Then she relented; what’s more, she rose to her feet and, her emotion running away with her, stroked his hair as she had done once before, smiling through her tears. She would meet him tomorrow, she would be glad to; he just had to come a little earlier, at four or five, while it was still light, then nobody could say anything. But now he had to go, he had better leave at once. Yes, and come back tomorrow, she would be home and keep a lookout....
What a queer child of an old maid! At one word, half a remark, her heart was ablaze, making her tender and smiling. She held his hand till the moment he left, she was still holding it as she walked him to the door. On the steps she said a very loud good night, as if there might be someone around whom she wanted to defy.3
It had stopped raining—finally, it had almost stopped; here and there one could already see a patch of blue sky between the turbid clouds, and only an occasional raindrop fell on the damp ground.
Nagel again breathed more freely. Sure, he would regain her trust, what was to stop him? He didn’t return to the hotel but strolled by the docks, along the shore, passed the last houses in town and entered Parsonage Road. There was no one to be seen.
After he had walked another few steps, someone jumps up from the edge of the road and begins to walk in front of him. It was Dagny; the blond braid hung down her back over her raincoat.
A tremor shot through him from top to toe, and he almost came to a standstill for a moment; he was astounded. So she hadn’t gone to the bazaar this evening? Or was she simply taking a short walk before the tableaux began? She walked at an infinitely slow pace, even stopping once or twice to look up at the birds that were beginning to dart among the trees again. Had she seen him? Did she want to test him? Had she gotten up when he came to find out once more whether he dared accost her?
She could feel at ease about that, he would never again intrude upon her! And suddenly anger stirs within him, a dull, blind anger at this woman who might still want to tempt him to forget himself, simply to have the satisfaction of humiliating him afterward. She was quite capable of telling the people at the bazaar that he had had another rendezvous with her. Hadn’t she just been to see Martha and spoiled his chances there as well? Why couldn’t she simply stop putting mischief in his way? She had wanted to pay him back what he deserved, fair enough, but her payback was more extreme than was necessary.
They both walk equally slow, one behind the other, always about fifty steps apart. This goes on for several minutes. Suddenly her handkerchief falls to the ground. He can see it slip from her side, flutter along her raincoat and hit the road. Was she aware that she dropped it?
He tells himself that she wanted to test him; her rage had not yet abated, she wanted to make him pick up this handkerchief and bring it to her, so she could look him squarely in the face and really gloat over his defeat with Martha. His anger rising, he purses his lips and stamps a passionate wrinkle on his brow. Heh-heh, oh sure, he was to present himself before her, expose his face to her and let her laugh him to scorn! Look, there she dropped her handkerchief, it’s lying on the road, in the middle of the road. It’s white and extremely fine, a lace handkerchief at that; one could bend down and pick it up....
He walked at the same slow pace, and when he got to the handkerchief he stepped on it and kept walking.
They went on like that for another few minutes; then he saw her suddenly look at her watch and turn abruptly. She was coming straight at him. Had she missed her handkerchief? He turned also and walked slowly ahead of her. When he again reached the handkerchief, he stepped on it anew, a second time and under her very eyes. And he continued walking. He felt she was right behind him, and yet he didn’t increase his pace. They kept this up until they reached town.
Sure enough, she turned off in the direction of the bazaar; he went up to his room.
He opened a window and leaned forward, his elbows on the sill, broken, crushed by emotion. His anger was gone; clinching up, he started sobbing, sobbing with his head in his hands, mutely, with dry eyes, his body shaking. How could this have happened? Oh, how he regretted it, how he wished it undone! She had tossed her handkerchief down, maybe on purpose, maybe to humiliate him, but so what? He could have picked it up, stolen it, and kept it in his bosom for the rest of his life. It was white as snow, and he had trampled it in the mud! Once he had gotten hold of it, perhaps she would have refused to take it back; perhaps she would have let him keep it! Heaven knows. But if she had held out her hand for it, he would have thrown himself at her feet and pleaded, imploring her with raised hands to let him keep it as a remembrance, out of pity. And what would it matter if she had mocked him once more?
Suddenly he starts up, negotiates the stairs in two jumps, rushes into the street, leaves the town behind him in a couple of minutes and finds himself back on Parsonage Road. Maybe he could still find the handkerchief! And sure enough, she had left it there, although he was certain she had seen him step on it the second time. How lucky he was, though, despite everything! Thank God for that! His heart throbbing, he puts it away, rushes back to the hotel and rinses it, changing the water countless times, and gently spreads it out. It was pretty badly messed up, one corner even torn by his heel, but what did that matter! Oh, how happy he was to have found it!
