Growth of the Soil - Knut Hamsun
Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31
A sound had floated through him, a sweetness, and left him standing
there with a delicate; thin recollection of something wild and
splendid, something he had known before, and forgotten again. He walks
home in silence, says no word of it, makes no boast of it, 'twas not
for worldly speech. And it was but Sivert from Sellanraa, went out one
evening, young and ordinary as he was, and met with this.
It was not the only thing he met with--there were more adventures
beside. Another thing which happened was that Jensine left Sellanraa.
And that made Sivert not a little perturbed in his mind.
Ay, it came to that: Jensine would leave, if you please; she wished it
so. Oh, Jensine was not one of your common sort, none could say that.
Sivert had once offered to drive her back home at once, and on that
occasion she had cried, which was a pity; but afterwards she repented
of that, and made it clear that she repented, and gave notice and
would leave. Ay, a proper way to do.
Nothing could have suited Inger at Sellanraa better than this; Inger
was beginning to grow dissatisfied with her maid. Strange; she had
nothing to say against her, but the sight of the girl annoyed her,
she could hardly endure to have her about the place. It all arose, no
doubt, from Inger's state of mind; she had been heavy and religious
all that winter, and it would not pass off. "Want to leave, do
you? Why, then, well and good," said Inger. It was a blessing, the
fulfilment of nightly prayers. Two grown women they were already, what
did they want with this Jensine, fresh as could be and marriageable
and all? Inger thought with a certain displeasure of that same
marriageableness, thinking, maybe, how she had once been the same
herself.
Her deep religiousness did not pass off. She was not full of vice; she
had tasted, sipped, let us say, but 'twas not her intent to persevere
in that way all through her old age, not by any means; Inger turned
aside with horror from the thought. The mine and all its workmen were
no longer there--and Heaven be praised. Virtue was not only tolerable,
but inevitable, it was a necessary thing; ay, a necessary good, a
special grace.
But the world was all awry. Look now, here was Leopoldine, little
Leopoldine, a seedling, a slip of a child, going about bursting
with sinful health; but an arm round her waist and she would fall
helpless--oh, fie! There were spots on her face now, too--a sign in
itself of wild blood; ay, her mother remembered well enough, 'twas the
wild blood would out. Inger did not condemn her child for a matter of
spots 'on her face; but it must stop, she would have an end of it. And
what did that fellow Andresen want coming up to Sellanraa of Sundays,
to talk fieldwork with Isak? Did the two menfolk imagine the child was
blind? Ay, young folk were young folk as they had ever been, thirty,
forty years ago, but worse than ever now.
"Why, that's as it may be," said Isak, when they spoke of the matter.
"But here's the spring come, and Jensine gone, and who's to manage the
summer work?"
"Leopoldine and I can do the haymaking," said Inger. "Ay, I'd rather
go raking night and day myself," said she bitterly, and on the point
of crying.
Isak could not understand what there was to make such a fuss about;
but he had his own ideas, no doubt, and off he went to the edge of
the wood, with crowbar and pick, and fell to working at a stone. Nay,
indeed, Isak could not see why Jensine should have left them; a good
girl, and a worker. To tell the truth, Isak was often at a loss in all
save the simplest things--his work, his lawful and natural doings. A
broad-shouldered man, well filled out, nothing astral about him at
all; he ate like a man and throve on it, and 'twas rarely he was
thrown off his balance in any way.
Well, here was this stone. There were stones more in plenty, but here
was one to begin with. Isak is looking ahead, to the time when he
will need to build a little house here, a little home for himself and
Inger, and as well to get to work a bit on the site, and clear it,
while Sivert is down at Storborg. Otherwise the boy would be asking
questions, and that was not to Isak's mind. The day must come,
of course, when Sivert would need all there was of the place for
himself--the old folks would be wanting a house apart. Ay, there was
never an end of building at Sellanraa; that fodder loft above the
cowshed was not done yet, though the beams and planks for it were
there all ready.
Well, then, here was this stone. Nothing so big to look at above
ground, but not to be moved at a touch for all that; it must be a
heavy fellow. Isak dug round about it, and tried his crowbar, but it
would not move. He dug again and tried once more, but no. Back to the
house for a spade then, and clear the earth away, then digging
again, trying again--no. A mighty heavy beast to shift, thought Isak
patiently enough. He dug away now for a steady while, but the stone
seemed reaching ever deeper and deeper down, there was no getting a
purchase on it. A nuisance it would be if he had to blast it, after
all. The boring would make such a noise, and call up every one on the
place. He dug. Off again to fetch a levering pole and tried that--no.
