Shallow Soil by Knut Hamsun

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Tidemand nodded to the busy warehousemen, walked across the floor, and
peeped through the pane into the little office. Ole was there. He was
revising an account on a slate.

Ole put the slate down immediately and rose to meet his friend.

These two men had known each other since childhood, had gone through the
business college together, and shared with each other their happiest
moments. Even now, when they were competitors, they continued to visit
each other as often as their work would permit. They did not envy each
other; the business spirit had made them broad-minded and generous; they
toyed with ship-loads, dealt in large amounts, had daily before their eyes
enormous successes or imposing ruin.

Once Tidemand had expressed admiration for a little yacht which Ole
Henriksen owned. It was two years ago, when it was known that the Tidemand
firm had suffered heavy losses in a fish exportation. The yacht lay
anchored just outside the Henriksen warehouse and attracted much attention
because of its beautiful lines. The masthead was gilded.

Tidemand said:

"This is the most beautiful little dream I have ever seen, upon my word!"

Ole Henriksen answered modestly:

"I do not suppose I could get a thousand for her if I were to sell her."

"I'll give you a thousand," offered Tidemand.

Pause. Ole smiled.

"Cash?" he asked.

"Yes; I happen to have it with me."

And Tidemand took out his pocketbook and paid over the money.

This occurred in the warehouse. The clerks laughed, whispered, and
wondered.

A few days later Ole went over to Tidemand's office and said:

"I don't suppose you would take two thousand for the yacht?"

"Have you got the money with you?"

"Yes; it just happens that I have."

"All right," said Tidemand.

And the yacht was Ole's once more....

Tidemand had called on Ole now in order to pass away an hour or so. The
two friends were no longer children; they treated each other with the
greatest courtesy and were sincerely fond of each other.

Ole got hold of Tidemand's hat and cane, which he put away, at the same
time pointing his friend to a seat on the little sofa.

"What may I offer you?" he asked.

"Thanks--nothing," said Tidemand. "I have just had my dinner at the
Grand."

Ole placed the flat box with Havanas before him and asked again:

"A little glass? An 1812?"

"Well, thank you, yes. But never mind; it is too much trouble; you have to
go down-stairs for it."

"Nonsense; no trouble at all!"

Ole brought the bottle from the cellar; it was impossible to tell what it
was; the bottle appeared to be made of some coarse cloth, so deeply
covered with dust was it. The wine was chilled and sparkling, it beaded in
the glass, and Ole said:

"Here you are; drink hearty, Andreas!"

They drank. A pause ensued.

"I have really come to congratulate you," said Tidemand. "I have never yet
made a stroke like that last one of yours!"

It was true that Ole had turned a trick lately. But he insisted that there
really was nothing in it that entitled him to any credit; it was just a
bit of luck. And if there was any credit to bestow, then it belonged to
the firm, not to him. The operations in London had succeeded because of
the cleverness of his agent.

The affair was as follows:

An English freight-steamer, the _Concordia_, had left Rio with half a
cargo of coffee; she touched at Bathurst for a deck-load of hides, ran
into the December gales on the north coast of Normandy, and sprung a leak;
then she was towed into Plymouth. The cargo was water-soaked; half of it
was coffee.

This cargo of damaged coffee was washed out and brought to London; it was
put on the market, but could not be sold; the combination of sea-water and
hides had spoiled it. The owner tried all sorts of doctorings: he used
colouring matter--indigo, kurkuma, chrome, copper vitriol--he had it
rolled in hogsheads with leaden bullets. Nothing availed; he had to sell
it at auction. Henriksen's agent bid it in for a song.

Ole went to London; he made tests with this coffee, washed out the
colouring matter, flushed it thoroughly, and dried it again. Finally he
had the entire cargo roasted and packed in hermetically sealed zinc boxes.
These boxes were brought to Norway after a month of storing; they were
unloaded, taken to the warehouse, opened, and sold. The coffee was as good
as ever. The firm made a barrel of money out of this enterprise.

Tidemand said:

"I only learned the particulars a couple of days ago; I must confess that
I was proud of you!"

"My part of the business was simply the idea of roasting the coffee--
making it sweat out the damage, so to speak. But otherwise, really--"

"I suppose you were a little anxious until you knew the result?"

"Yes; I must admit I was a little anxious."

"But what did your father say?"

"Oh, he did not know anything until it was all over. I was afraid to tell
him; he might have disinherited me, cast me off, you know. Ha, ha!"

Tidemand looked at him.

