Look Back on Happiness by Knut Hamsun

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"Why did you want to tell me this?"

"Yes--why did I?"

"Perhaps for a moment you thought you were the center of the world again,
but--"

"Yes, I expect so."

She looked about her with great, roving eyes. Then she got up; she had
been sitting all this time as though about to spring at me. I rose, too.
An unhappy woman--I saw that plainly enough; but good heavens, what could
I do? She had come to tell me she was engaged, and at the same time looked
very unhappy. Was that a way to behave? But as she got up, I could see her
face better under her hat--I could see her hair--the hair that was
beginning to show silken and silver at the temples--how beautiful it was!
She was tall and handsome, and her breast was rising and falling--her
great breast--what a great breast she had, rising and falling! Her face
was brown, and her mouth open, just a little open, dry, feverishly dry--

"Miss Ingeborg!"

It was the first time I called her this. And I moved my hand toward her
slightly, longing to touch her, perhaps to fondle her--I don't know--

But she had collected herself now, and stood erect and hard. Her eyes had
grown cold; they looked at me, putting me in my place again, as she walked
toward the door. A cry of "No!" escaped me.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Don't go, not yet, not at once; sit down again and talk to me more."

"No, you're quite right," she said. "I'm not the center of the universe.
Here I come to bother you with my unimportant troubles, and you--well, of
course, you're busy with your extensive correspondence."

"Look here, sit down again, won't you? I shan't even read the letters;
they're nothing, only two or three letters perhaps, probably from complete
strangers. Now sit down; tell me everything; you owe me that much. Look, I
shan't even read the letters."

And with that I swept them up and threw them into the fire.

"Oh--what are you doing?" she cried, and ran to the fireplace, trying to
save them.

"Don't bother," I said. "I expect no happiness to come to me through the
post, and sorrows I do not seek."

She stood so close to me that I found myself again on the point of
touching her, just for a moment, touching her arm; but I caught myself in
time. I had already gone too far, so I said as gently and sympathetically
as I could:

"Dear child, you must not be unhappy; it will all turn out for the best;
you'll see. Now sit down--there, that's better."

No doubt she had been taken aback by my violence, for she sank into her
chair almost absently.

"I'm not unhappy," she said.

"Aren't you? So much the better!"

I began to chatter away at top speed, though I tried to restrain myself,
to show that I was nothing more than an uncle to her. I talked to distract
her, to distract us both; I let my tongue wag--I could hear it buzzing.
What could I say? A little of everything--a great deal, in fact:

"Well, well, child. And whom are you marrying, who is the lucky man? Nice
of you to come and tell me before anyone, really very nice; thank you very
much. You see I've only just come home and I haven't slept much on the
journey. I was anxious to know--well, perhaps not anxious exactly--but
still--You know what such a homecoming is: lots of people, noise, brr!--I
hardly got any sleep. Then I came home, and then you came along--thank you
for coming, Miss Ingeborg--I might be your father and you're just a
child; that's why I say 'Ingeborg.' But when you told me all this, I
hadn't had any sleep, I wasn't quite balanced--not enough to give you
advice; I mean, I hadn't quite appreciated--But now you can quite safely--
I'd like to know, of course--Is he old? Is he young? Young, of course. I
am imagining what will happen to you now, Miss Ingeborg, in your new
condition. I mean, it will be so entirely different from what you've been
accustomed to, but God bless you, it will all turn out for the best, I'm
sure of that--"

"But you don't even know who it is!" she interrupted, looking at me
apprehensively again.

"No, I don't, and I needn't if you'd rather not tell me yet. Who is it? A
dapper little man, I can see that from his ring, a schoolmaster perhaps, a
clever young schoolmaster--"

She shook her head.

"Then a big, good-natured man who wants to dance with you--"

"Yes, perhaps," she said slowly.

"There you are--you see I've guessed it. A bear who will carry you on his
paws. On your birthday--do you know what he'll give you for your
birthday?"

But perhaps I was getting too childish; I bored her, and for the first
time she looked away from me, looked at a picture on the wall, then at
another picture. But it was not easy for me to stop now, after having
spoken hardly at all for several weeks, and feeling profoundly excited
besides--heaven only knows why.

"How did you like the country?" she asked suddenly. As I could not see the
drift of this question, I merely looked at her.

"Weren't you at Nikolai's mother's house?" she persisted.

"Yes."

"What is she like?"

"Are you interested in her?"