He dug again. Isak was beginning to be annoyed with this stone; he
frowned, and looked at the thing, as if he had just come along to make
a general inspection of the stones in that neighbourhood, and
found this one particularly stupid. He criticized it; ay, it was a
round-faced, idiotic stone, no getting hold of it any way--he was
almost inclined to say it was deformed. Blasting? The thing wasn't
worth a charge of powder. And was he to give it up, was he to consider
the possibility of being beaten by a stone?
He dug. Hard work, that it was, but as to giving up ... At last he
got the nose of his lever down and tried it; the stone did not move.
Technically speaking, there was nothing wrong with his method, but it
did not work. What was the matter, then? He had got out stones before
in his life. Was he getting old? Funny thing, he he he! Ridiculous,
indeed. True, he had noticed lately that he was not so strong as he
had been--that is to say, he had noticed nothing of the sort, never
heeded it; 'twas only imagination. And he goes at the stone once more,
with the best will in the world.
Oh, 'twas no little matter when Isak bore down on a levering pole
with all his weight. There he is now, hoisting and hoisting again, a
Cyclop, enormous, with a torso that seems built in one to the knees. A
certain pomp and splendour about him; his equator was astounding.
But the stone did not move.
No help for it; he must dig again. Try blasting? Not a word! No, dig
again. He was intent on his work now. The stone should come up! It
would be wrong to say there was anything at all perverse in this on
Isak's part; it was the ingrown love of a worker on the soil,
but altogether without tenderness. It was a foolish sight; first
gathering, as it were, about the stone from all sides, then making
a dash at it, then digging all round its sides and fumbling at it,
throwing up the earth with his bare hands, ay, so he did. Yet there
was nothing of a caress in it all. Warmth, yes, but the warmth of zeal
alone.
Try the lever again? He thrust it down where there was best hold--no.
An altogether remarkable instance of obstinacy and defiance on the
part of the stone. But it seemed to be giving. Isak tries again, with
a touch of hope; the earth-breaker has a feeling now that the stone
is no longer invincible. Then the lever slipped, throwing him to the
ground. "Devil!" said he. Ay, he said that. His cap had got thrust
down over one ear as he fell, making him look like a robber, like a
Spaniard. He spat.
Here comes Inger. "Isak, come in and have your food now," says she,
kindly and pleasant as can be.
"Ay," says he, but will have her no nearer, and wants no questions.
Oh, but Inger, never dreaming, she comes nearer.
"What's in your mind now?" she asks, to soften him with a hint of the
way he thinks out some new grand thing almost every day.
But Isak is sullen, terribly sullen and stern; he says: "Nay, I don't
know."
And Inger again, foolish that she is--ugh, keeps on talking and asking
and will not go.
"Seeing as you've seen it yourself," says he at last, "I'm getting up
this stone here."
"Ho, going to get him up?"
"Ay."
"And couldn't I help a bit at all?" she asks.
Isak shakes his head. But it was a kindly thought, anyway, that she
would have helped him, and he can hardly be harsh in return.
"If you just wait the least bit of a while," says he, and runs home
for the hammers.
If he could only get the stone rough a bit, knocking off a flake or so
in the right spot, it would give the lever a better hold. Inger holds
the setting-hammer, and Isak strikes. Strikes, strikes. Ay, sure
enough, off goes a flake. "'Twas a good help," says Isak, "and thanks.
But don't trouble about food for me this bit of a while, I must get
this stone up first."
But Inger does not go. And to tell the truth, Isak is pleased enough
to have her there watching him at his work; 'tis a thing has always
pleased him, since their young days. And lo, he gets a fine purchase
now on the lever, and puts his weight into it--the stone moves! "He's
moving," says Inger.
"'Tis but your nonsense," says Isak.
"Nonsense, indeed! But it is!"
Got so far, then--and that was something. The stone was, so to speak,
converted now, was on his side; they were working together. Isak
hoists and heaves with his lever, and the stone moves, but no more. He
keeps at it a while, nothing more. All at once he understands that it
is not merely a question of weight, the dead pull of his body; no, the
fact is that he has no longer his old strength, he has lost the tough
agility that makes all the difference. Weight? An easy matter enough
to hang on with his weight and break an iron-shod pole. No, he was
weakening, that was it. And the patient man is filled with bitterness
at the thought--at least he might have been spared the shame of having
Inger here to see it!
