Growth of the Soil, Knut Hamsun [best self help books to read txt] 📗

Lensmand Heyerdahl drew up his report in elegant phrasing. Geissler had written: “The man will also have to pay land tax every year; he cannot afford to pay more for the place than fifty Daler, in annual instalments over ten years. The State can accept his offer, or take away his land and the fruits of his work.” Heyerdahl wrote: “He now humbly begs to submit this application to the Department: that he be allowed to retain this land, upon which, albeit without right of possession, he has up to this present effected considerable improvements, for a purchase price of 50⁠—fifty⁠—Speciedaler, the amount to be paid in annual instalments as may seem fit to the Department to apportion the same.”

Lensmand Heyerdahl promised Isak to do his best. “I hope to succeed in procuring you possession of the estate,” he said.

The big bull is to be sent away. It has grown to an enormous beast, and costs too much to feed; Isak is taking it down to the village, to bring up a suitable yearling in exchange.

It was Inger’s idea. And Inger had no doubt her own reasons for getting Isak out of the place on that particular day.

“If you are going at all, you’d better go today,” she said. “The bull’s in fine condition; ’twill fetch a good price at this time of year. You take him down to the village, and they’ll send him to be sold in town⁠—townsfolk pay anything for their meat.”

“Ay,” says Isak.

“If only the beast doesn’t make trouble on the way down.”

Isak made no answer.

“But he’s been out and about now this last week, and getting used to things.”

Isak was silent. He took a big knife, hung it in a sheath at his waist, and led out the bull.

A mighty beast it was, glossy-coated and terrible to look at, swaying at the buttocks as it walked. A trifle short in the leg; when it ran, it crushed down the undergrowth with its chest; it was like a railway engine. Its neck was huge almost to deformity; there was the strength of an elephant in that neck.

“If only he doesn’t get mad with you,” said Inger.

Isak thought for a moment. “Why, if as he takes it that way, I’ll just have to slaughter him halfway and carry down the meat.”

Inger sat down on the door-slab. She was in pain; her face was aflame. She had kept her feet till Isak was gone; now he and the bull were out of sight, and she could give way to a groan without fear. Little Eleseus can talk a little already; he asks: “Mama hurt?”⁠—“Yes, hurt.” He mimics her, pressing his hands to his sides and groaning. Little Sivert is asleep.

Inger takes Eleseus inside the house, gives him some things to play with on the floor, and gets into bed herself. Her time was come. She is perfectly conscious all the while, keeps an eye on Eleseus, glances at the clock on the wall to see the time. Never a cry, hardly a movement; the struggle is in her vitals⁠—a burden is loosened and glides from her. Almost at the same moment she hears a strange cry in the bed, a blessed little voice; poor thing, poor little thing⁠ ⁠… and now she cannot rest, but lifts herself up and looks down. What is it? Her face is grey and blank in a moment, without expression or intelligence; a groan is heard; unnatural, impossible⁠—a choking gasp.

She slips back on the bed. A minute passes; she cannot rest, the little cry down there in the bed grows louder, she raises herself once more, and sees⁠—O God, the direst of all! No mercy, no hope⁠—and this a girl!

Isak could not have gone more than a couple of miles or so. It was hardly an hour since he had left. In less than ten minutes Inger had borne her child and killed it.⁠ ⁠…

Isak came back on the third day, leading a half-starved yearling bull. The beast could hardly walk; it had been a long business getting up to the place at all.

“How did you get on?” asked Inger. She herself was ill and miserable enough.

Isak had managed very well. True, the big bull had been mad the last two miles or so, and he had to tie it up and fetch help from the village. Then, when he got back, it had broken loose and took a deal of time to find. But he had managed somehow, and had sold for a good price to a trader in the village, buying up for butchers in the town. “And here’s the new one,” said Isak. “Let the children come and look.”

Any addition to the livestock was a great event. Inger looked at the bull and felt it over, asked what it had cost; little Sivert was allowed to sit on its back. “I shall miss the big one, though,” said Inger. “So glossy and fine he was. I do hope they’ll kill him nicely.”

It was the busy season now, and there was work enough. The animals were let loose; in the empty shed were cases and bins of potatoes left to grow. Isak sowed more corn this year than last, and did all he could to get it nicely down. He made beds for carrots and turnips, and Inger sowed the seeds. All went on as before.

Inger went about for some time with a bag of hay under her dress, to hide any change in her figure, taking out a little from time to time, and finally discarding the bag altogether. At last, one day, Isak noticed something, and asked in surprise:

“Why, how’s this? Hasn’t anything happened? I thought.⁠ ⁠…”

“No. Not this time.”

“Ho. Why, what was wrong?”

“ ’Twas meant to be so, I suppose. Isak, how long d’you think it’ll take you to work over all this land of ours?”

“Yes, but⁠ ⁠… you mean you had your trouble⁠—didn’t go as it should?”

“Ay, that was it⁠—yes.”

“But yourself⁠—you’re not hurt anyway after