Mysteries - Knut Hamsun [76]
He tossed off what was left of the wine and went on talking.
“By the way, I apologize for constantly changing the subject. Partly, I suppose, all these sudden jumps in my thinking are due to my being roaring drunk, but partly also to a general fault of mine. The fact is, I’m only a simple agronomist, a student from a cow-dung academy; I’m a thinker who never learned how to think. Well, let’s not go into these special matters; they are of no interest to you, and to me they are downright repugnant, since I’m already aware of my situation. You know, when I sit here alone thinking about different things, taking a long, hard look at myself, it often gets to a point—well, it often happens that I call myself Rochefort in a loud voice, tap my noodle and call myself Rochefort! What will you say if I tell you that I once ordered a seal with a hedgehog on it? ... That reminds me of a man I knew at one time as a decent and quite ordinary and respectable student of philology at a German university. The man became a degenerate—two years sufficed to make him both a drunkard and a novelist. If he met strangers and was asked who he was, in the end he merely replied that he was a fact. ‘I’m a fact!’ he said, pursing his lips in sheer arrogance. Oh well, this is of no interest to you.... You mentioned a man, a thinker, who had never learned how to think. Or was it I who brought that up? I’m sorry; you see, I’m dead drunk. But that’s all right, don’t worry. However, I would very much like to explain to you this matter of the thinker who couldn’t think. If I understood you correctly, you wanted to attack the man. Oh yes, I definitely had that impression, you spoke in a scornful tone of voice; but the man you mentioned deserves to be seen more or less in perspective. First of all, he was a big fool. No, no, that I won’t take back, he was a fool. He always wore a long red tie and smiled out of pure vanity. In fact, he was so vain that time and again he would be buried in a book when someone came to see him, though he never read anything. Also, he never wore any socks, just so he could afford a rose in his buttonhole. That’s the way he was. But best of all, he had a number of portraits, the portraits of some modest but nice-looking artisan’s daughters, on which he had inscribed grand, high-sounding names to give the impression that he had such and such genteel acquaintances. On one of the pictures he had written, in clear letters, ‘Miss Stang,’ to make you believe she was related to the prime minister, though the girl’s name might be Lie or Haug, at the most. Heh-heh-heh, what can one say to such conceit? He imagined that people were occupying themselves with him, slandering him. ‘People are slandering me!’ he said. Heh-heh-heh, do you really believe that anyone would take the trouble to slander him? Then one day he walked into a jewelry store smoking two cigars! Two cigars! He had one in his hand, the other in his mouth, and both were lighted. Maybe he didn’t know he was sporting two cigars at once, and being a thinker who hadn’t learned how to think, he didn’t ask any questions—”
“I really have to go,” Miniman finally said in a soft voice.
Nagel rose instantly.
“You have to go?” he said. “You’re really going to leave me? Well, I guess the story is too long, if the man is to be seen in perspective. All right, let it wait until some other time. So you definitely want to leave, do you? Well, many thanks for a very pleasant evening! Do you hear? I can hardly believe that I got so drunk. How do I look? Take your thumb, put it under a magnifying glass and look; what a sight, eh? Oh, I understand your expression, you are an enormously clever man, Mr. Grøgaard, and it’s a treat