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

“Why yes. And put the beasts in the hut.”

Isak thought for a bit. “Ay, maybe ’twould be best so.”

“There,” says Inger, all glad and triumphant. “You see I’m some good after all.”

“Ay, that’s true. And what’d you say to a house with two rooms in?”

“Two rooms? Oh⁠ ⁠… ! Why, ’twould be just like other folks. Do you think we could?”

They did. Isak he went about building, notching his baulks and fitting up his framework; also he managed a hearth and fireplace of picked stones, though this last was troublesome, and Isak himself was not always pleased with his work. Haytime came, and he was forced to climb down from his building and go about the hillsides far and near, cutting grass and bearing home the hay in mighty loads. Then one rainy day he must go down to the village.

“What you want in the village?”

“Well, I can’t say exactly as yet.⁠ ⁠…”

He set off, and stayed away two days, and came Back with a cooking-stove⁠—a barge of a man surging up through the forest with a whole iron stove on his back. “ ’Tis more than a man can do,” said Inger. “You’ll kill yourself that gait.” But Isak pulled down the stone hearth, that didn’t look so well in the new house, and set up the cooking-stove in its place. “ ’Tisn’t everyone has a cooking-stove,” said Inger. “Of all the wonders, how we’re getting on!⁠ ⁠…”

Haymaking still; Isak bringing in loads and masses of hay, for woodland grass is not the same as meadow grass, more’s the pity, but poorer by far. It was only on rainy days now that he could spare time for his building; ’twas a lengthy business, and even by August, when all the hay was in, safely stored under the shelter of the rock, the new house was still but halfway done. Then by September: “This won’t do,” said Isak. “You’d better run down to the village and get a man to help.” Inger had been something poorly of late, and didn’t run much now, but all the same she got herself ready to go.

But Isak had changed his mind again; had put on his lordly manner again, and said he would manage by himself. “No call to bother with other folk,” says he; “I can manage it alone.”

“ ’Tis more than one man’s work,” says Inger. “You’ll wear yourself out.”

“Just help me to hoist these up,” says Isak, and that was all.

October came, and Inger had to give up. This was a hard blow, for the roof-beams must be got up at any cost, and the place covered in before the autumn rains; there was not a day to be lost. What could be wrong with Inger? Not going to be ill? She would make cheese now and then from the goats’ milk, but beyond that she did little save shifting Goldenhorns a dozen times a day where she grazed.

“Bring up a good-sized basket, or a box,” she had said, “next time you’re down to the village.”

“What d’you want that for?” asked Isak.

“I’ll just be wanting it,” said Inger.

Isak hauled up the roof-beams on a rope, Inger guiding them with one hand; it seemed a help just to have her about. Bit by bit the work went on; there was no great height to the roof, but the timber was huge and heavy for a little house.

The weather kept fine, more or less. Inger got the potatoes in by herself, and Isak had the roofing done before the rain came on in earnest. The goats were brought in of a night into the hut and all slept there together; they managed somehow, they managed everyway, and did not grumble.

Isak was getting ready for another journey down to the village. Said Inger very humbly:

“Do you think perhaps you could bring up a good-sized basket, or a box?”

“I’ve ordered some glass windows,” said Isak. “and a couple of painted doors. I’ll have to fetch them up,” said he in his lordly way.

“Ay well, then. It’s no great matter about the basket.”

“What did you want with a basket? What’s it for?”

“What’s it for?⁠ ⁠… Oh, haven’t you eyes in your head!”

Isak went off deep in thought. Two days later he came back, with a window and a door for the parlour, and a door for the bedroom; also he had hung round his neck in front a good-sized packing-case, and full of provisions to boot.

“You’ll carry yourself to death one day,” said Inger.

“Ho, indeed!” Isak was very far indeed from being dead; he took out a bottle of medicine from his pocket⁠—naphtha it was⁠—and gave it to Inger with orders to take it regularly and get well again. And there were the windows and the painted doors that he could fairly boast of; he set to work at once fitting them in. Oh, such little doors, and secondhand at that, but painted up all neat and fine again in red and white; ’twas almost as good as having pictures on the walls.

And now they moved into the new building, and the animals had the turf hut to themselves, only a lambing ewe was left with Cow, lest she should feel lonely.

They had done well, these builders in the waste: ay, ’twas a wonder and a marvel to themselves.

Isak worked on the land until the frost set in; there were stones and roots to be dug up and cleared away, and the meadow to be levelled ready for next year. When the ground hardened, he left his field work and became a woodman, felling and cutting up great quantities of logs.

“What do you want with all these logs?” Inger would say.

“Oh, they’ll be useful some way,” said Isak offhandedly, as though he had no plan. But Isak had a plan, never fear. Here was virgin forest, a dense growth, right close up to the house, a barrier hedging in his fields where he wanted room. Moreover, there must be some way of getting the