"No, I don't suppose so. Oh dear!" she sighed wearily.

"Come, come, you mustn't sound like that when you're newly engaged! What
the country was like? Well, there was a schoolmaster--you know, an old
bachelor, sly, and amusing. Said he knew me, and put on the most
extraordinary airs the first day. And of course I returned the compliment
and said I had come exclusively to meet him. 'Impossible!' he said. 'Why
should it be?' I said; 'forty years a schoolmaster, a respected man,
permanent churchman, chairman, indispensable everywhere!' Well, then I
attended his class. Most impressive. He talked continually; for once he
had an audience, almost like a school inspection. 'You there, Peter!
Ahem,' he said. 'There was a horse and a man, and one of them was riding
on the other's back. Which one was riding, Peter?' 'The man,' Peter
replies. A pause. 'Well, maybe you're right, Peter--maybe the man was
riding. Just like sin, like the devil riding us....'"

But she was looking at the wall again, drifting away from me again. I
changed the subject clumsily:

"Of course you'd rather hear about people you know--about Tore Peak, for
instance. Josephine has been in town."

"Yes, I know," she said, nodding her head.

"Remember the old man at Tore Peak? I don't think I'll ever forget him. In
a certain number of years I shall be like him--perhaps not quite so old.
Then I shall be a child again with age. One day he came out, and went down
to the field. I saw him; he had mittens on. You know he eats all sorts of
things, and I saw him lie down and eat the hay."

She stared at me foolishly.

"But I must say he didn't look as though he had ever eaten hay
before--possibly because it was rotting. It was the hay that had been
left, you know--rotting down for next year--for the next tourist year."

"You seem to think," she said smiling, "that you have to cheer me up,
because I'm terribly unhappy. I'm quite the reverse. Perhaps he's too good
for me; that's what his sister seems to think, anyhow, because she tried
to stop it. But I'm going to enjoy snubbing that sister of his. Anyhow,
I'm not unhappy, and that isn't the reason I've come. I'd really much
rather have him than anyone else--since I can't get the one I really
want."

"You've told me this before, child--last winter, in fact. But the man you
want has gone his way--besides, you said yourself that you didn't belong
with him, or rather, that he didn't with you--I mean--"

"Belong? Do I belong anywhere? Do you think I belong in the place I'm
going to now? I'm afraid I'm not really suitable for anybody--at least I
can't think of anyone I'd suit. I wonder how I'll manage. I wonder if
he'll be able to stand me. But I'll do my very best; I've made up my mind
to that."

"Well, who is it--do I know him? Of course you suit each other. I can't
believe you don't. He must be in love with you, quite madly in love, and
you must love him in return. I'm sure you'll come through with flying
colors, Miss Ingeborg, because you're capable and intelligent."

"Oh, well," she said, rising suddenly to her feet. But she hesitated over
something, and seemed about to speak, then changed her mind again. At the
door, she stood with her back to me, pulling on her gloves, and said:

"So you think I ought to do it?"

I was taken aback by the question, and replied:

"Ought to do it? Haven't you done it already?"

"Yes. That is--well, yes, I've done it, I'm engaged. And I can tell from
your manner that I've done the right thing."

"Well, I don't know. I can't tell."

I crossed the room to her.

"Who is it?"

"Oh, God, no; let's drop it. I can't bear any more now. Good night."

She stretched her hand out fumblingly, but since she was looking at the
floor, she could not find mine, and both our hands circled helplessly
round each other for a moment. Then she opened the door and was gone. I
called to her, begging her to wait, seized my hat, and hurried after her.
An empty staircase. I rushed down and opened the street door. An empty
street. She must have run.

"I'll try to see her tomorrow," I thought.

* * * * *

One day, two days, but I did not see her, though I went to all the usual
places. Another day--nothing. Then I thought I would go up to her home and
inquire about her. At first this did not seem to me too improper, but when
it came to the point, I hesitated. There is, after all, something to be
lost by making a fool of oneself. But was I not a kind of uncle? No--yes,
of course, but still--

A week passes, two weeks, three. The girl has quite disappeared; I hope
she hasn't had an accident. I mount the stairs to her home and ring the
bell....

She's already gone away; they left as soon as they were married, last
week. She's married to Nikolai, Carpenter Nikolai.

* * * * *

March--what a month! The winter is over, yet there's no telling how much
longer it may still last. That's what March is for.

