Mysteries

by Knut Hamsun

  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 re
alize 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 tim
e 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!