Growth of the Soil - Knut Hamsun
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"How much?" said Isak.
"She doesn't say exactly in the letter. But it must be something
altogether different from what folk pay down here, that's plain. Why,
she gets Christmas presents, and presents other times as well, and not
counted off her wages at all."
"Ho!" said Isak.
"You wouldn't like to have her up at your place?" asked Brede.
"I?" said Isak, all taken aback.
"No, of course, he he! It was only a way of speaking. Barbro's well
enough where she is. What was I going to say? You didn't notice
anything wrong with the line coming down--the telegraph, what?"
"With the telegraph? No."
"No, no ... There's not much wrong with it now since I took over.
And then I've my own machine here on the wall to give a warning if
anything happens. I'll have to take a walk up along the line one of
these days and see how things are. I've too much to manage and look
after, 'tis more than one man's work. But as long as I'm Inspector
here, and hold an official position, of course I can't neglect my
duties. If I hadn't the telegraph, of course ... and it may not be for
long...."
"Why?" said Isak. "You thinking of giving it up, maybe?"
"Well, I can't say exactly," said Brede. "I haven't quite decided.
They want me to move down into the village again."
"Who is it wants you?" asked Isak.
"Oh, all of them. The Lensmand wants me to go and be assistant there
again, and the doctor wants me to drive for him, and the parson's wife
said more than once she misses me to lend a hand, if it wasn't such a
long way to go. How was it with that strip of hill, Isak--the bit you
sold? Did you get as much for it as they say?"
"Ay, 'tis no lie," answered Isak.
"But what did Geissler want with it, anyway? It lies there
still--curious thing! Year after year and nothing done."
It was a curious thing; Isak had often wondered about it himself; he
had spoken to the Lensmand about it, and asked for Geissler's address,
thinking to write to him ... Ay, it was a mystery.
"'Tis more than I can say," said Isak.
Brede made no secret of his interest in this matter of the sale. "They
say there's more of the same sort up there," he said, "besides yours.
Maybe there's more in it than we know. 'Tis a pity that we should sit
here like dumb beasts and know nothing of it all. I've thought of
going up one day myself to have a look."
"But do you know anything about metals and such-like?" asked Isak.
"Why, I know a bit. And I've asked one or two others. Anyhow, I'll
have to find something; I can't live and keep us all here on this bit
of a farm. It's sheer impossible. 'Twas another matter with you that's
got all that timber and good soil below. 'Tis naught but moorland
here."
"Moorland's good soil enough," said Isak shortly. "I've the same
myself."
"But there's no draining it," said Brede.... "It can't be done."
But it could be done. Coming down the road that day Isak noticed other
clearings; two of them were lower down, nearer the village, but there
was one far up above, between Breidablik and Sellanraa--ay, men were
beginning to work on the land now; in the old days when Isak first
came up, it had lain waste all of it. And these three new settlers
were folks from another district; men with some sense in their heads,
by the look of things. They didn't begin by borrowing money to build
a house; no, they came up one year and did their spade work and went
away again; vanished as if they were dead. That was the proper way;
ditching first, then plough and sow. Axel Stroem was nearest to Isak's
land now, his next-door neighbour. A clever fellow, unmarried, he came
from Helgeland. He had borrowed Isak's new harrow to break up his
soil, and not till the second year had he set up a hayshed and a turf
hut for himself and a couple of animals. He had called his place
Maaneland, because it looked nice in the moonlight. He had no
womenfolk himself, and found it difficult to get help in the summer,
lying so far out, but he managed things the right way, no doubt about
that. Not as Brede Olsen did, building a house first, and then coming
up with a big family and little ones and all, with neither soil nor
stock to feed them. What did Brede Olsen know of draining moorland and
breaking new soil?
He knew how to waste his time idling, did Brede. He came by Sellanraa
one day, going up to the hills--simply to look for precious metals. He
came back the same evening; had not found anything definite, he said,
but certain signs--and he nodded. He would come up again soon, and go
over the hills thoroughly, over towards Sweden.
And sure enough, Brede came up again. He had taken a fancy to the
work, no doubt; but he called it telegraph business this time--must
go up and look over the whole of the line. Meanwhile his wife and
children at home looked after the farm, or left it to look after
itself. Isak was sick and tired of Brede's visits, and went out of the
room when he came; then Inger and Brede would sit talking heartily
together. What could they have to talk about? Brede often went down to
the village, and had always some news to tell of the great folk there;
Inger, on the other hand, could always draw upon her famous journey to
Trondhjem and her stay there. She had grown talkative in the years she
had been away, and was always ready to gossip with any one. No, she
was no longer the same straightforward, simple Inger of the old days.