I have lived through another winter and seen the nigger entertainment at
the Anglo-Saxon theater. You were there too, my friend. You saw how
cleverly we all turned somersaults. Why, you even took part yourself, and
you carry about a broken rib as a cherished little memento of the
occasion. I saw it all from a slight distance away, ten miles, to be
exact; no people were near me, but there were seven heavens above.

And pretty soon I shall be reading what the officials have to say about
the year's harvest in our country; that is to say, the harvest at the
theater--in dollars, and in sterling.

The waggish professor is enjoying himself, quite in his element. There he
goes, self-assured and complacent, Sir Mediocrity in all his glory. By
next year, he will have dragged other progressive people in his wake; he
will have dressed up Norway still more, and made it still more attractive
to the Anglo-Saxons. More dollars, and more sterling.

What, do I hear someone objecting?

Yes, Switzerland.

Well, then, we shall invite Switzerland to dinner and toast her thus:
"Colleague, our great aim is to resemble you. Who else can squeeze so much
profit out of their mountains? Who else can file at such clockwork?
Switzerland, make yourself at home; we don't want to rob you; there are no
pickpockets at this table. Here's to you!"

But if that doesn't help, we shall have to roll up our sleeves and fight.
There are still Norwegians left in good old Norway, and our rival--is
Switzerland.

* * * * *

Mrs. Henriksen brings catkins in a vase into my room.

"What, is it spring?"

"Oh, it's getting on."

"Then I shall be going away. You see, Mrs. Henriksen, I should very much
have liked to stay, because this is really where I belong; but what more
can I do here? I don't work; I merely idle. Do you understand me? I grieve
continually, and my heart sits wrinkled. My most brilliant achievement is
spinning coins: I toss a coin into the air and wait. When I came here last
autumn I wasn't so bad, not nearly so bad. I was only half a year younger
then, yet I was ten years younger. What has happened to me since? Nothing.
Only--I'm not a better man than I was last autumn."

"But you've been all right all winter, haven't you? And three weeks ago,
when you came back from the country, you were so happy!"

"Was I? I don't remember that. Ah, well, things don't move so fast, and
nothing has happened to me in these three weeks. Well, never mind; at all
events, I shall go away. I must travel when the spring comes. I have
always done so in the past, and I want to do the same thing now. Sit down,
Mrs. Henriksen."

"No, thank you, I'm too busy."

Too busy! Yes, you work--you're not ten years older than you were last
autumn. You think it's hard work to rest on Sundays, don't you? Dear
Madame Henriksen! You and your little daughter knit stockings for the
whole family, you let your rooms, you keep your family together like a
mother. But you mustn't let your little Louise sit for twelve years on a
school form. If you do, you'll hardly ever see her all through her youth,
those formative years of her life. And then she can't be like you or learn
from you. She'll learn to have children easily enough, but she won't learn
to be a mother, and when the time comes for her to keep her home and
family together, she will not be able to do it. She'll only know
"languages" and mathematics and the story of Bluebeard, but that is not
food for the heart of a woman. That is twelve years of continual famine
for her soul.

"Excuse my asking, but where are you going to?"

"I don't know, but I'm going. Why, where should I go? I shall go aboard a
steamship and sail, and when I have sailed long enough, I will go ashore.
If I find, on looking about me, that I have traveled too far or not far
enough, I shall board a ship again and sail on. Once I walked across into
Sweden as far as Kalmar and even Oeland, but that was too far, so I turned
back. No one cares to know where I am, least of all myself."

XXXVI

You get used to everything; you even get used to the passage of two years.

And now it is spring again....

It is market day in the frontier town; my room is noisy, for there is
music down in the fields, the roundabout is whirling, the tightrope walker
is gossiping outside his tent, and people of every sort throng the
village. The crowds are great, and there is even a sprinkling of
Norwegians from across the border. Horses snort and whinny, cows low, and
trading is brisk.

In the display window of the goldsmith across the road, a great cow of
silver has made its appearance, a handsome breeder that the local farmers
stop to admire.

"She's too smart for my crags," says one of them with a laugh.

"What do you think's her price?" says another with a laugh.

"Why, do you want to buy her?"

"No, haven't got fodder enough this year."

A man trudges placidly down the road and also stops in front of this
window. I see him from behind, and take note of his massive back. He
stands there a long time, trying to make up his mind, no doubt, for now
and then he scratches his beard. There he goes, sure enough, entering the
shop with a ponderous tread. I wonder if he intends to buy the silver cow!

