Shallow Soil by Knut Hamsun

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"What are you thinking of, Aagot?"

"Oh, nothing. But I wish you were well back again, Ole."

"Silly little girl! I am only going to London," he said, forcing a gaiety
he did not feel. "Don't you worry! I shall be back in no time." He put his
arm around her waist and caressed her; he gave her the usual pet names:
Little Mistress, dear little Mistress! A whistle sounded; Ole glanced at
his watch; he had fifteen minutes left. He had to see Tidemand a moment.

As soon as he entered Tidemand's office he said: "I am going to London. I
want you to come over occasionally and give the old man a lift. Won't
you?"

"Certainly," said Tidemand. "Are you not going to sit down, Miss Aagot?
For you are not departing, I hope?"

"Yes, to-morrow," answered Aagot.

Ole happened to think of the last quotations. Rye was going up again. He
congratulated his friend warmly.

Yes, prices were better; the Russian crops hadn't quite come up to
expectations; the rise was not large, but it meant a great deal to
Tidemand with his enormous stores.

"Yes, I am keeping afloat," he said happily, "and I can thank you for
that. Yes, I can--" And he told them that he was busy with a turn in tar.
He had contracts from a house in Bilbao. "But we will talk about this when
you get back. _Bon voyage_!"

"If anything happens, wire me," said Ole.

Tidemand followed the couple to his door. Both Ole and Aagot were moved.
He went to the window and waved to them as they passed; then he went back
to his desk and worked away with books and papers. A quarter of an hour
passed. He saw Aagot return alone; Ole had gone.

Tidemand paced back and forth, mumbling, figuring, calculating every
contingency regarding this business in tar. He happened to see a long
entry in the ledger which was lying open on his desk. It was Irgens's
account. Tidemand glanced at it indifferently; old loans, bad debts, wine
and loans, wine and cash. The entries were dated several years back; there
were none during the last year. Irgens had never made any payments; the
credit column was clean. Tidemand still remembered how Irgens used to joke
about his debts. He did not conceal that he owed his twenty thousand; he
admitted it with open and smiling face. What could he do? He had to live.
It was deplorable that circumstances forced him into such a position. He
wished it were different and he would have been sincerely grateful if
anybody had come along and paid his debts, but so far nobody had offered
to do that. Well, he would say, that could not be helped; he would have to
carry his own burdens. Fortunately, most of his creditors were people with
sufficient culture and delicacy to appreciate his position; they did not
like to dun him; they respected his talent. But occasionally it would
happen that a tailor or a wine-dealer would send him a bill and as like as
not spoil an exquisite mood. He simply must open his door whenever anybody
knocked, even if he were just composing some rare poem. He had to answer,
to expostulate: What, another bill? Well, put it there, and I will look at
it some time when I need a piece of paper. Oh, it is receipted? Well, then
I will have to refuse to accept it; I never have receipted bills lying
round. Take it back with my compliments....

Tidemand walked back and forth. An association of ideas made him think of
Hanka and the divorce. God knows what she was waiting for; she kept to
herself and spent all her time with the children, sewing slips and dresses
all day long. He had met her on the stairs once; she was carrying some
groceries in a bundle; she had stepped aside and muttered an excuse. They
had not spoken to each other.

What could she be thinking of? He did not want to drive her away, but this
could not continue. He was at a loss to understand why she took her meals
at home; she never went to a restaurant. Dear me, perhaps she had no more
money! He had sent the maid to her once with a couple of hundred crowns--
they could not last for ever! He glanced in his calendar and noticed that
it was nearly a month since he had had that settlement with Hanka; her
money must have been used up long ago. She had probably even bought things
for the children with that money.

Tidemand grew hot all of a sudden. At least _she_ should never lack
anything; thank God, one wasn't a pauper exactly! He took out all the
money he could spare, left the office, and went up-stairs. The maid told
him that Hanka was in her own little room, the middle room facing the
street. It was four o'clock.

He knocked and entered.

Hanka sat at the table, eating. She rose quickly.

"Oh--I thought it was the maid," she stammered. Her face coloured and she
glanced uneasily at the table. She began to clear away, to place napkins
over the dishes. She moved the chairs and said again and again: "I did not
know--everything is so upset--"

But he asked her to excuse his abrupt entrance. He only wanted to--she
must have been in need of money, of course she must; it couldn't be
otherwise; he wouldn't hear any more about it. Here--he had brought a
little for her present needs. And he placed the envelope on the table.