"Hm. This is all very well, Ole. But if you want to give your father, the
firm, half the credit, then you should not at the same time tell me that
your father knew nothing until it was all over. I have you there!"

A clerk entered with another account on a slate; he bowed, placed the
slate on the desk, and retired. The telephone rang.

"One moment, Andreas; it is probably only an order. Hello!"

Ole took down the order, rang for a clerk, and gave it to him..

"I am detaining you," said Tidemand. "Let me take one of the slates; there
is one for each now!"

"Not much!" said Ole; "do you think I will let you work when you come to
see me?"

But Tidemand was already busy. He was thoroughly familiar with these
strange marks and figures in the many columns, and made out the account on
a sheet of paper. They stood at the desk opposite each other and worked,
with an occasional bantering remark.

"Don't let us forget the glasses altogether!"

"No; you are right!"

"This is the most enjoyable day I have had in a long time," said Ole.

"Do you think so? I was just going to say the same. I have just left the
Grand--By the way, I have an invitation for you; we are both going to the
farewell celebration for Ojen--quite a number will be there."

"Is that so? Where is it going to be?"

"In Milde's studio. You are going, I hope?"

"Yes; I will be there."

They went back to their accounts.

"Lord! do you remember the old times when we sat on the school bench
together?" said Tidemand. "None of us sported a beard then. It seems as if
it were only a couple of months ago, I remember it so distinctly."

Ole put down his pen. The accounts were finished.

"I should like to speak to you about something--you mustn't be offended,
Andreas--No; take another glass, old fellow, do! I'll get another bottle;
this wine is really not fit for company."

And he hurried out; he looked quite confused.

"What is the matter with him?" thought Tidemand.

Ole returned with another bottle, downy as velvet, with trailing cobwebs;
he pulled the cork.

"I don't know how you'll like this," he said, and sniffed the glass. "Try
it, anyhow; it is really--I am sure you'll like it; I have forgotten the
vintage, but it is ancient."

Tidemand sniffed, sipped, put down his glass, and looked at Ole.

"It isn't half bad, is it?"

"No," said Tidemand, "it is not. You should not have done this, Ole."

"Ho! don't be silly--a bottle of wine!"

Pause.

"I thought you wanted to speak to me about something," asked Tidemand.

"Yes, well--I don't know that I do, exactly." Ole went over and locked the
door. "I thought that, as you cannot possibly know anything about it, I
had perhaps better tell you that people are talking about you,
calumniating you, blackening your reputation, so to speak. And you hear
nothing, of course."

"Are they blackening me? What are they saying?"

"Oh, you can feel above anything they say. Never mind what they say. The
gossip is that you neglect your wife; that you frequent restaurants
although you have a home of your own; that you leave her to herself while
you enjoy life single-handed. You are above such insinuations, of course.
But, anyway, why do you eat away from home and live so much in
restaurants? Not that I have any business to--Say, this wine is not half
bad, believe me! Take another glass; do me the favour--"

Tidemand's eyes had suddenly become clear and sharp. He got up, made a few
turns across the floor, and went back to the sofa.

"I am not at all surprised that people are talking," he said. "I myself
have done what I could to start the gossip; I know that only too well. But
I have ceased to care about anything any more." Tidemand shrugged his
shoulders and got up again. Drifting back and forth across the floor,
staring fixedly straight ahead, he murmured again that he had ceased to
care about anything.

"But listen, old friend, I told you you need not pay the slightest
attention to such contemptible gossip," objected Ole.

"It is not true that I neglect Hanka, as people think," said Tidemand;
"the fact is that I don't want to bother her. You understand, she must be
allowed to do as she pleases; it is an agreement, otherwise she will leave
me." During the following sentences Tidemand got up and sat down again; he
was in a state of deep emotion. "I want to tell you this, Ole; it is the
first time I have ever mentioned it to anybody, and no one will ever hear
me repeat it. But I want you to know that I do not go to restaurants
because I like to. Where else can I go? Hanka is never at home; there is
no dinner, not a soul in the whole house. We have had a friendly
understanding; we have ceased to keep house. Do you understand now why I
am often seen in restaurants? I am not wanted; I keep to my office and go
to the Grand, I meet friends of whom she is one, we sit at a table and
have a good time. What should I do at home? Hanka is more likely to be at
the Grand; we sit at the same table, perhaps opposite each other; we hand
each other a glass, a carafe. 'Andreas,' she says, 'please order a glass
for Milde, too.' And, of course, I order a glass for Milde. I like to do
it; don't believe anything else! 'I have hardly seen you to-day,' she
sometimes says; 'you left very early this morning. Oh, he is a fine
husband!' she tells the others and laughs. I am delighted that she is in
good spirits; I help her along and say: 'Who in the world could wait until
you have finished your toilet; I have business to attend to!' But the
truth is that perhaps I haven't seen her for a couple of days. Do you
understand why I go to restaurants? I go in order to meet her after not
having seen her for a couple of days; I go to spend a few moments with her
and with my friends, who all are exceedingly nice to me. But, of course,
everything has been arranged in the friendliest manner possible; don't
think otherwise. I am sure it is all for the best; I think the arrangement
excellent. It is all a matter of habit."

