Shallow Soil by Knut Hamsun

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"But, good Lord! what do you think of our younger writers, then?" cried
Journalist Gregersen, flushed and angry. "Our poets, yes! Have you read
any of them? Have you, for instance, ever come across the name of
Paulsberg, the name of Irgens?"

Aagot could not refrain from observing her old tutor. She was surprised to
note that this man, who invariably used to yield when he was contradicted,
now sat there with a ready reply to every remark and did not look very
timid either.

"You must not take offence at what I say," he begged. "I admit that I have
no business to express such opinions here; I ought to leave that to others
who understand these matters better than I; but if you want to know what I
think, then I must say that, according to my lights, our younger writers
do not seem to improve the conditions greatly. Of course, there can be no
fixed standard; everything depends on the point of view, and yours is not
mine; we are bound to differ. But, anyway, our younger writers do not lift
the level greatly; hardly, according to my understanding. It would seem
they lack the ability. Of course, that is no fault of theirs; but then
they have no right to pose as being greater than they are. It is a pity
that we lose sight of the greater and make mediocrity take its place. Look
at our youth; look at our authors; they are very clever, but--Yes, they
are both clever and industrious; they labour and toil, _but they lack
the spark_. Good God, how far they are from squandering their
treasures! They are saving and calculating and prudent. They write a few
verses and they print these few verses. They squeeze out a book now and
then; they delve into their inmost recesses and conscientiously scrape the
bottom until they arrive at a satisfactory result. They do not scatter
values broadcast; no, they do not fling gold along the highways. In former
days our poets could afford to be extravagant; there was wealth untold;
they towered rich and care-free and squandered their treasures with
glorious unconcern. Why not? There was plenty left. Oh, no, our
present-day authors are clever and sensible; they do not show us, as did
the old, a flood, a tempest, a red eruption of flame-tongued, primeval
power!"

Aagot's eyes were on him; he caught her glance of rapt attention, and she
made him understand with a warm smile that she had listened to his every
word. She wanted to show Ole how little she had meant her thoughtless
regret that he was no poet. She nodded to Coldevin and wished the poets
all they got. Coldevin was grateful for her smile; she was the only one
who smiled at him, and he did not mind the violent interruptions, the
shouts and rude questions: What kind of a phenomenon was he who could
assume this superior pose? What world-subduing exploits had he performed?
He should not remain incognito any longer; what was his real name? They
wanted to acclaim him!

Irgens was least affected of them all; he twirled his moustache and looked
at his watch to make everybody understand how this bored him. Glancing at
Coldevin, he whispered to Mrs. Hanka with an expression of disgust:

"It seems to me that this man is a little too untidy. Look at his collar,
or bib, or whatever one may call it. I noticed that he put his
cigar-holder in his vest-pocket a moment ago without first putting it in a
case. Who knows, there might be an old comb in the same pocket."

But with his air of undisturbed serenity, with his eyes fixed on a point
in the table, quietly indifferent, Coldevin listened to the exclamations
from the gentlemen of the party. The Journalist asked him pointblank if he
were not ashamed of himself.

"Leave him alone!" said Paulsberg. "I don't see why you want to annoy
him."

"It certainly looks bad for our poor country!" sneered the Journalist. "No
talents, no youth, nothing only a 'general condition.' He, he! God only
knows how it will all end! And we who have innocently assumed that a
people should honour and respect its young writers!"

Coldevin seized on this.

"Yes, but that is exactly what people are doing; nobody can justly
complain on that score! People respect most highly a man who has written a
book or two; he is admired far more, for instance, than the ablest
business man or the most talented professional! To our people an author
means a great deal; he is the essence of all that is distinguished and
admirable. There are probably very few countries in which the intellectual
life is dominated by authors to the degree it is here. As you probably
will admit, we have no statesmen; but our authors direct our politics, and
they do it well. It may have struck you that there are barren spots in our
scientific attainments; however, with true intuition, our authors are not
afraid to assume the burden and pose as scientists. It has surely not
escaped your attention that in all our history we have never produced a
thinker; never mind, our authors dabble in philosophy, and everybody
thinks they do it splendidly. It seems highly unjust to complain because
of a lack of appreciation of and admiration for our authors."