She refused to accept it. She had plenty of money left. She took out the
last two hundred crowns he had sent her and showed him the bills. She even
wanted to return them.

He looked at her in amazement. He noticed that her left hand was without
the ring. He frowned and asked:

"What has become of your ring, Hanka?"

"It isn't the one you gave me," she answered quickly. "It is the other
one. That doesn't matter."

"I did not know you had been obliged to do that, or I would long ago--"

"But I was not obliged to do it; I wanted to. You see I have plenty of
money. But it does not matter in the least, for I still have _your_
ring."

"Well, whether it is my ring or not, you have not done me a favour by
this. I want you to keep your things. I am not so altogether down and out,
even if I have had to let some of my help go."

She bowed her head. He walked over to the window; when he turned back he
noticed that she was looking at him; her eyes were candid and open. He
grew confused and turned his back to her again. No, he could not speak to
her of moving now; let her stay on awhile if she wanted to. But he would
at least try to persuade her to cease this strange manner of living; there
was no sense in that; besides, she was getting thin and pale.

"Don't be offended, but ought you not--Not for my sake, of course, but for
your own--"

"Yes, I know," she interrupted, afraid of letting him finish; "time
passes, and I haven't moved yet."

He forgot what he intended to say about her housekeeping eccentricities;
he caught only her last words.

"I cannot understand you. You have had your way; nothing binds you any
more. You can be Hanka Lange now as much as you like; you surely know that
I am not holding you back."

"No," she answered. She rose and took a step toward him. She held out her
hand to him in a meaningless way, and when he did not take it, she dropped
it to her side limply, with burning cheeks. She sank into her chair again.

"No, you are not holding me back--I wanted to ask you--Of course, I have
no right to expect that you will let me, but if you would--if I could
remain here awhile yet? I would not be as I was before--I have changed a
good deal, and so have you. I cannot say what I want to--"

His eyes blurred suddenly. What did she mean? For a moment he faltered;
then he buttoned his coat and straightened his shoulders. Had he, then,
suffered in vain during all these weary days and nights? Hardly! He would
prove it now. Hanka was sitting there, but evidently she was beside
herself; he had excited her by calling on her so "unexpectedly.

"Don't excite yourself, Hanka. Perhaps you are saying what you do not
mean."

A bright, irrepressible hope flamed up within her.

"Yes," she exclaimed, "I mean every word! Oh, if you could forget what I
have been, Andreas? If you would only have pity on me! Take me back; be
merciful! I have wanted to come back for more than a month now, come back
to you and to the children; I have stood here behind the curtains and
watched you when you went out! The first time I really saw you was that
night on the yacht--do you remember? I had never seen you until then. You
stood by the tiller. I saw you against the sky; your hair was a little
grey around the temples. I was so surprised when I saw you. I asked you if
you were cold. I did it so you would speak to me! I know--time passed, but
during all these weeks I have seen nobody but you--nobody! I am four and
twenty years old, and have never felt like this before. Everything you do,
everything you say--And everything the little ones do and say. We play and
laugh, they cling to my neck.... I follow you with my eyes. See, I have
cut a little hole in the curtain so that I can see you better. I can see
you all the way to the end of the street. I can tell your steps whenever
you walk down-stairs. Punish me, make me suffer, but do not cast me off!
Simply to be here gives me a thousand joys, and I am altogether different
now--"

She could hardly stop; she continued to speak hysterically; at times her
voice was choked with emotion. She rose from the chair. She smiled while
the tears rained down her face. Her voice trailed off into inarticulate
sounds.

"For Heaven's sake, be calm!" he exclaimed abruptly, and his own tears
were falling as he spoke. His face twitched. He was furious because he
could not control himself better. He stood there and snapped out his
words. He could not find the ones he sought. "You could always make me do
whatever you wanted. I am not very clever when it comes to bandying words,
no, indeed! The clique knows how to talk, but I haven't learned the art--
Forgive me, I did not mean to hurt you. But if you mean that you want me
to take somebody else's place now--If you want me as a successor--Of
course, I do not know, but I ask. You say you want to come back now. But
_how_ do you come back? Oh, I don't want to know; go in God's name!"