Ole Henriksen sat with open mouth. He said in surprise:

"Is that how matters stand? I had no idea it was that way with you two--
that it was that bad."

"Why not? Do you find it strange that she prefers the clique? All of them
are famous men, artists and poets, people who count for something. When
you come to look at it they are not like you and me, Ole; we like to be
with them ourselves. Bad, you say? No, understand me rightly, it is not at
all bad. It is a good arrangement. I couldn't always get home on time from
the office, and so I went to a restaurant, naturally. Hanka could not make
herself ridiculous and preside at table in solitary state, and so she went
to a restaurant. We do not go to the same place always; sometimes we miss
each other. But that is all right."

There was a pause. Tidemand leaned his head in his hands. Ole asked:

"But who started this? Who proposed it?"

"Ha, do you think for a moment it was I? Would I be likely to say to my
wife: 'You will have to go to a restaurant, Hanka, so I can find the house
empty when I get home to dinner!' Hardly. But all the same, things are not
so bad as you might think--What would you say if I were to tell you
that she does not even regard herself as being married? Of course, you
cannot realise that. I reasoned with her, said this and that, a married
woman, house and home, and she answered: 'Married, did you say? That is
rather an exaggeration, don't you think?' How does _that_ strike you?
For this reason I am careful not to say anything to her; she isn't
married; that is her affair. She lives occasionally where I live, we visit
the children, go in and out, and part again. It is all right as long as
she is satisfied."

"But this is ridiculous!" exclaimed Ole suddenly. "I can't imagine--Does
she think you are an old glove she can throw away when she is through with
it? Why haven't you put your foot down?"

"Of course, I have said something like that. Then she wanted a divorce.
Twice. What could I do then? I am not made so that I can tear everything
up all at once; I need a little time; it will come later. She is right
about the divorce; it is I who am against it; she is justified in blaming
me for that. Why haven't I played the part of a man, showed her her place,
made her behave? But, my dear man, she would have left me! She said so
plainly; there was no misunderstanding possible; it has happened twice.
What could I do?"

The two men sat awhile in silence. Ole asked quietly:

"But has your wife, then--I mean, do you think she is in love with
somebody else?"

"Of course," answered Tidemand. "Such things are bound to happen; not
intentionally, of course, but--"

"And you do not know who it is?"

"Don't you think I know? That is, I don't know really; how could I know
for sure? I am almost certain she is not really in love with anybody; it
is hard to say. Do you think that I am jealous, perhaps? Don't for a
moment imagine anything, Ole; I am glad to say that I have a little sense
left; not much, perhaps, but a little. In short, she is not in love with
anybody else, as people suspect; it is simply a whim, a fancy. In a little
while she will probably come and propose that we shall begin housekeeping
again and live together; it is not at all impossible, I tell you, for I
know her thoroughly. She is, at any rate, very fond of the children; I
have never seen anybody so fond of children as she has been lately. You
ought to come and see us some time--Do you remember when we were married?"

"I certainly do."

"She was a somewhat passable bride, what? Not at all one to be ashamed of,
don't you think? Ha, ha, ha, not at all, Ole! But you ought to see her
now, I mean at home, now that she is so very fond of the children again. I
cannot describe her. She wears a black velvet gown--Be sure and come over
some time. Sometimes she is in red, a dark red velvet--This reminds me--
perhaps she is at home now; I am going to drop in; I might be able to do
something for her."

The two friends emptied their glasses and stood facing each other.

"I hope everything will come out all right," said Ole.

"Oh, yes, it will," said Tidemand. "I am grateful to you, Ole; you have
been a good friend to me. I haven't had such a pleasant hour as long as I
can remember."

