Mysteries

by Knut Hamsun

  “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 f
or 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.