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 today?”

“Yes,” the hotel keeper replies, “what else should there be?”

“No,” Miniman says, quietly withdrawing.

He was exceptionally ugly. He had calm blue eyes, but horrible protruding front teeth and an extremely twisted gait because of a physical defect. His hair was quite gray; his beard on the other hand was darker, but so sparse that his skin showed through everywhere. The man had once been a sailor, but was now living with a relative who had a small coal business by the quayside. He hardly ever raised his eyes from the floor when he spoke to somebody.

They called to him from one of the tables; a gentleman in a gray summer suit eagerly beckoned to him, showing him a bottle of beer.

“Come and have a glass of mother’s milk. Besides, I’d like to see what you look like without a beard,” he says.

Respectfully, cap still in hand and with bent back, Miniman approaches the table. As he passed Nagel he gave him a special bow and moved his lips slightly. He takes his stand before the gentleman in gray and whispers, “Not so loud, Your Honor, I beg you. There are strangers present, as you can see.”

“But good heavens,” the deputy judge says, “I only wanted to offer you a glass of beer. And here you come and scold me for talking too loud.”

“No, you misunderstand me, and I beg your pardon. But since there are strangers present, I’d rather not start with those old tricks again. And I can’t drink beer, not now.”

“Oh, you can’t? So you can’t drink beer?”

“No, but thank you, not now.”

“So, you thank me, but not now? When will you thank me then? Ha-ha-ha, a fine parson’s son you are! Just look at the way you express yourself.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me; well, never mind.”

“There, there, no nonsense. What’s the matter with you?”

The deputy pulls Miniman onto a chair, and Miniman sits there for a moment but gets up again.

“No, leave me alone,” he says, “I can’t stand drink; nowadays I can stand it even less than I used to, God knows why. I get drunk before I know it and become all confused.”

The deputy rises, looks intently at Miniman, pushes a glass into his hand and says, “Drink.”

Pause. Miniman looks up, brushes his hair off his forehead and remains silent.

“All right, I’ll do as you wish, but just a few drops,” he says. “Only a little, to have the honor of drinking a toast with you!”

“Drink up!” shouts the deputy, having to turn away so as not to burst out laughing.

“No, not quite, not quite.