Mysteries - Knut Hamsun [115]
He fell silent. Nor did she say anything more; evidently she had expected a different answer from him. Finally the teacher appeared, just in time to break up this painful scene; he was very drunk and could barely stand on his legs.
Dagny took his arm and walked out.
From now on those who still remained of the small party became far more lively; they all breathed more easily, and Martha laughed for joy at nothing and clapped her hands. Now and then, when she realized that she might be laughing too much, she turned red and checked herself, looking around at the others to see whether they had noticed. This charming confusion, which was repeated time and again, sent Nagel into raptures and made him commit many tomfooleries just to hold her attention. Thus he hit on playing “Old Man Noah” on a cork that he placed between his teeth.
In the meantime Mrs. Stenersen had joined them. She declared she wouldn’t budge until it was all over; there was still a number left, a performance by two turners that she simply had to see. She invariably held out to the end; the night was so long, it was always so dreary to come home and find herself alone. But shouldn’t they go in and watch the two turners?
And they all went into the hall.
As they sit there, a tall bearded man comes walking down the center aisle. He is carrying a violin case in his hand. It’s the organist; he had performed his numbers and was ready to leave. Pausing to say hello, he immediately starts a conversation with Nagel about the violin. Sure enough, Miniman had been to see him and offered to buy it, but that was out of the question; it was an heirloom, so dear to him that he regarded it just as a little person. It even had his name on it. Anybody could see it was no ordinary violin.... And he carefully opens the case.
There lies the delicate dark-brown instrument, neatly packed in pink silk, its strings swathed in cotton wool.
It looked nice, didn’t it? And the three initials in tiny little Cape rubies here at the upper end of the fingerboard stood for Gustav Adolf Christensen. No, it would be wrong to sell a thing like that! What would then be left to be happy about on days when time hung heavy on one’s hands? It was something else if it was only a question of trying it out for a moment, making a stroke or two—.
No, Nagel didn’t want to try it out.
All the same, by now the organist had taken the instrument completely out of its case, and while the two turners were doing their final springs and the public applauded around the hall, he went on talking about this remarkable violin, which had been handed down through three generations. It was light as a feather—“feel it yourself, go on and hold it....”
And Nagel, too, thought it was light as a feather. But once he had gotten hold of the violin, he began turning it around and fingering the strings. With the air of a semi-connoisseur, he said, “It’s a Mittelwalder, I see.” But its being a Mittelwalder wasn’t difficult to find out, since it was evident from a printed label on the back of the sound box. So why this air of being a connoisseur? Then, when the turners were gone and nobody applauded anymore, he rises; without speaking, not a word, he puts out his hand for the bow. The next moment, as they are all about to get up from their seats and leave the hall, with noise and