Growth of the Soil - Knut Hamsun
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"Isak?"
"What is it?" says Isak.
"Are you awake?"
"Ay."
"Nay, 'twas nothing," says Inger. "But I've not been all as I ought."
"What?" says Isak. Ay, so much he said, and rose up on his elbow in
turn.
They lay there, and went on talking. Inger is a matchless woman, after
all; and with a full heart, "I've not been as I ought towards you,"
she says, "and I'm that sorry about it."
The simple words move him; this barge of a man is touched, ay, he
wants to comfort her, knowing nothing of what is the matter, but only
that there is none like her. "Naught to cry about, my dear," says
Isak. "There's none of us can be as we ought."
"Nay, 'tis true," she answers gratefully. Oh, Isak had a strong, sound
way of taking things; straightened them out, he did, when they turned
crooked. "None of us can be as we ought." Ay, he was right. The god of
the heart--for all that he is a god, he goes a deal of crooked ways,
goes out adventuring, the wild thing that he is, and we can see it in
his looks. One day rolling in a bed of roses and licking his lips and
remembering things; next day with a thorn in his foot, desperately
trying to get it out. Die of it? Never a bit, he's as well as ever. A
nice look-out it would be if he were to die!
And Inger's trouble passed off too; she got over it, but she keeps
on with her hours of devotion, and finds a merciful refuge there.
Hard-working and patient and good she is now every day, knowing Isak
different from all other men, and wanting none but him. No gay young
spark of a singer, true, in his looks and ways, but good enough, ay,
good enough indeed! And once more it is seen that the fear of the Lord
and contentment therewith are a precious gain.
And now it was that the little chief clerk from Storborg, Andresen,
came up to Sellanraa one Sunday, and Inger was not in the least
affected, far from it; she did not so much as go in herself to give
him a mug of milk, but sent Leopoldine in with it, by reason that
Jensine the maid was out. And Leopoldine could carry a mug of milk as
well as need be, and she gave it him and said, "Here you are," and
blushed, for all she was wearing her Sunday clothes and had nothing to
be ashamed of, anyway.
"Thanks, 'tis overkind of you," says Andresen. "Is your father at
home?" says he.
"Ay; he'll be about the place somewhere."
Andresen drank and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and looked at
the time. "Is it far up to the mines?" he asked.
"No, 'tis an hour's walk, or hardly that."
"I'm going up to look over them, d'you see, for him, Aronsen--I'm his
chief clerk."
"Ho!"
"You'll know me yourself, no doubt; I'm Aronsen's chief clerk. You've
been down buying things at our place before."
"Ay."
"And I remember you well enough," says Andresen. "You've been down
twice buying things."
"'Tis more than could be thought, you'd remember that," says
Leopoldine, and had no more strength after that, but stood holding by
a chair.
But Andresen had strength enough, he went on, and said: "Remember you?
Well, of course I should." And he said more:
"You wouldn't like to walk up to the mine with me?" said he.
And a little after something went wrong with Leopoldine's eyes;
everything turned red and strange about her, and the floor was
slipping away from under, and Chief Clerk Andresen was talking from
somewhere ever so far off. Saying: "Couldn't you spare the time?"
"No," says she.
And Heaven knows how she managed to get out of the kitchen again. Her
mother looked at her and asked what was the matter. "Nothing," said
Leopoldine.
Nothing, no, of course. But now, look you, 'twas Leopoldine's turn to
be affected, to begin the same eternal round. She was well fitted
for the same, overgrown and pretty and newly confirmed; an excellent
sacrifice she would make. A bird is fluttering in her young breast,
her long hands are like her mother's, full of tenderness, full of sex.
Could she dance?--ay, indeed she could. A marvel where she had managed
to learn it, but learn it they did at Sellanraa as well as elsewhere.
Sivert could dance, and Leopoldine too; a kind of dancing peculiar
to the spot, growth of the new-cleared soil; a dance with energy and
swing: schottische, mazurka, waltz and polka in one. And could not
Leopoldine deck herself out and fall in love and dream by daylight all
awake? Ay, as well as any other! The day she stood in church she was
allowed to borrow her mother's gold ring to wear; no sin in that,
'twas only neat and nice; and the day after, going to her communion,
she did not get the ring on till it was over. Ay, she might well show
herself in church with a gold ring on her finger, being the daughter
of a great man on the place--the Margrave.