"No, you are right. I simply wanted to ask you--I had to. I have been
unfaithful to you, yes. I have done everything I shouldn't do,
everything--"

"Well, let us end this scene. You need rest more than anything else."

Tidemand walked to the door. She followed him with wide-open eyes.

"Punish me!" she cried. "I ask you to--have pity! I should be grateful to
you. Don't leave me, I cannot bear to have you go! Do not cast me off; I
have been unfaithful and--But try me once more; try me only a little! Do
you think I might remain here? I don't know--"

He opened the door. She stood still, her eyes dilated. From them shone the
great question.

"Why do you look at me like that? What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Come to your senses. Do not brood over the past. I will do all I can for
the children. I think that is all you can reasonably ask."

Then she gave up. She stretched her arms out after him as the door closed.
She heard his steps down the stairs. He paused a moment as if uncertain
which way to take. Hanka ran to the window, but she heard his office door
open. Then all was quiet.

Too late! How could she have expected otherwise? Good God, how could she
have expected otherwise! How she had nourished that vain hope night and
day for a whole month! He had gone; he said no, and he went away. Most
likely he even objected to her staying with the children!

Mrs. Hanka moved the following day. She took a room she saw advertised in
the paper, the first room she came across; it was near the Fortress. She
left home in the morning while Tidemand was out. She kissed the children
and wept. She put her keys in an envelope and wrote a line to her husband.
Tidemand found it upon his return; found the keys and this farewell, which
was only a line or two.

Tidemand went out again. He sauntered through the streets, down toward the
harbour. He followed the docks far out. A couple of hours went by, then he
returned the same way. He looked at his watch; it was one o'clock.
Suddenly he ran across Coldevin.

Coldevin stood immovable behind a corner and showed only his head. When he
saw Tidemand coming straight toward him he stepped out in the street and
bowed.

Tidemand looked up abstractedly.

And Coldevin asked:

"Pardon me, isn't this Mr. Irgens I see down there--that gentleman in
grey?"

"Where? Oh, yes, it looks like him," answered Tidemand indifferently.

"And the lady who is with him, isn't that Miss Lynum?"

"Perhaps it is. Yes, I fancy that is she."

"But wasn't she going away to-day? It seems to me I heard--Perhaps she has
changed her mind?"

"I suppose she has."

Coldevin glanced swiftly at him. Tidemand looked as if he did not want to
be disturbed. He excused himself politely and walked off, lost in thought.

VI

No, Aagot did not go away as had been arranged. It occurred to her that
she ought to buy a few things for her smaller sisters and brothers. It was
quite amusing to go around and look at the store windows all alone; she
did that all the afternoon, and it was six when at last she was through
and happened to meet Irgens on the street. He relieved her of her parcels
and went with her. Finally they hailed a carriage and took a ride out in
the country. It was a mild and quiet evening.

No, she must not go away to-morrow. What good would that do? One day more
or less didn't matter. And Irgens confessed frankly that he was not very
flush at present, or he would have accompanied her.... If not in the same
compartment, at least on the same train. He wanted to be near her to the
very last. But he was too poor, alas!

Wasn't it a crying shame that a man like him should be so hard up? Not
that she would have allowed him to come, but.... How it impressed her that
he so frankly told her of his poverty!

"Besides, I am not sure that my life is safe here any more," he said
smilingly. "Did you tell my friend Ole how I acted?"

"It is never too late to do that," she said.

They told the driver to stop. They walked ahead, talking gaily and
happily. He asked her to forgive him his rashness--not that he wanted her
to think that he had forgotten her, or could forget her.

"I love you," he confessed, "but I know it is useless. I have now one
thing left--my pen. I may write a verse or two to you; you must not be
angry if I do. Well, time will tell. In a hundred years everything will be
forgotten."

"I am powerless to change anything," she said.

"No, you are not. It depends, of course--At least, there is nobody else
who can." And he added quickly: "You told me to give you a little time,
you asked me to wait--what did you mean by that?"

"Nothing," she answered.

They walked on. They came into a field. Irgens spoke entertainingly about
the far, blue, pine-clad ridges, about a tethered horse, a workingman who
was making a fence. Aagot was grateful; she knew he did this in order to
maintain his self-control; she appreciated it. He even said with a shy
smile that if she would not think him affected he would like to jot down a
couple of stanzas which just now occurred to him. And he jotted down the
couple of stanzas.