Not until he sat down by the window again did he discover that he had made this latest walk through town without his cap. Sure, he was mad, quite mad! Suppose she had noticed! She had wanted to test him, and when all was said and done he had again failed miserably. No, this would have to stop, the sooner the better! He must be able to look at her with a tranquil heart, his head held high and his eyes cold, without betraying himself. He would certainly make an effort. He would go away and take Martha with him. She was much too good for him, alas, but he would make himself worthy of her; never rest, never allow himself an hour’s rest, until he had made himself worthy of her.
The weather was getting milder and milder, gentle puffs of wind carried the fragrance of damp grass and earth in through his window and revived him more and more. Tomorrow he would go see Martha again and beg her most humbly to give in....
But already the following morning, his hopes were completely undone.
XVIII
FIRST, DR. STENERSEN CAME; Nagel hadn’t even risen yet. The doctor excused himself, that confounded bazaar kept him busy night and day. He did have an errand, though, a mission: it was a question of getting him—Nagel—to appear at the bazaar again this evening. His playing was rumored to have been simply wonderful, the town had been sleepless from curiosity; it was the honest truth! “You read the papers, I see? Oh, politics! Did you notice the latest government appointments? In general, the election didn’t turn out the way it should, the Swedes didn’t get their faces slapped.... You sleep rather late, it seems to me; it’s ten o’clock. Some weather we’re having, the air is quivering with heat! You ought to go for a morning walk.”
Yes, Nagel would get up right away.
Well, what was his answer to the program committee?
No, Nagel wouldn’t play.
He wouldn’t? But it was a cause of national importance! Was it right of him to refuse such a small favor?
Well, he couldn’t.
Tut, tut! With such a strong feeling in his favor right now, especially among the ladies; they had made a real nuisance of themselves last night, begging him to make it come off. Miss Andresen hadn’t given him a moment’s rest, and Miss Kielland had actually taken him aside and asked him to flatly refuse letting Nagel go until he had promised to come.
Ah, but Miss Kielland didn’t have the faintest idea how he played. She had never heard him.
Still, she was the most enthusiastic; she had even offered to accompany him.... “She ended by saying, ‘Tell him we all beg him to come....’ You could give us the pleasure of doing some ten or twelve strokes, couldn’t you?”
He couldn‘t, he just couldn’t!
Why, those were nothing but excuses; he could Thursday evening, right?
/> Nagel squirmed. Suppose he knew only this poor fragment, this incoherent potpourri, that he had practiced these few dances to the highest level he could achieve to astonish people some evening! And besides, his playing was criminally out of tune; he couldn’t bear listening to himself, no, by Jove, he couldn’t!
“Yes but—”
“Doctor, I won’t do it!” “If not tonight, how about tomorrow night? Tomorrow is Sunday, the last day of the bazaar, and we’re anticipating a big turnout.”
“No, you’ll have to excuse me, I won’t play tomorrow night either. It’s simply idiotic to touch a violin when one cannot play any better than I do. How curious that you didn’t hear any better!”
This appeal to the doctor was effective.
“Well,” he said, “I did feel you made a few mistakes here and there; but what the hell, we aren’t all of us connoisseurs, you know.”
It was no use, the doctor got nothing but no all along and had to leave.
Nagel began getting dressed. So, even Dagny had been eager to make him do this, she would even have accompanied him! Another trap, eh? She failed last night, and now she would use this to even the score? ... But oh dear, maybe he was doing her an injustice, perhaps she wouldn’t hate him any more now, but leave him alone! And in his heart, he begged her pardon for his distrustfulness. He looked out at Market Square; there was the most glorious sunshine, the sky as lofty as could be. He began humming to himself.
When he was almost ready to go down, Sara slipped a letter through the door; it hadn’t come through the mail, a messenger had brought it. The letter was from Martha and contained only a few lines: he mustn’t come this evening, after all, she had gone away. For heaven’s sake, he must forgive her everything and not call on her anymore; it would give her pain to see him again. Goodbye. At the bottom of the page, below her name, she had added that she would never forget him. “I’ll never forget you,” she wrote. Altogether, this letter of three or four lines was filled with a note of sadness; even the characters looked sad and pitiful.