Suddenly he drops the lever and grasps the sledge. A fury takes him,
he is minded to go at it violently now. And see, his cap still hangs
on one ear, robber-fashion, and now he steps mightily, threateningly,
round the stone, trying, as it were, to set himself in the proper
light; ho, he will leave that stone a ruin and a wreck of what it had
been. Why not? When a man is filled with mortal hatred of a stone,
it is a mere formality to crush it. And suppose the stone resists,
suppose it declines to be crushed? Why, let it try--and see which of
the two survives!
But then it is that Inger speaks up, a little timidly, again; seeing,
no doubt, what is troubling him: "What if we both hang on the stick
there?" And the thing she calls a stick is the lever, nothing else.
"No!" cries Isak furiously. But after a moment's thought he says:
"Well, well, since you're here--though you might as well have gone
home. Let's try."
And they get the stone up on edge. Ay, they manage that. And "Puh!"
says Isak.
But now comes a revelation, a strange thing to see. The underside of
the stone is flat, mightily broad, finely cut, smooth and even as
a floor. The stone is but the half of a stone, the other half is
somewhere close by, no doubt. Isak knows well enough that two halves
of the same stone may lie in different places; the frost, no doubt,
that in course of time had shifted them apart. But he is all wonder
and delight at the find; 'tis a useful stone of the best, a door-slab.
A round sum of money would not have filled this fieldworker's mind
with such content. "A fine door-slab," says he proudly.
And Inger, simple creature: "Why! Now how on earth could you tell that
beforehand?"
"H'm," says Isak. "Think I'd go here digging about for nothing?"
They walk home together, Isak enjoying new admiration on false
pretences; 'twas something he had not deserved, but it tasted but
little different from the real thing. He lets it be understood that he
has been looking out for a suitable door-slab for a long time, and had
found it at last. After that, of course, there could be nothing in the
least suspicious about his working there again; he could root about as
much as he pleased on pretext of looking for the other half. And when
Sivert came home, he could get him to help.
But if it had come to this, that he could no longer go out alone and
heave up a stone, why, things were sorely changed; ay, 'twas a bad
look-out, and the more need to get that site cleared quick as might
be. Age was upon him, he was ripening for the chimney-corner. The
triumph he had stolen in the matter of the door-slab faded away in a
few days; 'twas a false thing, and not made to last. Isak stooped a
little now in his walk.
Had he not once been so much of a man that he grew wakeful and
attentive in a moment if one but said a word of stone, a word of
digging? And 'twas no long time since, but a few years, no more. Ay,
and in those days, folk that were shy of a bit of draining work kept
out of his way. Now he was beginning, little by little, to take such
matters more calmly; eyah, _Herregud_! All things were changed, the
land itself was different now, with broad telegraph roads up through
the woods, that had not been there before, and rocks blasted and
sundered up by the water, as they had not been before. And folk, too,
were changed. They did not greet coming and going as in the old days,
but nodded only, or maybe not even that.
But then--in the old days there had been no Sellanraa, but only a turf
hut, while now.... There had been no Margrave in the old days.
Ay, but Margrave, what was he now? A pitiful thing, nothing
superhuman, but old and fading, going the way of all flesh. What
though he had good bowels, and could eat well, when it gave him no
strength? 'Twas Sivert had the strength now, and a mercy it was
so--but think, if Isak had had it too! A sorry thing, to find his
works running down. He had toiled like a man, carrying loads enough
for any beast of burden; now, he could exercise his patience in
resting.
Isak is ill-pleased, heavy at heart.
Here lies an old hat, an old sou'wester, rotting on the ground.
Carried there by the gale, maybe, or maybe the lads had brought it
there to the edge of the wood years ago, when they were little ones.
It lies there year after year, rotting and rotting away; but once it
had been a new sou'wester, all yellow and new. Isak remembers the day
he came home with it from the store, and Inger had said it was a fine
hat. A year or so after, he had taken it to a painter down in the
village, and had it blacked and polished, and the brim done in green.
And when he came home, Inger thought it a finer hat than before. Inger
always thought everything was fine; ay, 'twas a good life those days,
cutting faggots, with Inger to look on--his best days. And when March
and April came, Inger and he would be wild after each other, just like
the birds and beasts in the woods; and when May was come, he would sow
his corn and plant potatoes, living and thriving from day to dawn.
Work and sleep, loving and dreaming, he was like the first big ox, and
that was a wonder to see, big and bright as a king. But there was no
such May to the years now. No such thing.