"Listen!" Tidemand turned in the doorway and said: "What we have discussed
here remains between us, eh? Not a hint on Thursday; everything is as it
should be as far as we are concerned, what? We are no mopes, I hope!"

And Tidemand departed.

IV

Evening falls over the town. Business rests, stores are closed, and lights
are lowered. But old, grey-haired business men shut themselves in their
offices, light their lamps, take out papers, open heavy ledgers, note some
figures, a sum, and think. They hear the noise from the docks where
steamers load and unload all night long.

It gets to be ten, eleven; the cafes are crowded and the traffic is great.
All sorts of people roam the streets in their best attire; they follow
each other, whistle after girls, and dart in and out from gateways and
basement stairs. Cabbies stand at attention on the squares, on the lookout
for the least sign from the passers-by; they gossip between themselves
about their horses and smoke idly their vile pipes.

A woman hurries past--a child of night whom everybody knows; after her a
sailor and a gentleman in silk hat, both eagerly stepping out to reach her
first. Then two youths with cigars at an impertinent angle, hands in
pockets, speaking loudly. Behind them another woman; finally, a couple of
men hurrying to catch up with her.

But now one tower-clock after another booms forth the twelve solemn
strokes all over the city; the cafes empty themselves, and from the
music-halls crowds of people swarm into the streets. The winches are still
groaning along the docks; cabs roll through the streets. But inside the
hidden offices one old business chief after another has finished his
accounts and his planning; the grey-headed gentlemen close their ledgers,
take their hats from the rack, put out the lights, and go home.

And the last guests depart from the Grand, a crowd that has stuck to the
end, young fellows, joyful souls. They saunter down the street with coats
wide open, canes held jauntily under the arms, and hats slightly askew.
They talk loudly, hum the latest popular air, call jestingly to a lonely,
forgotten girl in a boa and white veil.

The company wanders toward the university. The conversation is about
literature and politics, and, although nobody contradicts them, they are
loud and eager: Was Norway a sovereign state or not? Was Norway perhaps
not entitled to the rights and privileges of a sovereign state? Just wait
a moment, the Speaker had promised to attend to things; besides, there
were the elections.... All were agreed, the elections would decide.

Three of the gentlemen part from the group when the university is reached;
the remaining two take another turn down the street, stop outside the
Grand, and exchange opinions. It is Milde and Ojen. Milde is highly
indignant.

"I repeat: If Parliament yields this time, it is me for Australia. In that
case it will be unbearable here."

Ojen is young and nervous; his little, round, girlish face is pale and
void of expression; he squints as if he were near-sighted, although his
eyes are good, and his voice is soft and babyish.

"I am unable to understand that all this can interest you so greatly. It
is all one to me." And Ojen shrugs his shoulders; he is tired of politics.
His shoulders slope effeminately.

"Oh well, I won't detain you," says Milde. "By the way, have you written
anything lately?"

"A couple of prose poems," replies Ojen, brightening at once. "I am
waiting to get off to Torahus so I can start in in earnest. You are right
--this town is unbearable!"

"Well--I had the whole country in mind, though--Say, don't forget next
Thursday evening in my studio. By the way, old fellow, have you got a
crown or so you could spare?"

Ojen unbuttons his coat and finds the crown.

"Thanks, old man. Thursday evening, then. Come early so that you can help
me a little with the arrangements--Good Lord, silk lining! And I who asked
you for a miserable crown! I hope I did not offend you."

Ojen smiles and pooh-poohs the joke.

"As if one sees anything nowadays but silk-lined clothes!"

"By Jove! What do they soak you for a coat like that?" And Milde feels the
goods appraisingly.

"Oh, I don't remember; I never can remember figures; that is out of my
line. I put all my tailor bills away; I come across them whenever I move."

"Ha, ha, ha! that is certainly a rational system, most practical. For I do
not suppose you ever pay them!"

"In God's own time, as the Bible says--Of course, if I ever get rich,
then--But I want you to go now. I must be alone."

"All right, good night. But listen, seriously speaking: if you have
another crown to spare--"

And once more Ojen unbuttons his coat.

"A thousand thanks! Oh, you poets, you poets! Where, for instance, may you
be going now?"

"I think I'll walk here awhile, and look at houses. I can't sleep, so I
count the windows; it is not such a bad occupation at times. I take an
exquisite pleasure in satiating my vision with squares and rectangles,
with pure lines. Of course, you cannot understand such things."

"I should say I did understand--no one better! But I prefer human beings.
Don't you at times--flesh and blood, humans, eh--they have their
attraction, don't you think?"

