Mysteries - Knut Hamsun [92]
The doctor had gradually gotten the wind up and came out with many assertions and commonplaces. At the table he went from bad to worse; a great deal of champagne was consumed and the mood became exuberant: even Miniman, who was sitting beside Nagel and had been silent so far, joined in the conversation with a few remarks. The teacher sat stiff as a poker, crying out again and again about an egg he’d gotten all over himself, so that he couldn’t move. He was completely helpless. And when Sara came to wipe it off, the lawyer seized the opportunity to grab her, taking her into his arms and carrying on with her. The whole table was in confusion.
Meanwhile Nagel ordered a basket of champagne to be brought up to his room. Shortly thereafter they got up from the table. The teacher and the lawyer walked arm in arm, singing merrily, and the doctor again began to expatiate on the principles of socialism in an animated tone. But on the stairs he was unlucky enough to lose his pince-nez, which fell off, for the tenth time very likely, and finally went to pieces. Both lenses broken. He pocketed the frame and was half blind for the remainder of the evening. This was an annoyance and made him even more irascible; as he sat down beside Nagel, he said12 sarcastically, “If I understand you correctly, you are a religious man, eh?”
He said this in full seriousness and expected an answer. After a brief pause he went on to say that, after their first conversation—the day of Karlsen’s funeral, to be precise—he had gotten the impression that he, Nagel,13 was, indeed, a religious man.
“I defended man’s religious life,” Nagel replied, “not Christianity in particular, not at all, but the religious life in general. You were of the opinion that all theologians should be hanged. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Because their role has been played out,’ you replied. I didn’t agree with that. The religious life is a fact. A Turk cries, ‘Allah is great!’ and dies for this conviction; Norwegians kneel at the altar and drink Christ’s blood to this day. A people needs some cowbell or other to believe in, and dies blissfully in that belief. The decisive thing, you see, is not what you believe in, but how you believe in it—”
“It amazes me to hear that sort of talk,”14 the doctor said indignantly. “In fact, I’m once again asking myself whether, at bottom, you aren’t simply a disguised Conservative. Here we have one scientific critique of theologians and theological books after another, writers come along, one after the other, cutting up this or that book of sermons, this or that theological treatise, and even so you won’t admit, say, that this farce regarding Christ’s blood is no longer of any value in our time. I don’t understand your way of thinking.”
After considering a moment, Nagel said, “My way of thinking is briefly this:15 What would it profit us, after all—pardon me, by the way, if I’ve asked this before—what would it profit us, after all, even from a purely practical viewpoint, if we stripped life of all poetry, all dreams, all beautiful mysteries, all lies? What is truth, can you tell me that? You see, we only advance by way of symbols, and we change these symbols as we progress.16 However, let’s not forget our drinks.”
The doctor got up and took a turn on the floor. He felt irritated by the sight of a crumpled piece of rug lying by the door, he even went down on his knees to straighten it out.
“Hansen, why don’t you lend me your glasses, since you are sleeping anyway,” he said, quite exasperated.