by Knut Hamsun
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 th
e 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, think1 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 m
uch, 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 nice2 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.”
