The Best of Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun
yes, to me as well as to the rest," he replied. "Why shouldn't I be forgotten?"
She answered quite simply:
"I thought you were too well known."
"Known? Oh, as to that, Lord help us! I may not be so entirely unknown, of course, but—You must not think it is an easy matter to keep one's head above water here; one friend is envious, another hateful and malicious, a third simply despicable. No; as far as that is concerned—"
"It seems to me, however, that you are known, and well known, too," she said. "We cannot walk two steps that somebody isn't whispering about you; I have noticed it all along." She stopped.
"No, it is unbearable; I just heard another remark! Rather let us go up to the Exhibition at once!"
He laughed heartily, greatly flattered. How charming she was in her naive and unspoiled way! He said: Never mind; keep on! Pay no attention whatever. One got used to this whispering; if it amused people, what of it? He himself never noticed it any more; honestly, it did not affect him in the least. Besides, he wanted to let her know that to-day he was not the only subject of conversation—what about her? She could believe him or not; she was being thoroughly discussed. One could not come to a city like this one and look as she did without attracting attention; she could be very sure of that.
It was not his intention to flatter her; he was sincere in what he said. Still she did not seem to believe him.
They walked toward the park, where the band thundered Cherubini's "Overture to the Water-Carrier" across the place.
"It seems to me this is an altogether unnecessary noise," he said smilingly.
She laughed; she laughed often and heartily over his remarks. This laughter from her fresh lips, the dimple in her left cheek, her many cute and childlike ways, drove his spirits still higher; even her nose, which was somewhat irregular in profile and a little too large, made him almost feel as if he were in love. Greek or Roman noses were not always the most beautiful—not at all; it depended on the rest of the face. There was no such a thing as an authorised standard for noses.
He chatted about one thing after another and made time fly; he proved himself the poet who could interest those he addressed himself to, the highly cultured man, the genius of scintillating words. Aagot listened attentively; he tried to amuse her and came back to the subject of music again, to operatic music, which he simply abominated. He had, for instance, never been to the opera that he didn't happen to get a seat right behind a lady with a sharply bulging corset line, and he was condemned to stare at this ghastly back during three, four long intermissions. Then there was the performance itself, the brass instruments close to the ear, and then the singers who tried with all their might to drown their blatant blare in a roar of noise. At first one would appear who made strange contortions and meanwhile produced song; then another would stalk forth who did not want to take a back seat either, and who likewise did his utmost; then a third, a fourth, men and women, long processions, an army; and all sang their questions and sang their answers and beat their arms in the air and rolled their eyes, exercising their vocal chords without a moment's pause. Wasn't it true? They wept to music, sobbed to music, gritted teeth, sneezed, and fainted to music, and the conductor urged them on frantically with an ivory hammer-handle. She might laugh, but it was just that way. Then all of a sudden the conductor appears to become terror-stricken because of that infernal noise he has inspired; he swings his hammer-handle as a sign that there must be a change. Now the chorus starts in. This is not so bad; the chorus can pass muster; at least, it does not use such heartrending gestures. But in the midst of the singing another person strides forth, and he spoils the whole thing again; ah! it is the Prince; he has a solo— and when a prince has a solo of course everybody else has to keep still. But imagine this more or less corpulent masculine person standing there, bellowing, with legs wide apart! One gets furious; one experiences a well-nigh irrepressible desire to yell to this fellow to get out, to stop spoiling the evening for those who wanted to hear some music—hear the chorus sing!
Irgens was not displeased with himself—he attained his object. Aagot laughed incessantly and was hugely amused. How he did make things interesting and give life and colour to the most commonplace!
They finally got to the Exhibition, looked at what there was to see, and talked about the pictures as they went along. Aagot's questions were fully answered; Irgens knew everything and even told her anecdotes about the exhibiting painters. Here, too, they met curious people, who put their heads together and looked after them when they passed; but Irgens hardly glanced to the left or right; he seemed entirely indifferent to the attention accorded him. He only bowed a couple of times.
When, after an hour or so, they started to leave, they did not notice in an obscure corner a greyish-bearded, somewhat bald person, nor did they perceive two fathomless, burning eyes that followed them as they departed.
On the street Irgens said:
"I wonder—You are not going home at once, I hope?"
"Yes," she said, "I am going right back."
He asked her several times to stay a little longer, but Aagot thanked him and said that she wanted to get home. There was nothing to be done; she could not be persuaded, and he had to let her have her way. But they could make up for it some other time? There were both museums and galleries she ought to see; he would gladly act as her guide. She smiled and thanked him.
"I am admiring your walk," he said. "It is the most perfect walk I have ever seen."
She flushed and looked at him quickly.
"You cannot mean that," she said. "I who have lived in the backwoods all my life."
"Well, you may believe me or not, just as you please—You are altogether unusual, Miss Lynum, gloriously uncommon; in vain I seek words that would describe you. Do you know what you remind me of? I have carried this impression around all day. You remind me of the first bird note, the earliest warm spring tones—you know what I mean—that surge through the heart when the snow is gone and the sun and the birds of passage are here! But that isn't all about you. God help me, I cannot find the words I want, poet though I am supposed to be!"
"But I have never heard anything like it!" she cried, and laughed vivaciously. "I am supposed to be like all that? I should like to be, that much is certain. If only it were true!"
"You have come in here from the blue mountains; you are full of smiles," he said. "For this reason the description should call to mind the wild things—should have a flavour of venison, so to speak. I am not sure, though."
They were at the warehouse. They stopped and shook hands.
"I am ever so much obliged," she said. "Aren't you coming up? Ole must be in the office now."
"No, thanks—But listen, Miss Lynum, I would like to come soon and drag you with me to some museum; may I?"
"Yes," she answered hesitatingly. "That is very kind of you. I'll see—But I thank you for your company to-day."
She went in.
III
Irgens walked up the street. Where should he go now? He might go to Tivoli; there was plenty of time; in fact, it was much too early; he would have to kill an hour or so first. He felt in his pocket for the envelope; he had money; he might as well go to the Grand.
As he entered the door he was hailed by Journalist Gregersen, the literary member of the Gazette staff. Irgens did not like this fellow; he did not care to cultivate his friendship in order to get an item published in the paper now and then. Paulsberg had now two days running had a paragraph concerning his excursion to Honefos: the first day about his going, the second about his return; Gregersen had in his usual accommodating manner concocted two very excellent little items about this excursion. That such a man could descend to such coarse work! It was said that the fellow was capable of greater things; he would surely blossom forth some day; all right, time enough then. Irgens did not care for him very much nowadays.
Unwillingly,