Girls and women came up continually to Sellanraa to have a piece of
work cut out, or a long hem put through the machine in a moment, and
Inger entertained them well. Oline too came again, couldn't help it,
belike; came both spring and autumn; fair-spoken, soft as butter, and
thoroughly false. "Just looked along to see how things are with you,"
she said each time. "And I've been longing so for a sight of the lads,
I'm that fond of them, the little angels they were. Ay, they're big
fellows now, but it's strange ... I can't forget the time when they
were small and I had them in my care. And here's you building and
building again, and making a whole town of the place. Going to have
a bell to ring, maybe, at the roof of the barn, same as at the
parsonage?"
Once Oline came and brought another woman with her, and the pair of
them and Inger had a nice day together. The more Inger had sitting
round her, the better she worked at her sewing and cutting out, making
a show of it, waving her scissors and swinging the iron. It reminded
her of the place where she had learned it all--there was always many
of them in the workrooms there. Inger made no secret of where she had
got her knowledge and all her art from; it was from Trondhjem. It
almost appeared as if she had not been in prison at all, in the
ordinary way, but at school, in an institute, where one could learn to
sew and weave and write, and do dressing and dyeing--all that she had
learned in Trondhjem. She spoke of the place as of a home; there were
so many people she knew there, superintendents and forewomen and
attendants, it had been dull and empty to come back here again, and
hard to find herself altogether cut off from the life and society
she had been accustomed to. She even made some show of having a
cold--couldn't stand the keen air there; for years after her return
she had been too poorly to work out of doors in all seasons. It was
for the outside work she really ought to have a servant.
"Ay, Heaven save us," said Oline, "and why shouldn't you have a
servant indeed, when you've means and learning and a great fine house
and all!"
It was pleasant to meet with sympathy, and Inger did not deny it. She
worked away at her machine till the place shook, and the ring on her
finger shone.
"There, you can see for yourself," said Oline to the woman with her.
"It's true what I said, Inger she wears a gold ring on her finger."
"Would you like to see it?" asked Inger, taking it off.
Oline seemed still to have her doubts; she turned it in her fingers
as a monkey with a nut, looked at the mark. "Ay, 'tis as I say; Inger
with all her means and riches."
The other woman took the ring with veneration, and smiled humbly. "You
can put it on for a bit if you like," said Inger. "Don't be afraid, it
won't break."
And Inger was amiable and kind. She told them about the cathedral at
Trondhjem, and began like this: "You haven't seen the cathedral at
Trondhjem, maybe? No, you haven't been there!" And it might have been
her own cathedral, from the way she praised it, boasted of it, told
them height and breadth; it was a marvel! Seven priests could stand
there preaching all at once and never hear one another. "And then I
suppose you've never seen St. Olaf's Well? Right in the middle of the
cathedral itself, it is, on one side, and it's a bottomless well. When
we went there, we took each a little stone with us, and dropped it in,
but it never reached the bottom."
"Never reached the bottom?" whispered the two women, shaking their
heads.
"And there's a thousand other things besides in that cathedral,"
exclaimed Inger delightedly. "There's the silver chest to begin with.
It's Holy St. Olaf his own silver chest that he had. But the Marble
Church--that was a little church all of pure marble--the Danes took
that from us in the war...."
It was time for the women to go. Oline took Inger aside, led her out
into the larder where she knew all the cheeses were stored, and closed
the door. "What is it?" asked Inger.
Oline whispered: "Os-Anders, he doesn't dare come here any more. I've
told him."
"Ho!" said Inger.
"I told him if he only dared, after what he'd done to you."
"Ay," said Inger. "But he's been here many a time since for all that.
And he can come if he likes, I'm not afraid."
"No, that's so," said Oline. "But I know what I know, and if you like,
I'll lay a charge against him."
"Ho!" said Inger. "No, you've no call to do that. Tis not worth it."
But she was not ill pleased to have Oline on her side; it cost her a
cheese, to be sure, but Oline thanked her so fulsomely: "'Tis as I
say, 'tis as I've always said: Inger, she gives with both hands;
nothing grudging, nothing sparing about her! No, maybe you're not
afraid of Os-Anders, but I've forbid him to come here all the same.