When Andresen came down from the mine, he found Isak at Sellanraa, and
they asked him in, gave him dinner and a cup of coffee. All the
folk on the place were in there together now, and took part in the
conversation. Andresen explained that his master, Aronsen, had sent
him up to see how things were at the mines, if there was any sign of
beginning work there again soon. Heaven knows, maybe Andresen sat
there lying all the time, about being sent by his master; he might
just as well have hit on it for his own account--and anyway, he
couldn't have been at the mines at all in the little time he'd been
away.
"'Tis none so easy to see from outside if they're going to start work
again," said Isak.
No, Andresen admitted that was so; but Aronsen had sent him, and after
all, two pair of eyes could see better than one.
But here Inger seemingly could contain herself no longer; she asked:
"Is it true what they're saying, Aronsen is going to sell his place
again?"
Andresen answers: "He's thinking of it. And a man like him can surely
do as he likes, seeing all the means and riches he's got."
"Ho, is he so rich, then?"
"Ay," says Andresen, nodding his head; "rich enough, and that's a true
word."
Again Inger cannot keep silence, but asks right out:
"I wonder, now, what he'd be asking for the place?"
Isak puts in a word here; like as not he's more curious to know than
Inger herself, but it must not seem that the idea of buying Storborg
is any thought of his; he makes himself a stranger to it, and says
now:
"Why, what you want to know for, Inger?"
"I was but asking," says she. And both of them look at Andresen,
waiting. And he answers:
Answers cautiously enough that as to the price, he can say nothing of
that, but he knows what Aronsen says the place has cost him.
"And how much is that?" asks Inger, having no strength to keep her
peace and be silent.
"'Tis sixteen hundred _Kroner_" says Andresen.
Ho, and Inger claps her hands at once to hear it, for if there is one
thing womenfolk have no sense nor thought of, 'tis the price of land
and properties. But, anyway, sixteen hundred _Kroner_ is no small sum
for folk in the wilds, and Inger has but one fear, that Isak may be
frightened off the deal. But Isak, he sits there just exactly like a
fjeld, and says only: "Ay, it's the big houses he's put up."
"Ay," says Andresen again, "'tis just that. 'Tis the fine big houses
and all."
Just when Andresen is making ready to go, Leopoldine slips out by the
door. A strange thing, but somehow she cannot bring herself to think
of shaking hands with him. So she has found a good place, standing in
the new cowshed, looking out of a window. And with a blue silk ribbon
round her neck, that she hadn't been wearing before, and a wonder she
ever found time to put it on now. There he goes, a trifle short and
stout, spry on his feet, with a light, full beard, eight or ten years
older than herself. Ay, none so bad-looking to her mind!
And then the party came back from church late on Sunday night. All had
gone well, little Rebecca had slept the last few hours of the way
up, and was lifted from the cart and carried indoors without waking.
Sivert has heard a deal of news, but when his mother asks, "Well, what
you've got to tell?" he only says: "Nay, nothing much. Axel he's got a
mowing-machine and a harrow."
"What's that?" says his father, all interested. "Did you see them?"
"Ay, I saw them right enough. Down on the quay."
"Ho! So that was what he must go in to town for," says his father.
And Sivert sits there swelling with pride at knowing better, but says
never a word.
His father might just as well believe that Axel's pressing business in
the town had been to buy machines; his mother too might think so
for all that. Ho, but there was neither of them thought so in their
hearts; they had heard whispers enough of what was the matter; of a
new child-murder case in the wilds.
"Time for bed," says his father at last.
Sivert goes off to bed, swelling with knowledge. Axel had been
summoned for examination; 'twas a big affair--the Lensmand had gone
with him--so big indeed that the Lensmand's lady, who had just had
another child, had left the baby and was gone in to town with her
husband. She had promised to put in a word to the jury herself.
Gossip and scandal all abroad in the village now, and Sivert saw well
enough that a certain earlier crime of the same sort was being called
to mind again. Outside the church, the groups would stop talking as he
came up, and had he not been the man he was, perhaps some would have
turned away from him. Good to be Sivert those days, a man from a big
place to begin with, son of a wealthy landowner--and then beside, to
be known as a clever fellow, a good worker; he ranked before others,
and was looked up to for himself. Sivert had always been well liked
among folk. If only Jensine did not learn too much before they got
home that day! And Sivert had his own affairs to think of--ay, folk in
the wilds can blush and pale as well as other. He had seen Jensine as
she left the church with little Rebecca; she had seen him too, but
went by. He waited a bit, and then drove over to the smith's to fetch
them.
