Mysteries - Knut Hamsun [94]
The writers? Heh-heh, oh sure, there was no denying that they had penetrated the depths of the human heart! What were they, these writers, these stuck-up creatures who had known how to acquire such power in modern life, what were they? Well, they were a rash, a scab on the body politic, swollen and irritable pimples that had to be treated gently, be handled carefully and reverently, or they caused trouble; for they couldn’t stand rough treatment! Oh yes, you certainly had to make a fuss over the writers, especially the most stupid ones, those with the least developed humanity, the pixies, for otherwise they sulked their way abroad! Heh-heh, abroad, sure! Good Lord, what a priceless comedy! And if there appeared a writer, a truly inspired bard with music in his breast, you could be damn sure he would be placed far behind a coarse, prolific professional17 like Maupassant, a man who had written a lot about love and shown he could turn out book after book! One must give the devil his due. Alas, a bright little twinkling star, a real poet as far as it lay within his power, Alfred de Musset, in whose work love was not just a routine of rutting but a delicate, ardent note of spring in his characters, and whose words were positively blazing in line after line—this writer probably didn’t have half as many followers as puny Maupassant with his extremely coarse and soulless crotch poetry....
Nagel was going beyond all bounds. He even found occasion to pitch into Victor Hugo, and condemned the greatest world-class authors up hill and down dale. If they would allow him to offer just one brief sample of the hollow poetic rumble of such a world author, they should listen to this: “May your steel be as sharp as your final no!” What did they think, didn’t it have a nice ring to it? What was Mr. Grøgaard’s opinion?
As he said this, Nagel gave Miniman a piercing glance. Continuing to stare at him, he repeated this silly line,18 not taking his eyes off Miniman’s face. Miniman didn’t reply; his blue eyes burst open in utter dismay, and in his confusion he took a deep draft from his glass.19
“You mentioned Ibsen,” Nagel went on, still as agitated and without Ibsen’s name having been mentioned. In his opinion Norway had only one poet, and it was not Ibsen. No, it was not. People spoke about Ibsen as a thinker, but hadn’t we better distinguish between popular argument and real thought? People talked about Ibsen’s fame and assaulted our ears with his courage; hadn’t we better distinguish between theoretical and practical courage, between a ruthless, unselfish revolutionary urge and the daring of domestic revolt? The former shines forth in life, the latter astounds in the theater. A Norwegian author who didn’t puff himself up and brandish a pin like a lance was not a Norwegian author, of course; you would have to find some gatepost or other to square up to, otherwise you weren’t seen as a plucky fellow. It was really a very amusing sight if viewed from a distance. There was a turmoil of battle and a show of true mettle as in a Napoleonic engagement, while the danger and risk were those of a French duel. Heh-heh-heh.... No, a man who wanted to rebel20 couldn’t be just a scribbling curiosity, a merely literary concept for Germans, but had to be an active, kicking human being in the turmoil of life. Ibsen’s revolutionary courage would certainly never lead him onto thin ice; that bit about putting a torpedo under the ark was a pitiful bureaucratic theory, as compared to the living, flaming deed. Oh well, come to that, perhaps one thing was no worse than another 21 as long as we groveled before the sort of womanish work involved in writing books for people. But however