Well, as you like! ... Am I boring you, Doctor?”

17 311-12/276. The following two words (“like Maupassant”) were added in CW; the P text goes on: “who served bitter drinks. Oh sure, it was the amount—the quantity-and the pungent taste that determined the value of the brew.... Well, he-Nagel-was no connoisseur, he was only a simple agronomist with ordinary horse sense, and consequently he didn’t lay claim to having fifty people on his side. He had at one time happened to make the mistake of expressing his view on the topic of Shakespeare. It was at an evening party. Yes, indeed, he had read Shakespeare; he had decided to ascend to the pinnacle of culture, that was his ambition, and so he read Shakespeare. But he had found Shakespeare to be deplorably dull and his devotees very, very easily satisfied. Then an expert got up from his chair, a connoisseur, an aesthete, who told him indignantly: “Well,” he said, ”this is your little opinion, but that doesn’t mean it is the opinion of people the world over!” Heh-heh, it was not the opinion of people the world over, he said! Good grief, what a funny man! No, indeed, it was not all the world’s opinion, but so what? What concern was it of his-Nagel’s-whether the fifty thousand who had received the seal were of another opinion? What was it to him that humankind bet on red, while he bet on black? ... And now they even came rushing along with Maupassant. Oh, dear!

18 313/277. In P, “this silly line” is “this single line by Victor Hugo.”

19 313-14/277. Long passage deleted in CW:

“But that verse isn’t all that impossible, is it?” the student objected.

Nagel let himself go once more: So, it wasn’t that impossible, eh? However poorly it had been recited, it had produced the desired effect ? Well, there you see. No, then it would have to be read differently ! He really ought to have gotten up, positioned himself by the door, and from there spewed this wonderful line of poetry on the gentlemen’s heads. Oh yes; for if Victor Hugo were to show to advantage, he had to be recited with wet, slavering chops, or his spirit abandoned the poem, so to speak.... Well, they had better not talk about Victor Hugo anymore. Blessed be his memory! Skoal.

They drank.

20 315/277. Deleted in CW: must first of all be able to grip a penholder without kid gloves; he

21 315/277-78. Up to this point of the sentence, P reads: Had the gentlemen ever heard canvas being rent? Heh-heh-heh, a quite impressive sound! ... Oh well, come to that, perhaps one sound was no worse than another,

22 315/278. In P, the rest of the sentence reads: reeking virtue, and his propaganda for his slobbering god.

23 316/278. In P, the sentence continues as follows: which Tolstoy had never been in his earthly life.

24 316/278. In P, the rest of the sentence reads: but Tolstoy hadn’t risen even to their level.

25 316/278. The rest of this sentence was added in CW.

CHAPTER XIV (pp. 169-81)

1 328/284. The three preceding sentences were added in CW. Instead, P reads: “I’m really so poor at it, even if I try. And some excuse can be made for me too, if you consider everything. What shall I do?”

2 328/284. Deleted in CW: “It has always worked before, when I really willed something, but now I find it very difficult.”

3 331/285. The “windbag” comparison was added in CW.

4 331/285. Dagny’s answer is deleted in CW: “I’m not at all angry with you, but you sadden me again and again. You don’t do it on purpose, but ...”

CHAPTER XVI (pp. 194-217)

1 375/306. P uses the word “delusion,” not “cotton wool.”

2 392/314. The last clause was added in CW.

3 393/314. P reads: His face was exceptionally pale. -In starting a new section at this point, I am following the P text.

4 396/316. In P, the last clause reads: “and that makes me go too far.” Different reflexive verbs are used in the two texts: forivre and forvirre; the discrepancy could be due to a composition error.

5 399/317. In P, the last two sentences read: He speaks very softly: Oh, they would surely make a go of it.

CHAPTER XVII (pp. 218-24)

1 408/322. Deleted in CW: He would be good to her in every way he knew; indeed, she only had to tell him how, and he would gladly do her bidding. He had been so hopeful he would succeed in this.

2 410—11/323. Deleted in CW: “I’m a stranger to you, no doubt about it, that’s the way it is; but I’m not lying to you. For that, too much is at stake for me. And when I explain it all to you sometime, perhaps already tomorrow, if I may come then—”

3 413/324. Deleted in CW:

Yes, he was going to overcome her scruples, he would put his heart into it. He would explain himself better to her tomorrow, be completely open with her, not hiding anything; she was going to believe him, all right. Who knows, perhaps she might even get to love him a little sometime, love him very much, perhaps! You could never tell.—At this point P begins a new section.

CHAPTER XVIII (pp. 225-42)

1 425/330. The rest of this sentence was added in CW.

2 428/331. The rest of this sentence was added in CW.

3 441/337. Here a new section starts in P.

4 443/338. Deleted in CW: flee the countries, so that the Atlantic itself can simply become a Norwegian lake.... Flimflam, call it flimflam!

5 444/339. P reads “restless” instead of “calm.”

CHAPTER XX (pp. 253-62)

1 479/356. P reads “Jesuit” instead of “counterfeiter.”

2 481/356. P uses the phrase “cunning Jesuitry” instead of “sanctimonious depravity.”

CHAPTER XXI (pp. 263—72)

1 499/365. The beginning of the next paragraph was deleted in CW: Just like before, almost just like once before: you seemed to sigh, don’t sigh!

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