It takes him an age, and still he hasn't come out. What on earth is he
doing in there? Now that I have begun to watch him, I might as well go the
whole hog. So I put on my hat and cross to the goldsmith's window myself,
mingling with the other spectators, and watching the door.

At last the man re-emerges--yes, it _is_ Nikolai. It was his back and
hands, but he has got a beard now, too. He looks splendid. Imagine
Carpenter Nikolai being here!

We greet each other, and we talk as he shakes me slowly and ponderously by
the hand. Our conversation is halting, but we get on. Yes, of course, he
has gone into the shop on business, in a kind of way.

"You've not bought the silver cow, have you?"

"Oh, no, not that. It didn't amount to anything, really. In fact, I didn't
buy anything."

By degrees, I discover that he is buying a horse. And he tells me that he
has dug that piece of land of his, and is turning it into pasture, and his
wife--oh, yes, thank you for asking--she lives in health to this day.

"By the way," he said, "have you come here over the fjeld?"

"Yes, I came last winter. In December."

"What a pity I didn't know!"

I explained that I hadn't had the time to visit his home then; I was in a
hurry, there was some business---

"Yes, I understand," he said.

We said little more, for Nikolai was as taciturn as ever. Besides, he had
other business to attend to; he cannot absent himself from the farm for
long, and had to return next day.

"Have you bought your horse yet?"

"Well, no, I haven't."

"Do you think you will?"

"I don't know yet. I'm trying to split a difference of five and twenty
_kroner_."

Later I saw Nikolai going to the goldsmith's again. He seemed to do a
great deal of business there.

"I could have company across the fjeld now," I thought. "It's spring, and
do I not always travel in the spring?"

I began to pack my knapsack.

Nikolai emerged once more, apparently as empty-handed as he had entered. I
opened my window and called to him to ask if he had bought the horse.

"N-no--the man won't meet my price."

"Well, can't you meet his?"

"Y-yes, I could," he replied slowly. "But I don't think I've got enough
money on me."

"I could lend you some."

At this Nikolai smiled and shook his head as though my offer were a fairy
tale.

"Thank you just the same," he said, turning to walk away.

"Where are you going now?" I asked.

"To look at another horse. It's old and small, still--"

Was I thrusting myself on the man? I? Nonsense! I don't see that at all.
He felt offended because I had passed his door last winter without
stopping and now I wanted to make him friendly again. That was all. But as
I wanted no cause for self-reproach, I stopped packing, nor would I ask
Nikolai if I might go back with him. But I went out for a walk in the
town. I had as much right to do that as anyone.

I met Nikolai in the street with a colt, and we stopped to exchange a few
words.

"Is it yours?"

"Yes, I've bought her; the man met me halfway after all," he replied with
a smile.

We walked along to the stable together and fed and petted the horse. She
was a mare, two and a half years old, with a tawny coat and an off-white
mane and tail--a perfect little lady.

That evening Nikolai came over to my room of his own accord for a chat
about the mare and the state of the roads. When he was saying good-bye at
the door, he seemed struck by a sudden thought.

"By the way," he said, "I suppose it's no good asking you, but you could
get a lift for your knapsack, you know. We could be there day after
tomorrow," he added.

How could I offend him again?

We walked all next day, spent the night in the mountain hut at the
frontier, and then went on again. Nikolai carried my knapsack all the way,
as well as his own smaller parcels. When I suggested that we should share
the burden, he said it was no weight at all. I think Nikolai wanted to
spare the little tawny lady.

At noon we saw the fjord beneath us. Nikolai stopped and carefully rubbed
down the mare once more. As our path sloped downward, I felt a pressure, a
contraction in my chest; it was the sea air. Nikolai asked me what was the
matter, but it was nothing.

On reaching his home, we found the yard well swept, and in the doorway a
woman on her knees with her back toward us, scrubbing the floor. It was
the Saturday cleaning day.

"Hullo!" Nikolai roared in a tremendously loud voice, stopping dead in his
tracks as he did so.

The woman in the doorway looked round; her hair was gray, but it was she,
Miss Ingeborg, _Fru_ [Footnote: Mrs. (Translator's note.)] Ingeborg.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, hastily mopping up the rest of the floor.

"Look at all the cleaning that goes on here!" Nikolai said, laughing.
"That's her idea of fun!"

And I had believed Carpenter Nikolai incapable of lightheartedness! Yet I
had seen how content he had been all the way home, how deeply content, and
proud of the little lady he was bringing with him. Even now he was still
stroking her.

