Mysteries - Knut Hamsun [111]
“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