Mysteries

by Knut Hamsun

  “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’s2 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.”