Mysteries - Knut Hamsun [118]
“Yes—. Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop it!”
“But look: I really don’t deserve that you should still suspect me of putting on an act—”
“No,” Martha says, suddenly remorseful, “I don’t suspect you of anything; still, it’s impossible.”
“Why is it impossible? Are you bound to someone else?”
“No, no.”
“Not at all? Because if you’re bound to someone else—let’s say, just to mention a name, to Miniman, for example—”
“No!” she cries out, giving his hand a palpable squeeze.
“No? All right, so nothing stands in our way as far as that goes. Let me continue. You mustn’t think I’m so far above you that it would be impossible for that reason. I won’t keep anything from you, in many respects I’m not as I ought to be; well, you heard yourself what Miss Kielland said this evening. You have probably also heard from other people in town what a mean creature I am in more ways than one. Occasionally they may do me an injustice, but in the main they’re right; as a man, I have grave faults. So, in fact, you with your pure heart and sensitive, childlike mind are infinitely above me, instead of the other way around. But I would promise always to be kind to you, it wouldn’t be difficult, believe me; my greatest joy would be to make you happy.... Something else is that perhaps you’re afraid of what the town might say? Well, first of all, the town would simply have to accept your becoming my wife, in its own church, if you like. But secondly, the town has already got enough to talk about; it has scarcely gone entirely unnoticed that we’ve met a few times before, and that I enjoyed your company at the bazaar this evening. So as far as that goes it won’t get much worse than it is already. And good heavens, what does it matter? You should feel blithely indifferent to what the world thinks.... You’re crying? Oh dear, you feel hurt that I’ve exposed you to gossip this evening, don’t you?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“What is it, then?”
She doesn’t answer.
Something occurs to him and he asks, “Do you feel I’m treating you badly? Tell me, you didn’t drink that much champagne, did you? I don’t believe you even had two glasses. Can you possibly have gotten the impression that I mean to take advantage of you, get you to give in more quickly, now that you’ve had a mouthful of wine? Is that why you’re crying?”
“No, not at all.”
“So why are you crying?”
“I don’t know.”
“At least, you don’t believe I mean to betray you in any way. By God in heaven, I’m honest through and through, believe me!”
“I do believe you, but I don’t understand, it upsets me so. You just cannot want—cannot want it.”
Oh yes, he did want it! And he explains more fully, holding her delicate little hand in his and hearing the rain beat against the windowpanes. Speaking very softly, he humors her, at times indulging in the most inane, childish prattle. Oh, they would be sure to make a go of it!5 They would go away, far away, God knows where; but they would steal off so that nobody knew what had become of them. That’s what they would do, right? Then they would buy a little cottage and a plot of ground in the forest, a lovely forest someplace or other; it would be their very own and they would call it Eden, and he would cultivate it—oh, would he cultivate it! But he might get to feel a little sad from time to time; dear, yes, it was quite possible. Something might cross his mind, a recollection, some bitter experience or other that came back to him perhaps; how easily that could happen! But then she would be patient with him, wouldn’t she? Anyway, he wasn’t going to let her notice it very much, never, that he promised. He would only want to be left alone to grapple with it, or he would withdraw, go farther into the woods, and return in a little while. Oh, but no harsh