slowly approached each other. He didn’t have a stick when I met him a short while ago, Nagel said to himself. It’s not new; he hasn’t bought it but borrowed it. It’s a rattan cane.
The moment they came up with one another, the deputy stopped; Nagel also suddenly stood still; they stopped almost simultaneously. Nagel nudged his velvet cap, as if to scratch the back of his head, and then put it straight again; the deputy, on the other hand, thrust his stick hard against the cobblestones and leaned back on it. He stood thus for several seconds, still without speaking. Suddenly he straightened up, turned his back on Nagel and walked away. At long last Nagel saw his back disappear around the corner of the barbershop.
This pantomime took place in the sight of several people. Among others, a man selling lottery chances from a ticket dispenser had seen it all. A little farther on sat a man who was offering plaster figures for sale, and he had also observed the strange incident. Nagel recognized the plasterer as one of the customers who had been present at the scene in the café the evening before and afterward sided with him against the hotel keeper.
When Nagel got to the cemetery the second time, the pastor was already delivering his eulogy. The place was black with people. Nagel didn’t go up to the grave, 1 but settled by himself on a large new marble slab with the following inscription: “Vilhelmine Meek. Born 20 May 1873, died 16 February 1891.” That was all. The slab was brand new, and the sod it rested on had just been tapped down.
Nagel beckoned to a little boy. “Do you see that man over there, the one in the brown coat?” he asked.
“The one with the peaked cap, sure. That’s Miniman.”
“Go and ask him to come over here.”
The boy went.
When Miniman came, Nagel rose, gave him his hand and said, “How are you, my friend? I’m glad to see you again. Did you get the coat?”
“The coat? No, not yet. But I’ll get it, all right,” Miniman replied. “I would like to thank you so much for last night—thanks for everything! Well, here we are, burying Karlsen! Hm, it’s God’s will, we have to resign ourselves to it.”
They sat down on the new marble slab and talked together. Nagel took a pencil from his pocket and started writing something on the slab.
“Who is buried here?” he asked.
“Vilhelmine Meek. But we called her simply Mina Meek, for short. She was little more than a child; I don’t think she had turned twenty.”
“She wasn’t even eighteen, according to the inscription. And she, too, was a good person?”
“You said this so strangely, but—”
“It’s just that I’ve noticed your beautiful trait of speaking well of everyone, whoever they may be.”
“If you’d known Mina Meek I’m sure you would’ve agreed with me. She was an unusually kind soul. If anyone is an angel of God, she is one now.”
“Was she engaged?”
“Engaged? No, far from it. Not that I know. I don’t think she was engaged; she was always reciting prayers and talking aloud to God, often in the middle of the street where everyone could hear her. People would stop and listen; everybody loved Mina Meek.” 2
Nagel put the pencil back in his pocket. There was something written on the stone, a verse—it didn’t look nice on the white marble.
Miniman said, “You’re attracting a lot of attention. As I was standing over there listening to the eulogy, I noticed that at least half the people had their eyes on you.”
“On me?”
“Yes. Several people were whispering, asking one another who you were. And now, too, they are looking this way.”
“Who is the lady with the big black feather in her hat?”
“The one with the white parasol handle? That’s Fredrikke Andresen, the Miss Fredrikke I told you about. And the one standing next to her, looking this way just now, is the daughter of the chief of police; her name is Miss Olsen, Gudrun Olsen. Oh, I know them all. Dagny Kielland is
The moment they came up with one another, the deputy stopped; Nagel also suddenly stood still; they stopped almost simultaneously. Nagel nudged his velvet cap, as if to scratch the back of his head, and then put it straight again; the deputy, on the other hand, thrust his stick hard against the cobblestones and leaned back on it. He stood thus for several seconds, still without speaking. Suddenly he straightened up, turned his back on Nagel and walked away. At long last Nagel saw his back disappear around the corner of the barbershop.
This pantomime took place in the sight of several people. Among others, a man selling lottery chances from a ticket dispenser had seen it all. A little farther on sat a man who was offering plaster figures for sale, and he had also observed the strange incident. Nagel recognized the plasterer as one of the customers who had been present at the scene in the café the evening before and afterward sided with him against the hotel keeper.
When Nagel got to the cemetery the second time, the pastor was already delivering his eulogy. The place was black with people. Nagel didn’t go up to the grave, 1 but settled by himself on a large new marble slab with the following inscription: “Vilhelmine Meek. Born 20 May 1873, died 16 February 1891.” That was all. The slab was brand new, and the sod it rested on had just been tapped down.
Nagel beckoned to a little boy. “Do you see that man over there, the one in the brown coat?” he asked.
“The one with the peaked cap, sure. That’s Miniman.”
“Go and ask him to come over here.”
The boy went.
When Miniman came, Nagel rose, gave him his hand and said, “How are you, my friend? I’m glad to see you again. Did you get the coat?”
“The coat? No, not yet. But I’ll get it, all right,” Miniman replied. “I would like to thank you so much for last night—thanks for everything! Well, here we are, burying Karlsen! Hm, it’s God’s will, we have to resign ourselves to it.”
They sat down on the new marble slab and talked together. Nagel took a pencil from his pocket and started writing something on the slab.
“Who is buried here?” he asked.
“Vilhelmine Meek. But we called her simply Mina Meek, for short. She was little more than a child; I don’t think she had turned twenty.”
“She wasn’t even eighteen, according to the inscription. And she, too, was a good person?”
“You said this so strangely, but—”
“It’s just that I’ve noticed your beautiful trait of speaking well of everyone, whoever they may be.”
“If you’d known Mina Meek I’m sure you would’ve agreed with me. She was an unusually kind soul. If anyone is an angel of God, she is one now.”
“Was she engaged?”
“Engaged? No, far from it. Not that I know. I don’t think she was engaged; she was always reciting prayers and talking aloud to God, often in the middle of the street where everyone could hear her. People would stop and listen; everybody loved Mina Meek.” 2
Nagel put the pencil back in his pocket. There was something written on the stone, a verse—it didn’t look nice on the white marble.
Miniman said, “You’re attracting a lot of attention. As I was standing over there listening to the eulogy, I noticed that at least half the people had their eyes on you.”
“On me?”
“Yes. Several people were whispering, asking one another who you were. And now, too, they are looking this way.”
“Who is the lady with the big black feather in her hat?”
“The one with the white parasol handle? That’s Fredrikke Andresen, the Miss Fredrikke I told you about. And the one standing next to her, looking this way just now, is the daughter of the chief of police; her name is Miss Olsen, Gudrun Olsen. Oh, I know them all. Dagny Kielland is
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