"I am ashamed to say it, but people weary me. No; take for instance the
sweep of a solitary, deserted street--have you never noticed the charm of
such a view?"

"Haven't I? I am not blind, not entirely. A desolate street, of course,
has its own beauty, its own charm, in its kind the highest charm
imaginable. But everything in its place--Well, I must not detain you!
_Au revoir_--Thursday!"

Milde saluted with his cane, turned, and strolled up the street. Ojen
continued alone. He proved a few moments afterward that he had not lost
all his interest in human beings; he had calumniated himself. To the very
first hussy who hailed him he gave, absent-mindedly, every penny he had
left, and continued his way in silence. He had not spoken a word; his
slender, nervous figure disappeared in the darkness before the girl could
even manage to thank him--

And at last everything is still; the winches fall to rest along the
wharves; the town has turned in. From afar, nobody knows from where, comes
the sound of a single footfall; the gas flames flicker in the street
lamps; two policemen talk to each other, occasionally stamping their feet
to keep warm.

Thus the night passes. Human footsteps here and there; now and then a
policeman who stamps his feet to keep warm.

V

A barnlike room with blue walls and sliding windows, a sort of drying-loft
with a stove in the middle, and with stovepipes hanging in wires along the
ceiling. The walls are decorated with a number of sketches, painted fans,
and palettes; several framed pictures lean against the wainscoting. Smell
of paints and tobacco smoke; brushes, tubes, overcoats which the guests
had thrown aside; an old rubber shoe filled with nails and junk; on the
easel in the corner a large, half-finished portrait of Paulsberg.

This was Milde's studio.

When Ole Henriksen entered about nine o'clock all the guests were
assembled, also Tidemand and his wife. There were altogether ten or twelve
people. The three lamps were covered with opaque shades, and the heavy
tobacco smoke did not make the room any lighter. This obscurity was
evidently Mrs. Hanka's idea. A couple of very young gentlemen, beardless
students with bachelor degrees, were of the party; they were poets who had
put aside their studies last year. Their heads were so closely cropped as
to be almost entirely naked. One of them carried a small compass on his
watch-chain. They were Ojen's comrades, his admirers and pupils; both
wrote verses.

Besides these, one noticed a man from the _Gazette_, Journalist
Gregersen, the literary member of the staff. He was a man who did his
friends many a favour and published in his paper many an item concerning
them. Paulsberg showed him the greatest deference, and conversed with him
about his series, "New Literature," which he found admirable; and the
Journalist was happy and proud because of this approbation. He had a
peculiar habit of twisting words so that they sounded odd and absurd, and
nobody could turn this trick as smartly as he.

"It is rather difficult to write such a series within reasonable limits,"
he says. "There are so many authors that have to be included--a veritable
choas!"

He makes Paulsberg smile over this "choas," and they talk on in the best
of harmony.

Attorney Grande and his wife were absent.

"So the Attorney is not coming," says Mrs. Hanka Tidemand, without
referring to his wife. Mrs. Liberia never came, anyway.

"He sulks," said Milde, and drank with Norem, the Actor. "He did not want
to come because Norem was invited."

Nobody felt the least constraint; they chatted about everything, drank,
and made plenty of noise. It was a splendid place, Milde's studio; as soon
as one got inside the door one felt free to do or say anything one's
inclination prompted.

Mrs. Hanka is seated on the sofa; Ojen sits beside her. On the other side
of the table sits Irgens; the light falls across his narrow chest. Mrs.
Hanka hardly glances at him.

She is in her red velvet gown; her eyes have a greenish sheen. Her upper
lip is slightly raised. One glimpses her teeth and marvels at their
whiteness. The face is fresh and the complexion clear. Her beautiful
forehead is not hidden beneath her hair; she carries it sweetly and
candidly, like a nun. A couple of rings flash on her fingers. She breathes
deeply and says to Irgens, across the table:

"How hot it is here, Irgens!"

Irgens gets up and goes over to open a window, but a voice is raised in
protest; it is Mrs. Paulsberg's. "For Heaven's sake, no open windows. Come
away from the sofa; it is cooler further back!"

And Mrs. Hanka gets up. Her movements are undulating. When she stands up
she is like a young girl, with bold shoulders. She does not glance into
the large, cracked mirror as she passes; she exhales no odours of
perfumes; she takes, accidentally, her husband's arm and walks up and down
with him while the conversation and the refreshments keep the other guests
at the table.

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