Isak was sorely despondent for some days. Dark days they were. He felt
neither wish nor strength to start work on the fodder loft--that could
be left for Sivert to do some day. The thing to be done now was the
house for himself--the last house to build. He could not long hide
from Sivert what he was doing; he was clearing the ground, and plain
to see what for. And one day he told.
"There's a good bit of stone if we'd any use for stonework," said he.
"And there's another."
Sivert showed no surprise, and only said: "Ay, first-rate stones."
"What you might think," said his father.
"We've been digging round here now to find that other door-slab piece;
might almost do to build here. I don't know...."
"Ay, 'tis no bad place to build," said Sivert, looking round.
"Think so? 'Twas none so bad, maybe, to have a bit of a place to house
folk if any should come along."
"Ay."
"A couple of rooms'd be as well. You saw how 'twas when they Swedish
gentlemen came, and no proper place to house them. But what you think:
a bit of a kitchen as well, maybe, if 'twas any cooking to be done?"
"Ay, 'twould be a shame to built with never a bit of kitchen," says
Sivert.
"You think so?"
Isak said no more. But Sivert, he was a fine lad to grasp things, and
get into his head all at once just what was needed in a place to put
up Swedish gentlemen that chanced to come along; never so much as
asked a single question, but only said: "Doing it my way, now, you'd
put up a bit of a shed on the north wall. Folks coming along, 'd be
useful to have a shed place to hang up wet clothes and things."
And his father agrees at once: "Ay, the very thing."
They work at their stones again in silence. Then asks Isak: "Eleseus,
he's not come home, I suppose?"
And Sivert answers evasively: "He'll be coming home soon."
'Twas that way with Eleseus: he was all for staying away, living away
on journeys. Couldn't he have written for the goods? But he must go
round and buy them on the spot. Got them so much cheaper. Ay, maybe,
but what about cost of the journey? He had his own way of thinking, it
seemed. And then, what did he want, anyway, with more cotton stuff,
and coloured ribbons for christening caps, and black and white straw
hats, and long tobacco pipes? No one ever bought such things up in the
hills; and the village folk, they only came up to Storborg when they'd
no money. Eleseus was clever enough in his way--only to see him write
on a paper, or do sums with a bit of chalk! "Ay, with a head like
yours," said folk, admiring him. And that was true enough; but he was
spending overmuch. They village folk never paid their owings, and yet
even a fellow like Brede Olsen could come up to Storborg that winter
and get cotton print and coffee and molasses and paraffin on credit.
Isak has laid out a deal of money already for Eleseus, and his store
and his long journeyings about; there's not overmuch left now out of
the riches from the mine--and what then?
"How d'you think he's getting on, Eleseus?" asks Isak suddenly.
"Getting on?" says Sivert, to gain time.
"Doesn't seem to be doing so well."
"H'm. He says it'll go all right."
"You spoken to him about it?"
"Nay; but Andresen he says so."
Isak thought over this, and shook his head. "Nay, I doubt it's going
ill," says he. "Tis a pity for the lad."
And Isak gloomier than ever now, for all he'd been none too bright
before.
But then Sivert flashes out a bit of news: "There's more folk coming
to live now."
"How d'you say?"
"Two new holdings. They've bought up close by us."
Isak stands still with his crowbar in hand; this was news, and good
news, the best that could be. "That makes ten of us here," says he.
And Isak learns exactly where the new men have bought, he knows the
country all round in his head, and nods. "Ay, they've done well there;
wood for firing in plenty, and some big timber here and there. Ground
slopes down sou'west. Ay...."
Settlers--nothing could beat them, anyway--here were new folk coming
to live. The mine had come to nothing, but so much the better for the
land. A desert, a dying place? Far from it, all about was swarming
with life; two new men, four new hands to work, fields and meadows
and homes. Oh, the little green tracts in a forest, a hut and water,
children and cattle about. Corn waving on the moorlands where naught
but horsetail grew before, bluebells nodding on the fells, and yellow
sunlight blazing in the ladyslipper flowers outside a house. And human
beings living there, move and talk and think and are there with heaven
and earth.
Here stands the first of them all, the first man in the wilds. He came
that way, kneedeep in marsh-growth and heather, found a sunny slope
and settled there. Others came after him, they trod a path across the
waste _Almenning_; others again, and the path became a road; carts
drove there now. Isak may be content, may start with a little thrill
of pride; he was the founder of a district, the pioneer.