They were sitting at table, all the family at dinner. Sivert is asked
to join them, but has had his dinner, thanks. They knew he would be
coming, they might have waited that bit of a while for him--so they
would have done at Sellanraa, but not here, it seemed.
"Nay, 'tis not what you're used to, I dare say," says the smith's
wife. And, "What news from church?" says the smith, for all he had
been at church himself.
When Jensine and little Rebecca were seated up in the cart again, says
the smith's wife to her daughter: "Well, good-bye, Jensine; we'll
be wanting you home again soon." And that could be taken two ways,
thought Sivert, but he said nothing. If the speech had been more
direct, more plain and outspoken, he might perhaps ... He waits, with
puckered brows, but no more is said.
They drive up homeward, and little Rebecca is the only one with a word
to say; she is full of the wonder of going to church, the priest in
his dress with a silver cross, and the lights and the organ music.
After a long while Jensine says: "'Tis a shameful thing about Barbro
and all."
"What did your mother mean about you coming home soon?" asked Sivert.
"What she meant?"
"Ay. You thinking of leaving us, then?"
"Why, they'll be wanting me home some time, I doubt," says she.
"_Ptro_!" says Sivert, stopping his horse. "Like me to drive back with
you now, perhaps?"
Jensine looks at him; he is pale as death.
"No," says she. And a little after she begins to cry.
Rebecca looks in surprise from one to the other. Oh, but little
Rebecca was a good one to have on a journey like that; she took
Jensine's part and patted her and made her smile again. And when
little Rebecca looked threateningly at her brother and said she was
going to jump down and find a big stick to beat him, Sivert had to
smile too.
"But what did _you_ mean, now, I'd like to know?" says Jensine.
Sivert answered straight out at once: "I meant, if you don't care to
stay with us, why, we must manage without."
And a long while after, said Jensine: "Well, there's Leopoldine, she's
big now, and fit and all to do my work, seems."
Ay, 'twas a sorrowful journey.
Chapter VII
A man walks up the way through the hills. Wind and rain; the autumn
downpour has begun, but the man cares little for that, he looks glad
at heart, and glad he is. 'Tis Axel Stroem, coming back from the
town and the court and all--they have let him go free. Ay, a happy
man--first of all, there's a mowing-machine and a harrow for him down
at the quay, and more than that, he's free, and not guilty. Had taken
no part in the killing of a child. Ay, so things can turn out!
But the times he had been through! Standing there as a witness, this
toiler in the fields had known the hardest days of his life. 'Twas no
gain to him to make Barbro's guilt seem greater, and for that reason
he was careful not to say too much, he did not even say all he knew;
every word had to be dragged out of him, and he answered mostly with
but "Yes" and "No." Was it not enough? Was he to make more of it than
there was already? Oh, but there were times when it looked serious
indeed; there were the men of Law, black-robed and dangerous, easy
enough for them, it seemed, just with a word or so, to turn the whole
thing as they pleased, and have him sentenced. But they were kindly
folk after all, and did not try to bring him to destruction. Also, as
it happened, there were powerful influences at work trying to save
Barbro, and it was all to his advantage as well.
Then what on earth was there for him to trouble about?
Barbro herself would hardly try to make things look worse than need be
for her former master and lover; he knew terrible things about this
and an earlier affair of the same sort; she could not be such a fool.
No, Barbro was clever enough; she said a good word for Axel, and
declared that he had known nothing of her having borne a child till
after it was all over. He was different in some ways, perhaps, from
other men, and they did not always get on well together, but a quiet
man, and a good man in every way. No, it was true he had dug a new
grave and buried the body away there, but that was long after, and
by reason he had thought the first place was not dry enough, though
indeed it was, and 'twas only Axel's odd way of thinking.
What need, then, for Axel to fear at all when Barbro took all the
blame on herself that way? And as for Barbro herself, there were
mighty influences at work.