'Twas the least I could do for you."
Said Inger then: "What harm could it do if he did come, anyway? He
can't hurt me any more."
Oline pricked up her ears: "Ho, you've learned a way yourself, maybe?"
"I shan't have any more children," said Inger.
And now they were quits, each holding as good a trump as the other:
for Oline stood there knowing all the time that Os-Anders the Lapp had
died the day before....
* * * * *
Why should Inger say that about having no more children? She was not
on bad terms with her husband, 'twas no cat-and-dog life between
them--far from it. They had each their own little ways, but it was
rarely they quarrelled, and never for long at a time; it was soon made
up. And many a time Inger would suddenly be just as she had been in
the old days, working hard in the cowshed or in the field; as if she
had had a relapse into health again. And at such times Isak would look
at his wife with grateful eyes; if he had been the sort of man to
speak his mind at once, he might have said, "H'm. What does this mean,
heh?" or something of the sort, just to show he appreciated it. But
he waited too long, and his praise came too late. So Inger, no doubt,
found it not worth while, and did not care to keep it up.
She might have had children till past fifty; as it was, she was
perhaps hardly forty now. She had learned all sorts of things at the
institution--had she also learned to play tricks with herself? She
had come back so thoroughly trained and educated after her long
association with the other murderesses; maybe the men had taught her
something too--the gaolers, the doctors. She told Isak one day what
one young medical man had said of her little crime: "Why should it be
a criminal offence to kill children--ay, even healthy children? They
were nothing but lumps of flesh after all."
Isak asked: "Wasn't he terribly cruel himself, then?"
"Him!" exclaimed Inger, and told how kind he had been to her herself;
it was he who had got another doctor to operate on her mouth and make
a human being of her. Now there was only a scar to be seen.
Only a scar, yes. And a fine woman she was in her way, tall and not
over-stout, dark, with rich hair; in summer she went barefooted
mostly, and with her skirt kilted high; Inger was not afraid of
letting her calves be seen. Isak saw them--as who did not!
They did not quarrel, no. Isak had no talent for quarrelling, and his
wife had grown readier-witted to answer back. A thorough good quarrel
took a long time to grow with Isak, heavy stub of a man as he was;
he found himself all entangled in her words, and could say next to
nothing himself; and besides, he was fond of her--powerfully in love
was Isak. And it was not often he had any need to answer. Inger did
not complain; he was an excellent husband in many ways, and she let
him alone. What had she to complain of at all? Isak was not a man to
be despised; she might have married a worse. Worn out, was he? True,
he showed signs of being tired now at times, but nothing serious. He
was full of old health and unwasted strength, like herself, and in
this autumn of their married life he fulfilled his part at least as
affectionately as she did.
But nothing particularly beautiful nor grand about him? No. And here
came her superiority. Inger might well think to herself at times how
she had seen finer men; handsome gentlemen with walking-sticks and
handkerchiefs and starched collars to wear--oh, those gentlemen of the
town! And so she kept Isak in his place, treated him, as it were, no
better than he deserved. He was only a peasant, a clodhopper of the
wilds; if her mouth had been as it was now from the start she would
never have taken him; be sure of that. No, she could have done better
than that! The home he had given her, the life he offered her, were
poor enough; she might at least have married some one from her own
village, and lived among neighbours, with a circle of friends, instead
of here like an outcast in the wilds. It was not the place for her
now; she had learned to look differently at life.
Strange, how one could come to look differently at things! Inger found
no pleasure now in admiring a new calf; she did not clap her hands in
surprise when Isak came down from the hills with a big basket of fish;
no, she had lived for six years among greater things. And of late she
had even ceased to be heavenly and sweet when she called him in to
dinner. "Your food's ready, aren't you coming in?" was all she said
now. And it didn't sound nice. Isak wondered a little at first; it was
a curious way to speak; a nasty, uncaring, take-it-or-leave-it way to
speak. And he answered: "Why, I didn't know 'twas ready." But when
Inger pointed out that he ought to have known, or might have guessed
it, anyway, by the sun, he said no more, and let the matter drop.
