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

making too much noise, but now she stood looking, very closely at Barbro, at Barbro’s apron over her breast; ay, leaning forward and looking very closely indeed. It was a painful moment. And suddenly Fru Heyerdahl screams and draws back to the door. What on earth can it be? thinks Barbro, and looks down at herself. Herregud! a flea, nothing more. Barbro cannot help smiling, and being not unused to acting under critical circumstances, she flicks off the flea at once.

“On the floor!” cried Fru Heyerdahl. “Are you mad, girl? Pick it up at once!” Barbro begins looking about for it, and once more acts with presence of mind: she makes as if she had caught the creature, and drops it realistically into the fire.

“Where did you get it?” asks her mistress angrily.

“Where I got it?”

“Yes, that’s what I want to know.”

But here Barbro makes a bad mistake. “At the store,” she ought to have said, of course⁠—that would have been quite enough. As it was⁠—she did not know where she had got the creature, but had an idea it must have been from Cook.

Cook at the height of passion at once: “From me! You’ll please to keep your fleas to yourself, so there!”

“Anyway, ’twas you was out last night.”

Another mistake⁠—she should have said nothing about it. Cook has no longer any reason for keeping silence, and now she let out the whole thing, and told all about the nights Barbro had been out. Fru Heyerdahl mightily indignant; she cares nothing about Cook, ’tis Barbro she is after, the girl whose character she has answered for. And even then all might have been well if Barbro had bowed her head like a reed, and been cast down with shame, and promised all manner of things for the future⁠—but no. Her mistress is forced to remind her of all she has done for her, and at that, if you please, Barbro falls to answering back, ay, so foolish was she, saying impertinent things. Or perhaps she was cleverer than might seem; trying on purpose, maybe, to bring the matter to a head, and get out of the place altogether? Says her mistress:

“After I’ve saved you from the clutches of the Law.”

“As for that,” answers Barbro, “I’d have just as pleased if you hadn’t.”

“And that’s all the thanks I get,” says her mistress.

“Least said the better, perhaps,” says Barbro. “I wouldn’t have got more than a month or two, anyway, and done with it.”

Fru Heyerdahl is speechless for a moment; ay, for a little while she stands saying nothing, only opening and closing her mouth. The first thing she says is to tell the girl to go; she will have no more of her.

“Just as you please,” says Barbro.

For some days after that Barbro had been at home with her parents. But she could not go on staying there. True, her mother sold coffee, and there came a deal of folk to the house, but Barbro could not live on that⁠—and maybe she had other reasons of her own for wanting to get into a settled position again. And so today she had taken a sack of clothes on her back, and started up along the road over the moors. Question now, whether Axel Ström would take her? But she had had the banns put up, anyway, the Sunday before.

Raining, and dirty underfoot, but Barbro tramps on. Evening is drawing on, but not dark yet at that season of the year. Poor Barbro⁠—she does not spare herself, but goes on her errand like another; she is bound for a place, to commence another struggle there. She has never spared herself, to tell the truth, never been of a lazy sort, and that is why she has her neat figure now and pretty shape. Barbro is quick to learn things, and often to her own undoing; what else could one expect? She had learned to save herself at a pinch, to slip from one scrape to another, but keeping all along some better qualities; a child’s death is nothing to her, but she can still give sweets to a child alive. Then she has a fine musical ear, can strum softly and correctly on a guitar, singing hoarsely the while; pleasant and slightly mournful to hear. Spared herself? no; so little, indeed, that she has thrown herself away altogether, and felt no loss. Now and again she cries, and breaks her heart over this or that in her life⁠—but that is only natural, it goes with the songs she sings, ’tis the poetry and friendly sweetness in her; she had fooled herself and many another with the same. Had she been able to bring the guitar with her this evening she could have strummed a little for Axel when she came.

She manages so as to arrive late in the, evening; all is quiet at Maaneland when she reaches there. See, Axel has already begun haymaking, the grass is cut near the house, and some of the hay already in. And then she reckons out that Oline, being old, will be sleeping in the little room, and Axel lying out in the hayshed, just as she herself had done. She goes to the door she knows so well, breathless as a thief, and calls softly: “Axel!”

“What’s that?” asks Axel all at once.

“Nay, ’tis only me,” says Barbro, and steps in. “You couldn’t house me for the night?” she says.

Axel looks at her and is slow to think, and sits there in his underclothes, looking at her. “So ’tis you,” says he. “And where’ll you be going?”

“Why, depends first of all if you’ve need of help to the summer work,” says she.

Axel thinks over that, and says: “Aren’t you going to stay where you were, then?”

“Nay; I’ve finished at the Lensmand’s.”

“I might be needing help, true enough, for the summer,” said Axel. “But what’s it mean, anyway, you wanting to come back?”

“Nay, never mind me,” says Barbro, putting it off. “I’ll go on