Mysteries (47 page)

“Yes,” she said to herself.

She walked in silence for a while, pondering this, but then she says again,

Pause. Nobody spoke for a long time. She was waiting, looking up at Nagel and down at the road by turns.

“May I?”

“Yes, an adventure!” she cried spontaneously. She was again as pleased as a child, and egged him on to tell his story. All right, if he insisted, he could carry her parasol; what pleasure was there in that anyway? But the adventure! Why didn’t he begin?

“Yes—unfortunately!” Nagel replied.

Pause.

“Why do you say ‘unfortunately’?”

“Hm. That I can’t tell you.”

“Ha-ha-ha, he can’t tell me! All right, and then? Oh, how strange it all is!”

“After all, it happened eight years ago,” he said, “I didn’t experience it today. Tell me,

“Are you still thinking about my fairy-tale adventure?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

He again made light of it, said it was too long ago to concern oneself with, it wasn’t immediate. Besides, it wasn’t really that uncanny, was it? Ah, she should hear people from the tropics tell fairy tales! He had, and many a time his blood had run cold with terror.

“No, I don’t think your story was that uncanny,” she said, “simply strange, mysterious. Thank you.”

Delighted that she again became more vivacious, he began once more to enlarge upon what the inhabitants of the tropics could relate when they felt like it. Come down to Ceylon, the ancient Taprobane, come into the mountains and forests at Mehavilla and hear fairy tales that will completely take your breath away. There one came upon one of the oldest peoples on earth, the ancient Veddas, the aborigines of Ceylon. They lived the most wretched life, were chased into the woods by the Singhalese and the European rabble; but how they could tell stories!

Dagny laughed and contradicted him. So, oatmeal porridge wasn’t good enough, eh? But didn’t we, too, have the most beautiful fairy tales? How about those of Asbjørnsen?

He grew excited. Of course, of course, oats were excellent fare in countries that had no sun, who could say anything else? But what if there was sun? Could she imagine a sun that shone rather extravagantly, foaming into white-crested waves of light? Oh well, there were the fairy tales of the mountains, the legends about the wood nymph, those crude phantoms of a

“I can’t understand the way you see things,” she said, “and it really makes me laugh when I think about it. No matter what issue is raised, you always seem to be in opposition to everybody else. Whether it’s Gladstone, antirheumatic chains, or fairy tales, you are a living contradiction to everything other people think. Oh, it’s very amusing, so please go on—go on and tell me more! I’m eager to hear! What, for example, is your opinion of our national defense?”

He turned crimson and bowed his head. How this woman with the blue eyes could make fun of him! Well, why not? But on such a beautiful night, amid such profound peace! He merely said, quite perplexed, “National defense? National defense? What do you mean?”

She answered by changing the subject, somewhat impatiently, “Well, you don’t seem to be happy any longer. What time is it?”

“It’s a few minutes after two.”

“You probably read a lot in your home,” he said.

“How do you know?” she replied.

“I believe I’ve heard about it; I also know that your father has books by Turgenev and Garborg, and that’s a good sign.”

“Yes, isn’t Turgenev wonderful! So, Miniman has gossiped again, you can’t have heard it from anyone else. Yes, we do read a lot; Dad is always reading, he’s got so many books. How do you like Tolstoy?”

“A good deal, of course. Tolstoy is a great and remarkable man.”

But now she laughed resoundingly and interrupted him: “You’re saying something you don’t mean again, I can tell from your looks. You don’t like Tolstoy at all.”

“Hm. That Is—. No, let’s not touch on issues again, because then I’ll become more boring than ever. I’m not lucky enough to agree with everyone, you know, and I would rather not make you tired of me. How do you like Tolstoy yourself?”

“You aren’t happy anymore; that’s it, you aren’t happy anymore. Anyway, we’ll turn around now.”

“The truth is,” he said, “that if I were to say how happy I am and why I am so happy, you would run away from me again, and that mustn’t happen. Permit me to keep it to myself—”

Again she interrupted him: “Yes, of course-. It has certainly been a delightful evening; but you’re probably very tired by now. Thanks for walking me home! But come to think, you mustn’t take my parasol with you. Oh, what a nice state of affairs that would be, if you did that, ha-ha-ha.”

When she had reached the gate, she turned around once more and said, “There’s also another reason why it’s good that I met you this evening”:

Nagel laughed and said, “Come, come, you don’t frighten me, you know!”

“Yes, quite clear.”

“For, as you recall, I thoroughly humiliated him, after all, calling him a puppy in the presence of many people. True, I have apologized for it, but nevertheless. So, when you receive the coat you just look innocent.”

“No, no.”

Pause.

“Won’t you ever come up and see me again?” Nagel said. “Please do, my good friend! It’s not nice of you to stay away altogether. You won’t have to drink anything if you come.”

But this trump card didn’t have any effect either.

They began to walk.

“Dagny, Dagny!” he said suddenly. And before she realized it, he threw himself on his knees, threw himself down in the middle of the road and kept lying there like that for a minute, cap in hand and his head bowed, as if he expected a blow. She looked about her in the utmost fright; in her perplexity she even made a move to raise him up, but abandoned the attempt.

“No, get up, will you!” she cried just above his head, “this minute, do you hear! What’s the matter with you? In the middle of the road to boot!”

When he did get up, she even made him aware that he had to brush the sand off his knees. They didn’t walk any farther, but kept standing in the same spot. Then she said,