He collapsed on a chair. Everything was lost, lost! Even there he had been rejected! How strange it was, the way everything was conspiring against him! Had he ever been more honest or more well-intentioned? And yet—and yet it didn’t help! He sits motionless for several minutes.
All at once he jumps up from his chair; he looks at his watch, it’s eleven. If he dashed off at once, perhaps he could still catch Martha before she left! He goes straight to her place; it’s locked and empty. He peeks through the windows of both rooms and sees no trace of anybody.
Beaten and speechless, he turns back to the hotel without knowing where he is going, without taking his eyes off the ground. How could she do it, how could she! After all, he would have wanted to say goodbye to her and wish her every happiness, wherever she was going. He would have liked to kneel before her despite everything, for the sake of her goodness, because she had an utterly pure heart, and she hadn’t been able to endure his doing that. Well, never mind!
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 no longer surprised at him; the poor devil had quit, what else could he have done? ... How her blue velvet eyes will sparkle when I soon take the same path! But I love you, I love you for that too, not only for your virtues, but also for your malice. If anything, I suffer all too much by your being so indulgent with me; why do you tolerate that I have more than one eye? You should take one of them, well, both, why not? You shouldn’t put up with my being allowed to walk the street in peace and having a roof over my head. You have torn Martha away from me, but I love you in spite of it, and you know I love you in spite of it; it makes you snicker at me, and I also love you because you snicker at me. Can you ask for more? Isn’t that enough? Your long white hands, your voice, your blond hair, your breath and your soul—I love them all as I’ve never loved anything before; honest to God, I cannot help it, it’s beyond my control! You may mock me to your heart’s content and laugh at me, I don’t mind; what does it matter, Dagny, since I love you? I don’t see that it makes any difference; as far as I’m concerned, you can do whatever strikes your fancy, you’ll still be just as beautiful and lovable in my eyes, I willingly admit it. Somehow or other I’ve disappointed you; you regard me as wicked and mean and believe me capable of anything. If I could add to my low stature by some deception or other, I would even do that. Well, what about it? If you say so, it’s true for me as well, and a good thing; I assure you that my love begins to sing within me when you say it. Even if you look disdainfully at me or turn your back on me without answering my question, or you try to overtake me in the stree
t to humiliate me, even so my heart thrills with love for you. Try to understand, I’m deluding neither you nor myself: it doesn’t really matter to me if you laugh again, it doesn’t change my feelings. That’s the way it is. And if I should find a diamond some day it would be called Dagny, because your name is enough to make me warm with joy. I would even go so far as to wish to hear your name perpetually, hear it spoken by all men and beasts, by every mountain and every star, as to wish I were deaf to everything else and only heard your name as an endless note in my ear night and day all my life long. I would want to institute a new oath in your name, an oath that all the peoples on earth would swear by, in your honor. And if that would be a sin and God warned me against it, I would answer him: charge it to my account, enter it on the books, I’ll pay for it with my soul in the fullness of time, when the clock strikes....
How strange it all is! I’ve been stopped everywhere, and yet I’m the same, in strength, in spirit. The same possibilities are open to me as before, I could accomplish the same tasks. Why, then, have I been stopped, and why have all possibilities become impossible to me all of a sudden? Is it my own fault? I do not see how. All my senses are intact, I have no harmful habits, I’m not addicted to a single vice, nor do I rush blindly into danger. I think as before, feel as before, I’m in control of my movements as before, and, yes, I appreciate people as before. I’ll go to Martha, I know that she’s my salvation, a kind soul, my guardian angel. She’s timid, very apprehensive; but in the end she will want what I want and we’ll be in agreement. Good! I’m dreaming of a life of happy tranquillity; we shall withdraw into solitude, live in a cottage with a spring nearby, roam about the woods in short togs and buckled shoes2—just as her kind, sentimental heart demands. Why not? Mohammed goes to the mountain! And Martha is with me, filling my days with purity and my nights with rest, and the Lord on high is over us. But then the world sticks its nose into it, the world takes umbrage, the world decides it’s madness. The world says that such and such a reasonable man or woman wouldn’t have done it, consequently it’s mad. And I, a single solitary individual, stand up, stamp my feet and say it is reasonable! What does the world know? Nothing! You simply get used to something, you accept it and acknowledge it, because your teacher has acknowledged it before you; everything is just a supposition—indeed, even time, space, motion, matter are suppositions. The world knows nothing, it merely accepts things....