"Look here, we can't go wasting time on this bit of a house place if
we're to get that fodder loft done this year," says he.
With a new brightness, new spirit; as it were, new courage and life.
Chapter X
A woman tramping up along the road. A steady summer rain falls,
wetting her, but she does not heed it; other things are in her
mind--anxiety. Barbro it is, and no other--Brede's girl, Barbro.
Anxious, ay; not knowing how the venture will end; she has gone from
service at the Lensmand's, and left the village. That is the matter.
She keeps away from all the farms on the road up, unwilling to meet
with folk; easy to see where she was going, with a bundle of clothing
on her back. Ay, going to Maaneland, to take service there again.
Ten months she has been at the Lensmand's now, and 'tis no little
time, reckoned out in days and nights, but an eternity reckoned in
longing and oppression. It had been bearable at first, Fru Heyerdahl
looking after her kindly, giving her aprons and neat things to wear;
'twas a joy to be sent on errands to the store with such fine clothes
to wear. Barbro had been in the village as a child; she knew all the
village folk from the days when she had played there, gone to school
there, kissed the lads there, and joined in many games with stones and
shells. Bearable enough for a month or so. But then Fru Heyerdahl
had begun to be even more careful about her, and when the Christmas
festivities began, she was strict. And what good could ever come of
that? It was bound to spoil things. Barbro could never have endured it
but that she had certain hours of the night to herself; from two to
six in the morning she was more or less safe, and had stolen pleasures
not a few. What about Cook, then, for not reporting her? A nice sort
of woman she must be! Oh, an ordinary woman enough, as the world finds
them; Cook went out without leave herself. They took it in turns. And
it was quite a long time before they were found out. Barbro was by no
means so depraved that it showed in her face, impossible to accuse
her of immorality. Immorality? She made all the resistance one could
expect. When young men asked her to go to a Christmas dance, she said
"No" once, said "No" twice, but the third time she would say: "I'll
try and come from two to six." Just as a decent woman should, not
trying to make herself out worse than she is, and making a display
of daring. She was a servant-girl, serving all her time, and knew no
other recreation than fooling with men. It was all she asked for. Fru
Heyerdahl came and lectured her, lent her books--and a fool for her
pains. Barbro had lived in Bergen and read the papers and been to the
theatre! She was no innocent lamb from the countryside ...
But Fru Heyerdahl must have grown suspicious at last. One day she
comes up at three in the morning to the maids' room and calls:
"Barbro!"
"Yes," answers Cook.
"It's Barbro I want. Isn't she there? Open the door."
Cook opens the door and explains as agreed upon, that Barbro had had
to run home for a minute about something. Home for a minute at this
time of night? Fru Heyerdahl has a good deal to say about that. And
in the morning there is a scene. Brede is sent for, and Fru Heyerdahl
asks: "Was Barbro at home with you last night--at three o'clock?"
Brede is unprepared, but answers: "Three o'clock? Yes, yes, quite
right. We sat up late, there was something we had to talk about," says
Brede.
The Lensmand's lady then solemnly declares that Barbro shall go out no
more at nights.
"No, no," says Brede.
"Not as long as she's in this house."
"No, no; there, you can see, Barbro, I told you so," says her father.
"You can go and see your parents now and then during the day," says
her mistress.
But Fru Heyerdahl was wide awake enough, and her suspicion was not
gone; she waited a week, and tried at four in the morning. "Barbro!"
she called. Oh, but this time 'twas Cook's turn out, and Barbro was at
home; the maids' room was a nest of innocence. Her mistress had to hit
on something in a hurry.
"Did you take in the washing last night?"
"Yes."
"That's a good thing, it's blowing so hard.... Good-night."
But it was not so pleasant for Fru Heyerdahl to get her husband to
wake her in the middle of the night and go padding across herself to
the servants' room to see if they were at home. They could do as they
pleased, she would trouble herself no more.
And if it had not been for sheer ill-luck, Barbro might have stayed
the year out in her place that way. But a few days ago the trouble had
come.
It was in the kitchen, early one morning. Barbro had been having some
words with Cook, and no light words either; they raised their voices,
forgetting all about their mistress. Cook was a mean thing and a
cheat, she had sneaked off last night out of her turn because it was
Sunday. And what excuse had she to give? Going to say good-bye to her
favourite sister that was off to America? Not a bit of it; Cook had
made no excuse at all, but simply said that Sunday night was one had
been owing to her for a long time.