Fru Lensmand Heyerdahl had taken up the case. She went about to high
and low, never sparing herself, demanded to be called as a witness,
and made a speech in court. When her turn came, she stood there before
them all and was a great lady indeed; she took up the question of
infanticide in all its aspects, and gave the court a long harangue
on the subject--it almost seemed as if she had obtained permission
beforehand to say what she pleased. Ay, folk might say what they would
of Fru Lensmand Heyerdahl, but make a speech, that she could, and was
learned in politics and social questions, no doubt about that. 'Twas
a marvel where she found all her words. Now and again the presiding
justice seemed wishful to keep her to the point, but maybe he had not
the heart to interrupt, and let her run on. And at the end of it all,
she volunteered one or two useful items of information, and made a
startling offer to the court.
Leaving out all legal technicalities, what took place was this:
"We women," said Fru Heyerdahl, "we are an unfortunate and oppressed
moiety of humanity. It is the men who make the laws, and we women have
not a word to say in the matter. But can any man put himself in the
position of a woman in childbirth? Has he ever felt the dread of it,
ever known the terrible pangs, ever cried aloud in the anguish of that
hour?
"In the present instance, it is a servant-girl who has borne the
child. A girl, unmarried, and consequently trying all through the
critical time to hide her condition. And why must she seek to hide it?
Because of society. Society despises the unmarried woman who bears
a child. Not only does society offer her no protection, but it
persecutes her, pursues her with contempt and disgrace. Atrocious! No
human creature with any heart at all could help feeling indignant at
such a state of things. Not only is the girl to bring a child into the
world, a thing in itself surely hard enough, but she is to be treated
as a criminal for that very fact. I will venture to say that it was
well for the unfortunate girl now accused before the court that her
child was born by accident when she fell into the water, and drowned.
Well for herself and for the child. As long as society maintains its
present attitude, an unmarried mother should be counted guiltless even
if she does kill her child."
Here a slight murmur was heard from the presiding justice.
"Or at any rate, her punishment should be merely nominal," said Fru
Heyerdahl. "We are all agreed, of course," she went on, "that infant
life should be preserved, but is that to mean that no law of simple
humanity is to apply to the unfortunate mother? Think, consider
what she has been through during all the period of pregnancy, what
suffering she has endured in striving to hide her condition, and all
the time never knowing where to turn for herself and the child when it
comes. No man can imagine it," said she. "The child is at least killed
in kindness. The mother tries to save herself and the child she loves
from the misery of its life. The shame is more than she can bear, and
so the plan gradually forms itself in her mind, to put the child out
of the way. The birth takes place in secret, and the mother is for
four-and-twenty hours in such a delirious state that at the moment
of killing the child she is simply not responsible for her actions.
Practically speaking, she has not herself committed the act at all,
being out of her senses at the time. With every bone in her body
aching still after her delivery, she has to take the little creature's
life and hide away the body--think what an effort of will is demanded
here! Naturally, we all wish all children to live; we are distressed
at the thought that any should be exterminated in such a way. But
it is the fault of society that it is so; the fault of a hopeless,
merciless, scandalmongering, mischievous, and evil-minded society,
ever on the watch to crush an unmarried mother by every means in its
power!
"But--even after such treatment at the hands of society, the
persecuted mother can rise up again. It often happens that these
girls, after one false step of the sort, are led by that very fact to
develop their best and noblest qualities. Let the court inquire of the
superintendents at refuge homes, where unmarried mothers and their
children are received, if this is not the case. And experience has
shown that it is just such girls who have--whom society has forced to
kill their own children, that make the best nurses. Surely that was a
matter for any and all to think seriously about?
"Then there is another side of the question. Why is the man to go
free? The mother found guilty of infanticide is thrust into prison and
tortured, but the father, the seducer, he is never touched. Yet being
as he is the cause of the child's existence, he is a party to the
crime; his share in it, indeed, is greater than the mother's; had it
not been for him, there would have been no crime. Then why should he
be acquitted? Because the laws are made by men. There is the answer.
The enormity of such man-made laws cries of itself to Heaven for
intervention. And there can be no help for us women till we are
allowed a say in the elections, and in the making of laws, ourselves.
"But," said Fru Heyerdahl, "if this is the terrible fate that is meted
out to the guilty--or, let us say, the more clearly guilty--unmarried
mother who has killed her child, what of the innocent one who is
merely suspected of the crime, and has not committed it? What
reparation does society offer to her? None at all! I can testify that
I know the girl here accused; have known her since she was a child;
she has been in my service, and her father is my husband's assistant.