Ah, but once he got a hold on her and used it--that was when she tried
to steal his money from him. Not that Isak was a miser in that way,
but the money was clearly his. Ho, it was nearly being ruin and
disaster for her that time! But even then it was not exactly
thoroughgoing, out-and-out wickedness on Inger's part; she wanted the
money for Eleseus--for her blessed boy Eleseus in town, who was asking
for his _Daler_ again. Was he to go there among all the fine folk and
with empty pockets? After all, she had a mother's heart. She asked his
father for the money first, and, finding it was no good, had taken it
herself. Whether Isak had had some suspicion beforehand, or had found
it out by accident--anyhow, it was found out. And suddenly Inger found
herself gripped by both arms, felt herself lifted from the floor,
and thumped down on to the floor again. It was something strange and
terrible--a sort of avalanche. Isak's hands were not weak, not worn
out now. Inger gave a groan, her head fell back, she shivered, and
gave up the money.
Even then Isak said little, though Inger made no attempt to hinder him
from speaking. What he did say was uttered, as it were, in one hard
breath: "Huttch! You--you're not fit to have in the place!"
She hardly knew him again. Oh, but it must have been long-stored
bitterness that would not be repressed.
A miserable day, and a long night, and a day beyond. Isak went out of
the house and lay outside, for all that there was hay to be got in;
Sivert was with his father. Inger had little Leopoldine and the
animals to keep her company; but lonely she was for all that, crying
nearly all the time and shaking her head at herself. Only once in all
her life before had she felt so moved, and this day called it to mind;
it was when she had lain in her bed and throttled a newborn child.
Where were Isak and his son? They had not been idle; no, they had
stolen a day and a night or thereabouts from the haymaking, and had
built a boat up on the lake. Oh, a rough and poor-looking vessel
enough, but strong and sound as their work had always been; they had a
boat now, and could go fishing with nets.
When they came home the hay was dry as ever. They had cheated
providence by trusting it, and suffered no loss; they had gained by
it. And then Sivert flung out an arm, and said: "Ho! Mother's been
haymaking!" Isak looked down over the fields and said "H'm." Isak had
noticed already that some of the hay had been shifted; Inger ought to
be home now for her midday meal. It was well done indeed of her to get
in the hay, after he had scolded her the day before and said "Huttch!"
And it was no light hay to move; she must have worked hard, and all
the cows and goats to milk besides.... "Go in and get something to
eat," he said to Sivert.
"Aren't you coming, then?"
"No."
A little while after, Inger came out and stood humbly on the door-slab
and said:
"If you'd think of yourself a little--and come in and have a bite to
eat."
Isak grumbled at that and said "H'm." But it was so strange a thing
of late for Inger to be humble in any way, that his stubbornness was
shaken.
"If you could manage to set a couple of teeth in my rake, I could get
on again with the hay," said she. Ay, she came to her husband, the
master of the place, to ask for something, and was grateful that he
did not turn scornfully away.
"You've worked enough," said he, "raking and carting and all."
"No, 'tis not enough."
"I've no time, anyway, to mend rakes now. You can see there's rain
coming soon."
And Isak went off to his work.
It was all meant to save her, no doubt; for the couple of minutes it
would have taken to mend the rake would have been more than tenfold
repaid by letting Inger work on. Anyhow, Inger came out with her rake
as it was, and fell to haymaking with a will; Sivert came up with the
horse and haycart, and all went at it, sweating at the work, and
the hay was got in. It was a good stroke of work, and Isak fell to
thinking once more of the powers above that guide all our ways--from
stealing a _Daler_ to getting a crop of hay. Moreover, there lay
the boat; after half a generation of thinking it over, the boat was
finished; it was there, up on the lake.
"Eyah, _Herregud_!" said Isak.
Chapter XV
It was a strange evening altogether: a turning-point. Inger had been
running off the line for a long time now; and one lift up from the
floor had set her in her place again. Neither spoke of what had
happened. Isak had felt ashamed of himself after--all for the sake of
a _Daler_, a trifle of money, that he would have had to give her after
all, because he himself would gladly have let the boy have it. And
then again--was not the money as much Inger's as his own? There came a
time when Isak found it his turn to be humble.
There came many sorts of times. Inger must have changed her mind
again, it seemed; once more she was different, gradually forgetting
her fine ways and turning earnest anew: a settler's wife, earnest and
thoughtful as she had been before. To think that a man's hard grip
could work such wonders! But it was right; here was a strong and
healthy woman, sensible enough, but spoiled and warped by long
confinement in an artificial air--and she had butted into a man who
stood firmly on his feet. Never for a moment had he left his natural
place on the earth, on the soil. Nothing could move him.
