at once. Ha-ha, that seems very unlikely to me, very unlikely indeed. But he will definitely be buried in consecrated ground. No, he probably didn’t stumble, I’m afraid!”
“You say they found the knife only last night. But wasn’t the knife lying next to him?”
“No, it was lying several paces off. After using it, he threw it away, into the woods; it was found quite by chance.”
“Really. But what reason could he have had for throwing the knife away, since he was lying there with open cuts? It would be clear to everyone, wouldn’t it, that he must have used a knife?”
“Ah, God knows what he may have had in mind; but, as I said, there was probably a love affair behind it all. It’s quite unheard of; the more I think about it, the worse it looks to me.”
“Why do you think a love affair was behind it?”
“For several reasons. However, it’s hard to know what to say about it.”
“But couldn’t he simply have fallen, by accident? He was lying in such an awkward position; wasn’t he lying on his stomach with his face in a puddle?”
“Yes, and he had made an awful mess of himself. But that doesn’t make any difference, he may have meant something by that too. He may have wanted to hide the death agony in his face that way. Who knows?”
“Did he leave a note?”
“Supposedly he was writing something on a piece of paper; anyway, he would often be seen on the road writing things. And now they imagine he may have been using the knife to sharpen his pencil or something, when he took a tumble and cut open, first, one wrist at the artery and, next, the other wrist at the artery, all in the same fall. Ha-ha-ha! But he did leave a note, sure enough; he was holding a small piece of paper in his hand, and on that paper were these words, ‘May your steel be as sharp as your final no!’ ”
“What drivel. 3 Was the knife dull?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Why didn’t he sharpen it first?”
“It wasn’t his knife.”
“Whose knife was it, then?”
The hotel keeper hesitates a moment before he says, “It was Miss Kielland’s knife.”
“Was it Miss Kielland’s knife?” Nagel asks. And a moment later, “Well, and who is Miss Kielland?”
“Dagny Kielland. She is the parson’s daughter.”
“I see. How strange! Whoever heard the likes! The young man was that crazy about her, was he?”
“He must’ve been, sure. Anyway, they’re all crazy about her, he wasn’t the only one.”
Nagel became lost in thought and said nothing further. Then the hotel keeper breaks the silence and remarks, “Well, I’ve been telling you these things in confidence and I beg you to—”
“Righto,” Nagel replies. “You may rest easy on that score.”
When Nagel went down to breakfast a little later, the hotel keeper was already in the kitchen relating that, at last, he had had a regular chat with the man in yellow in Number 7. “He’s an agronomist,” the hotel keeper said, “and he’s come from abroad. He says he’ll be here for several months. God only knows what sort of man he is.”
II
THAT SAME DAY, in the evening, Nagel happened to come across Miniman all of a sudden. An endless and tedious conversation took place between them, a conversation that lasted well over three hours.
It all went as follows, from beginning to end:
Johan Nagel was sitting in the hotel café with a newspaper in his hand when Miniman came in. There were also some other people sitting around the tables, including a stout peasant woman with a black-and-red knitted kerchief over her shoulders. They all seemed to know Miniman; he bowed politely right and left as he came in, but was received with loud yells and laughter. The peasant woman even got up and wanted to dance with him.
“Not today, not today,” he says to the woman evasively, and with that he walks straight up to the hotel keeper and addresses him, cap in hand: “I’ve brought the coal up to the kitchen; I suppose that will be all for
“You say they found the knife only last night. But wasn’t the knife lying next to him?”
“No, it was lying several paces off. After using it, he threw it away, into the woods; it was found quite by chance.”
“Really. But what reason could he have had for throwing the knife away, since he was lying there with open cuts? It would be clear to everyone, wouldn’t it, that he must have used a knife?”
“Ah, God knows what he may have had in mind; but, as I said, there was probably a love affair behind it all. It’s quite unheard of; the more I think about it, the worse it looks to me.”
“Why do you think a love affair was behind it?”
“For several reasons. However, it’s hard to know what to say about it.”
“But couldn’t he simply have fallen, by accident? He was lying in such an awkward position; wasn’t he lying on his stomach with his face in a puddle?”
“Yes, and he had made an awful mess of himself. But that doesn’t make any difference, he may have meant something by that too. He may have wanted to hide the death agony in his face that way. Who knows?”
“Did he leave a note?”
“Supposedly he was writing something on a piece of paper; anyway, he would often be seen on the road writing things. And now they imagine he may have been using the knife to sharpen his pencil or something, when he took a tumble and cut open, first, one wrist at the artery and, next, the other wrist at the artery, all in the same fall. Ha-ha-ha! But he did leave a note, sure enough; he was holding a small piece of paper in his hand, and on that paper were these words, ‘May your steel be as sharp as your final no!’ ”
“What drivel. 3 Was the knife dull?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Why didn’t he sharpen it first?”
“It wasn’t his knife.”
“Whose knife was it, then?”
The hotel keeper hesitates a moment before he says, “It was Miss Kielland’s knife.”
“Was it Miss Kielland’s knife?” Nagel asks. And a moment later, “Well, and who is Miss Kielland?”
“Dagny Kielland. She is the parson’s daughter.”
“I see. How strange! Whoever heard the likes! The young man was that crazy about her, was he?”
“He must’ve been, sure. Anyway, they’re all crazy about her, he wasn’t the only one.”
Nagel became lost in thought and said nothing further. Then the hotel keeper breaks the silence and remarks, “Well, I’ve been telling you these things in confidence and I beg you to—”
“Righto,” Nagel replies. “You may rest easy on that score.”
When Nagel went down to breakfast a little later, the hotel keeper was already in the kitchen relating that, at last, he had had a regular chat with the man in yellow in Number 7. “He’s an agronomist,” the hotel keeper said, “and he’s come from abroad. He says he’ll be here for several months. God only knows what sort of man he is.”
II
THAT SAME DAY, in the evening, Nagel happened to come across Miniman all of a sudden. An endless and tedious conversation took place between them, a conversation that lasted well over three hours.
It all went as follows, from beginning to end:
Johan Nagel was sitting in the hotel café with a newspaper in his hand when Miniman came in. There were also some other people sitting around the tables, including a stout peasant woman with a black-and-red knitted kerchief over her shoulders. They all seemed to know Miniman; he bowed politely right and left as he came in, but was received with loud yells and laughter. The peasant woman even got up and wanted to dance with him.
“Not today, not today,” he says to the woman evasively, and with that he walks straight up to the hotel keeper and addresses him, cap in hand: “I’ve brought the coal up to the kitchen; I suppose that will be all for
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