We women venture to think and feel directly in opposition to men's
accusations and persecution; we dare to have our own opinion. The girl
there has been arrested, deprived of her liberty, on suspicion of
having in the first place concealed the birth of a child, and further
of having killed the child so born. I have no doubt in my own mind
that she is not guilty of either--the court will itself arrive at this
self-evident conclusion. Concealment of birth--the child was born in
the middle of the day. True, the mother is alone at the time--but who
could have been with her in any case? The place is far away in the
wilds, the only living soul within reach is a man--how could she
send for a man at such a moment? Any woman will tell you it is
impossible--not to be thought of. And then--it is alleged that she
must have killed the child after. But the child was born in the
water--the mother falls down in an icy stream, and the child is born.
What was she doing by the water? She is a servant-girl, a slave, that
is to say, and has her daily work to do; she is going to fetch juniper
twigs for cleaning. And crossing the stream, she slips and falls in.
And there she lies; the child is born, and is drowned in the water."
Fru Heyerdahl stopped. She could see from the look of the court and
the spectators that she had spoken wonderfully well; there was a great
silence in the place, only Barbro sat dabbing her eyes now and again
for sheer emotion. And Fru Heyerdahl closed with these words: "We
women have some heart, some feeling. I have left my own children in
the care of strangers to travel all this way and appear as a witness
on behalf of the unfortunate girl sitting there. Men's laws cannot
prevent women from thinking; and I think this, that the girl there has
been punished sufficiently for no crime. Acquit her, let her go free,
and I will take charge of her myself. She will make the best nurse I
have ever had."
And Fru Heyerdahl stepped down.
Says the justice then: "But I think you said a moment ago that the
best nurses were those who _had_ killed their children?"
Oh, but the justice was not of a mind to go against Fru Heyerdahl, not
in the least--he was as humane as could be himself, a man as gentle as
a priest. When the advocate for the Crown put a few questions to the
witness afterwards, the justice sat for the most part making notes on
some papers.
The proceedings lasted only till a little over noon; there were few
witnesses, and the case was clear enough. Axel Stroem sat hoping for
the best, then suddenly it seemed as if the advocate for the Crown
and Fru Heyerdahl were joining forces to make things awkward for him,
because he had buried the body instead of notifying the death. He was
cross-examined somewhat sharply on this point, and would likely enough
have come out badly if he had not all at once caught sight of Geissler
sitting in the court. Ay, 'twas right enough, Geissler was there. This
gave Axel courage, he no longer felt himself alone against the Law
that was determined to beat him down. And Geissler nodded to him.
Ay, Geissler was come to town. He had not asked to be called as a
witness, but he was there. He had also spent a couple of days before
the case came on in going into the matter himself, and noting down
what he remembered of Axel's own account given him at Maaneland. Most
of the documents seemed to Geissler somewhat unsatisfactory; this
Lensmand Heyerdahl was evidently a narrow-minded person, who had
throughout endeavoured to prove complicity on Axel's part. Fool, idiot
of a man--what did he know of life in the wilds, when he could see
that the child was just what Axel had counted on to keep the woman,
his helpmeet, on the place!
Geissler spoke to the advocate for the Crown, but it seemed there was
little need of intervention there; he wanted to help Axel back to his
farm and his land, but Axel was in no need of help, from the looks
of things. For the case was going well as far as Barbro herself was
concerned, and if she were acquitted, then there could be no question
of any complicity at all. It would depend on the testimony of the
witnesses.
When the few witnesses had been heard--Oline had not been summoned,
but only the Lensmand, Axel himself, the experts, a couple of girls
from the village--when they had been heard, it was time to adjourn for
the midday break, and Geissler went up to the advocate for the Crown
once more. The advocate was of opinion that all was going well for the
girl Barbro, and so much the better. Fru Lensmand Heyerdahl's words
had carried great weight. All depended now upon the finding of the
court.
"Are you at all interested in the girl?" asked the advocate.
"Why, to a certain extent," answered Geissler--"or rather, perhaps, in
the man."
"Has she been in your service too?"
"No, he's never been in my service."
"I was speaking of the girl. It's she that has the sympathy of the
court."
"No, she's never been in my service at all."