She wanted to see what he wrote. She bent toward him and asked him
laughingly to let her see.

If she really wanted to! It was nothing much, though.

"Do you know," he said, "when you bent toward me and your head was so
close to me, I prayed in my heart that you would remain like that! That is
the reason I first refused to let you see what I had written."

"Irgens," she said suddenly, in a tender voice, "what would happen if I
said yes to you?"

Pause. They looked at each other.

"Then it would happen, of course, that--that you would say no to another."

"Yes--but it is too late now, too late! It is not to be considered--But
if it is any comfort to you to know it, then I can say that you are not
the only one to grieve--"

He took this beautifully. He seized her hand and pressed it silently, with
a happy glance, and he let it go at once.

They walked along the road. They had never been closer to each other. When
they reached the new fence the workman took off his cap. They stopped
before a gate; they looked at each other a moment and turned back. They
did not speak.

They came back to the carriage. During the drive Irgens held all Aagot's
bundles in his arms. He did not move and was not in the least insistent.

She was really touched by his tactful behaviour, and when he finally asked
her to stay another day she consented.

But when the carriage had to be paid for he searched his pockets in vain;
at last he had to ask her to pay the driver herself. She was pleased to be
able to do that; she only wished she had thought of it at once. He had
looked quite crestfallen.

They met each other early the next day. They walked along the docks,
talking together in low voices, trembling with suppressed feeling. Their
eyes were full of caresses; they walked close to each other. When,
finally, Irgens caught sight of Coldevin standing half hidden behind a
corner, he did not mention his discovery with a single syllable in order
not to distress her. He said simply:

"What a pity you and I are not ordinary working people now! We seem to
attract attention; people are for ever staring at us. It would be
preferable to be less prominent."

They spoke about seeing each other at the Grand in the evening. It was
quite a while since she had been there; she had really had few pleasures
of late. Suddenly he said:

"Come and go up to my place. There we can sit and talk in peace and
quiet."

"But would that do?"

Why not? In broad daylight? There was absolutely no reason why she
shouldn't. And he would always, always have the memory of her visit to
treasure.

And she went with him, timid, fearful, but happy.

FINALE

I

Milde and Gregersen walked down the street together. They talked about
Milde's portrait of Paulsberg which had been bought by the National
Galleries; about the Actor Norem, who, together with a comrade, had been
found drunk in a gutter and had been arrested; about Mrs. Hanka, who was
said at last to have left her husband. Was anything else to be expected?
Hadn't she endured it for four long years down in that shop? They asked
each other for her address; they wanted to congratulate her; she must know
that they fully sympathised with her. But none of them knew her address.

They were deeply interested in the situation. It had come to this that
Parliament had been dissolved without having said the deciding word,
without having said anything, in fact. The _Gazette_ had advised
against radical action at the last moment. The paper had talked about the
seriousness of assuming responsibilities, about the unwisdom of a
straightforward challenge.

"What the devil can we do--with our army and navy?" said Gregersen with
deep conviction. "We shall simply have to wait."

They went into the Grand. Ojen was there with his two close-cropped poets.
He was speaking about his latest prose poems: "A Sleeping City,"
"Poppies," "The Tower of Babel." Imagine the Tower of Babel--its
architecture! And with a nervous gesture he drew a spiral in the air.

Paulsberg and his wife arrived; they moved the tables together and formed
a circle. Milde stood treat; he still had money left from the first half
of the subsidy. Paulsberg attacked Gregersen at once because of the
_Gazette's_ change of front. Hadn't he himself, a short time ago,
written a rather pointed article in the paper? Had they entirely forgotten
that? How could he reconcile this with their present attitude? It would
soon be a disgrace for an honest man to see his name in that sheet.
Paulsberg was indignant and said so without mincing words.

Gregersen had no defence. He simply answered that the _Gazette_ had
fully explained its position, had given reasons....

"What kind of reasons?" Paulsberg would show them how shallow they were.
"Waiter, the _Gazette_ for to-day!"

While they waited for the paper even Milde ventured to say that the
reasons were anything but convincing. They consisted of vague vapourings
about the easterly boundary, the unpreparedness of the army, even
mentioning foreign intervention....

