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

anxious to appear natural and kindly; his mother was surprised and pleased. He shared the small bedroom with Sivert; the two brothers got on well together, and were constantly playing tricks on each other by way of amusement. But, naturally, Eleseus had to take his share of the work in building the house; and tired and miserable it made him, all unused as he was to bodily fatigue of any kind. It was worse still when Sivert had to go off and leave it all to the other two; Eleseus then was almost more of a hindrance than a help.

And where had Sivert gone off to? Why, ’twas Oline had come over the hills one day with word from Uncle Sivert that he was dying; and, of course, young Sivert had to go. A nice state of things all at once⁠—it couldn’t have happened worse than to have Sivert running off just now. But there was no help for it.

Said Oline: “I’d no time to go running errands, and that’s the truth; but for all that⁠ ⁠… I’ve taken a fancy to the children here, all of them, and little Sivert, and if as I could help him to his legacy.⁠ ⁠…”

“But was Uncle Sivert very bad, then?”

“Bad? Heaven bless us, he’s falling away day by day.”

“Was he in bed, then?”

“In bed? How can you talk so light and flighty of death before God’s Judgment-seat? Nay, he’ll neither hop nor run again in this world, will your Uncle Sivert.”

All this seemed to mean that Uncle Sivert had not long to live, and Inger insisted that little Sivert should set off at once.

But Uncle Sivert, incorrigible old knave, was not on his deathbed; was not even confined to bed at all. When young Sivert came, he found the little place in terrible muddle and disorder; they had not finished the spring season’s work properly yet⁠—had not even carted out all the winter manure; but as for approaching death, there was no sign of it that he could see. Uncle Sivert was an old man now, over seventy; he was something of an invalid, and pottered about half-dressed in the house, and often kept his bed for a time. He needed help on the place in many ways, as, for instance, with the herring nets that hung rotting in the sheds. Oh, but for all that he was by no means at his last gasp; he could still eat sour fish and smoke his pipe.

When Sivert had been there half an hour and seen how things were, he was for going back home again.

“Home?” said the old man.

“We’re building a house, and father’s none to help him properly.”

“Ho!” said his uncle. “Isn’t Eleseus come home, then?”

“Ay, but he’s not used to the work.”

“Then why did you come at all?”

Sivert told him about Oline and her message, how she had said that Uncle Sivert was on the point of death.

“Point of death?” cried the old man. “Said I was on the point of death, did she? A cursed old fool!”

“Ha ha ha!” said Sivert.

The old man looked sternly at him. “Eh? Laugh at a dying man, do you, and you called after me and all!”

But Sivert was too young to put on a graveyard face for that; he had never cared much for his uncle. And now he wanted to get back home again.

“Ho, so you thought so, too?” said the old man again. “Thought I was at my last gasp, and that fetched you, did it?”

“ ’Twas Oline said so,” answered Sivert.

His uncle was silent for a while, then spoke again: “Look you here. If you’ll mend that net of mine and put it right, I’ll show you something.”

“H’m,” said Sivert. “What is it?”

“Well, never you mind,” said the old man sullenly, and went to bed again.

It was going to be a long business, evidently. Sivert writhed uncomfortably. He went out and took a look round the place; everything was shamefully neglected and uncared for; it was hopeless to begin work here. When he came in after a while, his uncle was sitting up, warming himself at the stove.

“See that?” He pointed to an oak chest on the floor at his feet. It was his money chest. As a matter of fact, it was a lined case made to hold bottles, such as visiting justices and other great folk used to carry with them when travelling about the country in the old days, but there were no bottles in it now; the old man had used it for his documents and papers as district treasurer; he kept his accounts and his money in it now. The story ran that it was full of uncounted riches; the village folk would shake their heads and say: “Ah! if I’d only as much as lies in old Sivert his chest!”

Uncle Sivert took out a paper from the box and said solemnly: “You can read writing, I suppose?”

Little Sivert was not by any means a great hand at that, it is true, but he made out so much as told him he was to inherit all that his uncle might leave at his death.

“There,” said the old man. “And now you can do as you please.” And he laid the paper back in the chest.

Sivert was not greatly impressed; after all, the paper told him no more than he had known before; ever since he was a child he had heard say that he was to have what Uncle Sivert left one day. A sight of the treasure would be another matter.

“There’s some fine things in that chest, I doubt,” said he.

“There’s more than you think,” said the old man shortly.

He was angry and disappointed with his nephew; he locked up the box and went to bed again. There he lay, delivering jets of information. “I’ve been district treasurer and warden of the public moneys in this village over thirty year; I’ve no need to beg and pray for a helping hand from any man! Who told Oline, I’d