Growth of the Soil Knut Hamsun (summer books .txt) 📖

they harnessed up, and Rebecca had the maid Jensine to look after her on the way, and Sivert said never a word against that either.

While they are away, it so happens that Aronsen’s man, his chief clerk, from Storborg, comes up the road. What does this mean? Why, nothing very much, ’tis only Andresen, the chief clerk from Storborg, come up for a bit of a walk this way⁠—his master having sent him. Nothing more. And no great excitement among the folk at Sellanraa over that⁠—’twas not as in the old days, when a stranger was a rare sight on their new land, and Inger made a great to-do. No, Inger’s grown quieter now, and keeps to herself these days.

A strange thing that book of devotion, a guide upon the way, an arm round one’s neck, no less. When Inger had lost hold of herself a little, lost her way a little out plucking berries, she found her way home again by the thought of her little chamber and the holy book; ay, she was humble now and a Godfearing soul. She can remember long years ago when she would say an evil word if she pricked her finger sewing⁠—so she had learned to do from her fellow-workers round the big table in the Institute. But now she pricks her finger, and it bleeds, and she sucks the blood away in silence. ’Tis no little victory gained to change one’s nature so. And Inger did more than that. When all the workmen were gone, and the stone building was finished, and Sellanraa was all forsaken and still, then came a critical time for Inger; she cried a deal, and suffered much. She blamed none but herself for it all, and she was deeply humbled. If only she could have spoken out to Isak, and relieved her mind, but that was not their way at Sellanraa; there was none of them would talk their feelings and confess things. All she could do was to be extra careful in the way she asked her husband to come in to meals, going right up to him to say it nicely, instead of shouting from the door. And in the evenings, she looked over his clothes, and sewed buttons on. Ay, and even more she did. One night she lifted up on her elbow and said:

“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 lookout 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. Hardworking 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