"And fifteen minutes ago you yourself agreed with the _Gazette_
unqualifiedly," said Gregersen.

Paulsberg commenced reading from the _Gazette_, paragraph after
paragraph. He laughed maliciously. Wasn't it great to hear a paper like
the _Gazette_ mention the word responsibility? And Paulsberg threw
the paper aside in disgust. No; there ought to be at least a trace of
honesty in our national life! This sacrifice of principle for the sake of
expediency was degrading, to say the least.

Grande and Norem entered, with Coldevin between them. Coldevin was
talking. He nodded to the others and finished what he was saying before he
paused. The Attorney, this peculiar nonentity, who neither said nor did
anything himself, took a wicked pleasure in listening to this uncouth
person from the backwoods. He had happened upon Coldevin far up in Thranes
Road; he had spoken to him, and Coldevin had said that he was going away
soon, perhaps to-morrow. He was going back to Torahus; he was mainly going
in order to resign his position; he had accepted a situation farther
north. But in that case Grande had insisted that they empty a glass
together, and Coldevin had finally come along. They had met Norem outside.

Coldevin, too, spoke about the situation; he accused the young because
they had remained silent and accepted this last indignity without a
protest. God help us, what kind of a youth was that? Was our youth, then,
_entirely_ decadent?

"It looks bad for us again," said Milde in a stage whisper.

Paulsberg smiled.

"You will have to grin and bear it--Let us get toward home, Nikoline. I am
not equal to this."

And Paulsberg and his wife left.

II

Coldevin looked very shabby indeed. He was in the same suit he wore when
he came to town; his hair and beard were shaggy and unkempt.

The Journalist brought him over to the table. What did he want? Only a
glass of beer?

Coldevin glanced around him indifferently. It would seem that he had had a
hard time. He was thin to emaciation and his eyes shone through dark,
shadowy rings. He drank his beer greedily. He even said it was a long time
since a glass of beer had tasted better. Perhaps he was hungry, too.

"To return to the matter under discussion," said the Attorney. "One cannot
affirm offhand that we are floating on the battered hull. One must not
forget to take the young Norway into consideration."

"No," answered Coldevin, "one should never affirm anything offhand. One
must try to reach the basic reason for every condition. And this basic
reason might just be--as I have said--our superstitious faith in a power
which we do not possess. We have grown so terribly modest in our demands;
why is it? Might this not lie at the very root of our predicament? Our
power is theoretical; we talk, we intoxicate ourselves in words, but we do
not act. The fancy of our youth turns to literature and clothes; its
ambition goes no further, and it is not interested in other things. It
might, for instance, profitably take an interest in our business life."

"Dear me, how you know everything!" sneered the Journalist.

But Milde nudged him secretly and whispered: "Leave him alone! Let him
talk. He, he! He really believes what he says; he trembles with eagerness
and conviction. He is a sight in our day and generation!"

The Attorney asked him:

"Have you read Irgens's latest book?"

"Yes, I have read it. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, simply because I am at a loss to understand how you can have such a
poor opinion of our youth when you know its production. We have writers of
rank--"

"Yes--but, on the other hand, there is in your circle a young man who has
lost heavily in rye," answered Coldevin. "I am more interested in him. Do
you know what this man is doing? He is not crushed or broken by his loss.
He is just now creating a new article of export; he has undertaken to
supply a foreign enterprise with tar, Norwegian tar. But you do not
mention his name."

"No; I must confess that my knowledge of Norwegian tar is limited, but--"

"There may be nothing lacking in your knowledge, Mr. Attorney, but you
have possibly too little sympathy for commerce and the creation of values.
On the other hand, you are thoroughly up to date as far as the aesthetic
occurrences are concerned; you have heard the latest prose poem. We have
so many young writers; we have Ojen, and we have Irgens, and we have
Paulsberg, and we have many more. That is the young Norway. I see them on
the streets occasionally. They stalk past me as poets should stalk past
ordinary people. They are brimful of new intentions, new fashions. They
are fragrant with perfume--in brief, there is nothing lacking. When they
show up everybody else is mute: 'Silence! The poet speaks.' The papers are
able to inform their readers that Paulsberg is on a trip to Honefos. In a
word--"

But this was too much for Gregersen. He himself had written the news notes
about Paulsberg's trip to Honefos. He shouted:

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