Mysteries - Knut Hamsun [125]
When he met Sara in the hallway, he learned that the letter had been brought by messenger from the parsonage. So that, too, was Dagny’s doing, she had arranged it all, had carefully calculated everything and acted swiftly. No, she would never forgive him!
He wandered about all day—in the streets, in his room, out in the woods, everywhere; he didn’t rest for a moment. He always walked with his head bowed, his eyes wide-open and unseeing.
The next day went by in the same manner. It was a Sunday, and lots of country people had come to town to visit the bazaar and see the tableaux on the last day. Nagel received another request to play, just one number, through another member of the program committee, Consul Andresen, Fredrikke’s father; but again he declined. For four whole days he walked about like a lunatic, in a strangely absent mood, as though engrossed by one single thought, one feeling. He walked down to Martha’s house several times a day to see whether she might have returned. Where had she gone? But even if he found her, it wouldn’t do him any good. Nothing would any longer!
One evening he barely escaped running into Dagny. She was coming out of a shop and nearly brushed his elbow. She moved her lips as if to talk to him, but suddenly blushed and said nothing. Failing to recognize her at first, in his bewilderment he paused for a moment to look at her before turning abruptly and moving off. She followed him, he could tell by her footsteps that she was walking faster and faster; he had a feeling that she was trying to overtake him and quickened his pace to get away, to give her the slip. He was afraid of her—she would never stop making trouble for him! Finally he escaped to the hotel, rushed in, and hurried up to his room in the utmost agitation. Thank God, he was saved!
This was on July 14, a Tuesday.
In the morning he seemed to have made a decision to do something. During the past few days his face had completely changed; it was gray and stiff, and his eyes were lifeless. Also, more and more often he would be way down the street before discovering he had forgotten his cap. On such occasions he would clench his fist and tell himself that this had got to stop, be done with once and for all.
When he got out of bed Wednesday morning he first examined the little poison vial in his vest pocket, shook it, smelled it, and put it away again. Getting dressed he began, as was his wont, to grapple with one of those long, untidy trains of thought which were constantly occupying him, giving his weary head no rest. His brain worked frantically, at tremendous speed; his emotions were in turmoil, and he felt so desperate that he often had difficulty holding back his tears. And in the midst of all this a swarm of thoughts crowded in on him.
Thank God, he still had his vial! It smelled of almonds, and the liquid was clear as water. Sure enough, he would be needing it very soon, despite everything, very soon, since there was no other way out. That’s how it would end, after all. And why not? He had had such a ridiculously beautiful dream of a mission in the world, something that would “count,” some achievement that would scandalize the carnivores—and it had turned out so badly; he hadn’t been up to the task. Why shouldn’t he make use of that liquid? All he had to do was to swallow it without making too many faces. Well, he would do it in the fullness of time, when the clock struck the hour.
Dagny would win....
What power that woman had,1 quite ordinary as she was, with her long braid and her wise heart! He understood the poor man who refused to live without her, the one with the steel and the final no. He was