Many sorts of times. Next year came the drought again, killing the
growth off slowly, and wearing down human courage. The corn stood
there and shrivelled up; the potatoes--the wonderful potatoes--they
did not shrivel up, but flowered and flowered. The meadows turned
grey, but the potatoes flowered. The powers above guided all things,
no doubt, but the meadows were turning grey.
Then one day came Geissler--ex-Lensmand Geissler came again at last.
It was good to find that he was not dead, but had turned up again. And
what had he come for now?
Geissler had no grand surprises with him this time, by the look of it;
no purchases of mining rights and documents and such-like. Geissler
was poorly dressed, his hair and beard turned greyer, and his eyes
redder at the edges than before. He had no man, either, to carry his
things, but had his papers in a pocket, and not even a bag.
"_Goddag_" said Geissler.
"_Goddag_" answered Isak and Inger. "Here's the like of visitors to
see this way!"
Geissler nodded.
"And thanks for all you did that time--in Trondhjem," said Inger all
by herself.
And Isak nodded at that, and said: "Ay, 'tis two of us owe you thanks
for that."
But Geissler--it was not his way to be all feelings and sentiments; he
said: "Yes, I'm just going across to Sweden."
For all their trouble of mind over the drought, Sellanraa's folk were
glad to see Geissler again; they gave him the best they had, and were
heartily glad to do what they could for him after all he had done.
Geissler himself had no troubles that could be seen; he grew talkative
at once, looked out over the fields and nodded. He carried himself
upright as ever, and looked as if he had several hundreds of _Daler_
in his pockets. It livened them up and brightened everything to have
him there; not that he made any boisterous fun, but a lively talker,
that he was.
"Fine place, Sellanraa, splendid place," he said. "And now there's
others coming up one after another, since you've started, Isak. I
counted five myself. Are there any more?"
"Seven in all. There's two that can't be seen from the road."
"Seven holdings; say fifty souls. Why, it'll be a densely populated
neighbourhood before long. And you've a school already, so I hear?"
"Ay, we have."
"There--what did I say? A school all to yourselves, down by Brede's
place, being more in the middle. Fancy Brede as a farmer in the
wilds!" and Geissler laughed at the thought. "Ay, I've heard all about
you, Isak; you're the best man here. And I'm glad of it. Sawmill, too,
you've got?"
"Ay, such as it is. But it serves me well enough. And I've sawed a bit
now and again for them down below."
"Bravo! That's the way!"
"I'd be glad to hear what you think of it, Lensmand, if so be you'd
care to look at that sawmill for yourself."
Geissler nodded, with the air of an expert; yes, he would look at
it, examine it thoroughly. Then he asked: "You had two boys, hadn't
you--what's become of the other? In town? Clerk in an office? H'm,"
said Geissler. "But this one here looks a sturdy sort--what was your
name, now?"
"Sivert."
"And the other one?"
"Eleseus."
"And he's in an engineer's office--what's he reckon to learn there? A
starvation-business. Much better have come to me," said Geissler.
"Ay," said Isak, for politeness' sake. He felt a sort of pity for
Geissler at the moment. Oh, that good man did not look as if he could
afford to keep clerks; had to work hard enough by himself, belike.
That jacket--it was worn to fringes at the wrists.
"Won't you have some dry hose to put on?" said Inger, and brought out
a pair of her own. They were from her best days; fine and thin, with a
border.
"No, thanks," said Geissler shortly, though he must have been wet
through.--"Much better have come to me," he said again, speaking of
Eleseus. "I want him badly." He took a small silver tobacco box from
his pocket and sat playing with it in his fingers. It was perhaps the
only thing of value left him now.
But Geissler was restless, changing from one thing to another. He
slipped the thing back into his pocket again and started a new theme.
"But--what's that? Why, the meadow that's all grey. I thought it was
the shadow. The ground is simply parched. Come along with me, Sivert."
He rose from the table suddenly, thinking no more of food, turned in
the doorway to say "Thank you" to Inger for the meal, and disappeared,
Sivert following.
They went across to the river, Geissler peering keenly about all the
time. "Here!" he cried, and stopped. And then he explained: "Where's
the sense of letting your land dry up to nothing when you've a river
there big enough to drown it in a minute? We'll have, that meadow
green by tomorrow!"