Fru Ingeborg rose to her feet, her skirts dark with the damp. It all
seemed strange to me; her hair was so gray. I needed a little time, a
moment, to collect myself, and turned away to give her time, too.

"What a lovely horse!" I heard her exclaim.

Nikolai went on stroking the mare.

"I've brought a visitor with me," he said.

I went to her and perhaps--I don't know--perhaps I rather overdid my
unconcern. I greeted her and insisted on shaking her wet hand, which she
hesitated to give me. I was anxious to appear quite formal with her, and
shook her hand as I repeated my greeting.

"Well, of all people!" she replied.

I persisted in my formal attitude.

"You must blame your husband," I said. "It's his fault that I'm here."

"I wish you heartily welcome," she returned. "How lucky I've just got
through the cleaning!"

A slight pause. We looked at each other; two years had passed since our
last meeting. To break the silence, we all began to admire the mare,
Nikolai swelling with pride. Then we heard a child calling from within the
house, and the young mother ran off.

"Come in, won't you!" she called back over her shoulder.

As soon as I entered, I saw that the room had been changed. There was too
much middle-class frippery: white curtains at the windows, numerous
pictures on the walls, a lamp pendent from the ceiling, underneath it in
the center of the room a round table and chairs, knickknacks in a china
cupboard, a pink-painted spinning wheel, flowers in pots--in short, the
room was crowded. This, no doubt, was the sort of thing Fru Ingeborg had
been used to and considered in good taste. But in Petra's day, this had
been a light and spacious room.

"How's your mother?" I asked Nikolai.

As usual he was slow to reply. His wife answered for him:

"She's very well."

I wanted to ask, "Where is she?" but I refrained.

"Look, I want to show you something," said Fru Ingeborg.

It was the child in his bed--a boy, big and handsome, about a year old. He
frowned at me at first, but only for a moment. As soon as he was on his
mother's arm, he looked at me without fear.

How happy and beautiful the young mother looked! Peerless, indeed, with
her eyes full of an inscrutable graciousness she had not possessed before.

"What a fine little _man!_" I said, admiring the boy.

"I should think he was!" said the mother.

* * * * *

You get used to everything. The sea air no longer oppresses me; I can
speak without losing my breath to the woman who is now the mistress of
this house. She likes to talk, too, pouring out her words nervously, as
though it had been a long time since she last opened her mouth. What we
talked about? Well, we neither asked nor answered questions about
measuring angles or analyzing Shakespeare's grammar.

Had she ever thought her matriculation would land her up here, amid
livestock and Saturday cleaning?

Oh, that parody of an education! She had taken the first toddling steps in
a dozen sciences, but if she met someone with fully adult knowledge she
was lost. She had other things to think about now, her home and her family
and the farm. Of course there wasn't much livestock, now that Nikolai's
mother had taken half of it with her--

"Has Petra gone away?"

Married--to the schoolmaster. No, Petra hadn't wanted to stay when the
young wife took possession. One evening a strange man had come to the
house, and Petra had wanted to admit him, but Fru Ingeborg would not. She
knew who he was and wanted him to leave. So there were quarrels between
the older woman and the young one.

Petra was also dissatisfied with the young wife's work in the barn. It was
true she was not very skillful, but she was learning all the time, and
enjoyed improving her skill. She never asked questions; that, she saw,
would have been foolish, but she worked things out by herself, and kept
her eyes open when she visited neighboring farms. That didn't mean to say
she could learn everything. There were things she never learned properly
because she was not "to the manner born." Often the wives of rural
officials are from small towns, and have not learned the ways of the
country, though they must learn them in time. But they never learn them
well. They know only just enough for their daily needs. To set up a weave,
you must have grown up with the sound of the shuttle in your ears; to tend
the cattle as they should be tended, you must have helped your mother
since childhood. You can learn from others, but it will not be in your
blood.

Not everyone has a man like Nikolai to live with, either. The young wife
is very fond of her Nikolai, this sound, hearty bear who loves her in
return. Besides, Nikolai is not exacting; his wife seems to him peerless
in all she does. Of course she has taken great pains; it has left its mark
on her, too, and she is not gray for nothing. A few months ago she lost a
front tooth, too--broke it on some bird shot left in the breast of a
ptarmigan she was eating. She hardly dared look in the mirror now--didn't
recognize herself. But what did it matter as long as Nikolai....

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