The Best of Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun

is the Doctor's stick. I cannot understand how a lame man could forget his stick.” “You and your lame man!” she cried bitterly, and took a step forward towards me. “You are not lame—no; but even if you were, you could not compare with him; no, you could never compare with him. There!”

      I sought for some answer, but my mind was suddenly empty; I was silent. With a deep bow, I stepped backwards out of the door, and down on to the steps. There I stood a moment looking straight before me; then I moved off.

      “So, he has forgotten his stick,” I thought to myself. “And he will come back this way to fetch it. He would not let me be the last man to leave the house...” I walked up the road very slowly, keeping a lookout either way, and stopped at the edge of the wood. At last, after half an hour's waiting, the Doctor came walking towards me; he had seen me, and was walking quickly. Before he had time to speak I lifted my cap, to try him. He raised his hat in return. I went straight up to him and said:

      “I gave you no greeting.”

      He came a step nearer and stared at me.

      “You gave me no greeting...?”

      “No,” said I.

      Pause.

      “Why, it is all the same to me what you did,” he said, turning pale. “I was going to fetch my stick; I left it behind.” I could say nothing in answer to this, but I took my revenge another way; I stretched out my gun before him, as if he were a dog, and said:

      “Over!”

      And I whistled, as if coaxing him to jump over.

      For a moment he struggled with himself; his face took on the strangest play of expression as he pressed his lips together and held his eyes fixed on the ground. Suddenly he looked at me sharply; a half smile lit up his features, and he said:

      “What do you really mean by all this?”

      I did not answer, but his words affected me.

      Suddenly he held out his hand to me, and said gently:

      “There is something wrong with you. If you will tell me what it is, then perhaps...”

      I was overwhelmed now with shame and despair; his calm words made me lose my balance. I wished to show him some kindness in return, and I put my arm round him, and said:

      “Forgive me this! No, what could be wrong with me? There is nothing wrong; I have no need of your help. You are looking for Edwarda, perhaps? You will find her at home. But make haste, or she will have gone to bed before you come; she was very tired, I could see it myself. I tell you the best news I can, now; it is true. You will find her at home—go, then!” And I turned and hurried away from him, striking out with a long stride up through the woods and back to the hut.

      For a while I sat there on the bed just as I had come in, with my bag over my shoulder and my gun in my hand. Strange thoughts passed through my mind. Why ever had I given myself away so to that Doctor? The thought that I had put my arm round him and looked at him with wet eyes angered me; he would chuckle over it, I thought; perhaps at that very moment he might be sitting laughing over it, with Edwarda. He had set his stick aside in the hall. Yes, even if I were lame, I could not compare with the Doctor. I could never compare with him—those were her words...

      I stepped out into the middle of the floor, cocked my gun, set the muzzle against my left instep, and pulled the trigger. The shot passed through the middle of the foot and pierced the floor. Æsop gave a short terrified bark.

      A little after there came a knock at the door.

      It was the Doctor.

      “Sorry to disturb you,” he began. “You went off so suddenly, I thought it might do no harm if we had a little talk together. Smell of powder, isn't there...?”

      He was perfectly sober. “Did you see Edwarda? Did you get your stick?” I asked.

      “I found my stick. But Edwarda had gone to bed... What's that? Heavens, man, you're bleeding!”

      “No, nothing to speak of. I was just putting the gun away, and it went off; it's nothing. Devil take you, am I obliged to sit here and give you all sorts of information about that...? You found your stick?”

      But he did not heed my words; he was staring at my torn boot and the trickle of blood. With a quick movement he laid down his stick and took off his gloves.

      “Sit still—I must get that boot off. I thought it was a shot I heard.”

      XVIII

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      How I repented of it afterward—that business with the gun. It was a mad thing to do. It was not worth while any way, and it served no purpose, only kept me tied down to the hut for weeks. I remember distinctly even now all the discomfort and annoyance it caused; my washerwoman had to come every day and stay there nearly all the time, making purchases of food, looking after my housekeeping, for several weeks. Well, and then...

      One day the Doctor began talking about Edwarda. I heard her name, heard what she had said and done, and it was no longer of any great importance to me; it was as if he spoke of some distant, irrelevant thing. So quickly one can forget, I thought to myself, and wondered at it.

      “Well, and what do you think of Edwarda yourself, since you ask? I have not thought of her for weeks, to tell the truth. Wait a bit—it seems to me there must have been something between you and her, you were so often together. You acted host one day at a picnic on the island, and she was hostess. Don't deny it, Doctor, there was something—a sort of understanding. No, for Heaven's sake don't answer me. You owe me no explanation, I am not asking to be told anything at all—let us talk of something else if you like. How long before I can get about again?”

      I sat there thinking of what I had said. Why was I inwardly afraid lest the Doctor should speak out? What was Edwarda to me? I had forgotten her.

      And later the talk turned on her again, and I interrupted him once more—God knows what it was I dreaded to hear.

      “What do you break off like that for?” he asked. “Is it that you can't bear to hear me speak her name?”

      “Tell me,” I said, “what is your honest opinion of Edwarda? I should be interested to know.”

      He looked at me suspiciously.

      “My honest opinion?”

      “Perhaps you may have something new to tell me to-day. Perhaps you have proposed, and been accepted. May I congratulate you? No? Ah, the devil trust you—haha!”

      “So that was what you were afraid of?”

      “Afraid of? My dear Doctor!”

      Pause.

      “No,” he said, “I have not proposed and been accepted. But you have, perhaps. There's no proposing to Edwarda—she will take whomever she has a fancy for. Did you take her for a peasant girl? You have met her, and seen for yourself. She is a child that's had too little whipping in her time, and a woman of many moods. Cold? No fear of that! Warm? Ice, I say. What is she, then? A slip of a girl, sixteen or seventeen—exactly. But try to make an impression on that slip of a girl, and she will laugh you to scorn for your trouble. Even her father can do nothing with her; she obeys him outwardly, but, in point of fact, 'tis she herself that rules. She says you have eyes like an animal...”

      “You're wrong there—it was someone else said I had eyes like an animal.”

      “Someone else? Who?”

      “I don't know. One of her girl friends. No, it was not Edwarda said that. Wait a bit though; perhaps, after all, it was Edwarda...”

      “When you look at her, it makes her feel so and so, she says. But do you think that brings