Mysteries - Knut Hamsun [133]
On entering the woods, Nagel threw himself down on the first patch of heather he saw and covered his head with his hands. What a turmoil in his brain, what a swarm of impossible thoughts! After a while he fell asleep. It was no more than four hours since he’d gotten out of bed, and yet he fell asleep, dead tired and exhausted.
When he awoke it was evening. Looking about him, he saw the sun going down behind the steam mill at Indviken Cove, and the small birds darting from tree to tree and singing. His head was quite clear—no more confused thoughts, no bitterness, he was completely calm. He leaned against a tree and thought for a moment. Should he do it now? Why not sooner rather than later? No, he had several things to take care of first: write a letter to his sister, leave a small memento in an envelope for Martha; he couldn’t die tonight. He hadn’t paid his hotel bill either, and he would like to remember Miniman, too, with ...
He headed back to the hotel, going dead slow. But tomorrow night it would be done, around midnight, without any fuss, quickly and to the point, quickly and to the point!
At three o’clock in the morning he was still standing by the window of his room looking out on Market Square.
XIX
AROUND TWELVE O’CLOCK the following night Nagel finally left the hotel. He had made no preparations, though he had written to his sister and put some money in an envelope for Martha; his bags, his violin case, and the old chair he had bought stood in their usual place, and some books were lying around on the table. And he still hadn’t paid his bill; he had completely forgotten about it. Just before he left the hotel, he asked Sara to dust the windows before he came back, and Sara had promised to do so, though it was the middle of the night. Then he carefully washed his face and hands and left the room.
He was calm all along, almost listless. Goodness, why play it up and make a fuss about it! A year sooner or later didn’t make any difference; besides, he had been thinking about it for a long time. And now he was sick and tired of all his disappointments, his many failed hopes, of the humbug everywhere, the subtle daily deceit on the part of everyone. Again he happened to think of Miniman, whom he had also remembered with an envelope with something inside, though his suspicion of the poor decrepit dwarf never left him. He thought of Mrs. Stenersen who, sick and asthmatic, cheated on her husband right to his face without batting an eye; of Kamma, that money-grubbing little tart who stretched her false arms out for him wherever he went and was constantly rummaging in his pockets for more, always more. East and west, at home and abroad, he had found people to be the same; everything was vulgar and sham and disgracefully perfidious, from the bum who wore his healthy arm in a sling to the blue sky overflowing with ozone. And he himself, was he any better? No, no, he was no better himself! But now he was really at the end.
He walked by way of the docks to have yet another look at the ships, and on passing the last pier he suddenly removed the iron ring from his finger and tossed it into the sea. He saw it hit the water way out. There! At the last moment, one did at least make a small attempt to rid oneself of humbug!
He came to a halt at Martha Gude’s little house and peeked through the windows for the last time. Everything was as usual in there, quiet and still, and nobody was to be seen.
“Goodbye!” he said.
And he went on.
Without himself being aware of it, he bent his steps toward the parsonage. He only realized how far he