Paulsberg, who in his works had repeatedly proven himself a thinker and
philosopher of rank, sat and toyed with his eye-glass and smiled
superciliously. But when Coldevin added a few words and ended up with
saying that he had the greatest hope and faith in the country's practical
youth, in its young commercial talents, then a loud laugh greeted him, and
both the Journalist and Paulsberg shouted simultaneously that this was
great, by all the saints the best ever, so help me! Commercial talents--
whatever could that be? Talents for trading--what? Glory be!

"In my opinion you will find really great talents within the ranks of our
business youth," Coldevin continued undisturbed. "And I would advise you
to pay a little attention to them. They are building ships, opening new
markets, carrying on involved business enterprises on a hitherto undreamed
of scale--"

Coldevin could not be heard; they laughed and shouted, although out of
respect for their good friends the business men present they endeavoured
to change the subject. Ole Henriksen and Tidemand had listened in silence;
they were embarrassed and did not know how to take it, but began to speak
together in low voices. Suddenly Tidemand whispered:

"Can I come over and see you to-morrow about a business matter? I would
like to come early, about ten, if you have time then? All right; thanks!"

At Milde's corner of the table the discussion had swung to wines--old
wines, Johannisberger, Cabinet, Musigny. Milde understood the subject
thoroughly and contradicted the Attorney violently, although Grande, of
the well-known Grande family, was supposed to have drunk such wines since
he was a child.

"There is no end to your assertiveness lately," said Milde.

The Attorney glanced at him and muttered:

"Such a bit of an oil-painter will also presume to understand wines!"

Conversation strayed to the government art subsidies. Irgens listened
without changing a feature when Milde asserted that Ojen was the worthiest
applicant. It was exceedingly generous in Milde to express such views; he
himself had applied and needed the money as much as anybody. Irgens could
hardly understand it.

Interest in the preposterous tutor had entirely waned. Nobody spoke to him
any more; he had got hold of his hat, which he sat and twirled. Mrs. Hanka
addressed a couple of questions to him in order to be polite, but after
answering them he was entirely silent. It was strange that the man did not
notice how his shirt-front sagged; the slightest movement would correct
it. But he did not adjust it.

Paulsberg got up to take his leave. Before he went he manoeuvred the
Journalist into a corner and whispered:

"You might do me the favour to mention that I have about half completed my
new book. It might interest people to know I am at it."

Milde and the Attorney got up next; they awoke Norem, who was dozing after
all the many glasses he had emptied, and they got him on his legs with
difficulty. He began to speak; he had not quite heard the last, the very
last of the discussion; how had the poets fared? Oh, there was Mrs. Hanka;
so pleased to see her. But why had she arrived so late?

He was finally led outside.

"This means a general departure, I suppose?" asked Irgens, displeased. He
had tried to approach Miss Lynum once during the evening but without
success. She had plainly avoided him. He had noticed later on that
Coldevin's foolish remarks about the poets and the youth of the country
had amused her inordinately; what could that mean? Altogether it had been
an unpleasant evening. Mrs. Hanka had sat there with her cracked lips
unable to smile decently, and Mrs. Paulsberg was impossible. The evening
was simply wasted. And now the company was breaking up; no prospects for
livening up one's spirits with a little intimate half-hour.

Irgens promised to take his revenge on the clique because of the
indifference it seemed to show him. Perhaps next week....

Outside Tivoli the company parted. Mrs. Hanka and Aagot walked together
down the street.

VI

Tidemand came to H. Henriksen's office at ten the next morning. Ole was
standing at his desk.

Tidemand's errand was, as he had said, a matter of business only; he spoke
in a low voice and placed before Ole a telegram couched in mysterious
words. Where it said "Rising One," it really meant "Ten," and where it
said "Baisse U. S.," it meant an exportation prohibition on the Black Sea
and along the Danube, and a rise in America. The telegram was from
Tidemand's agent in Archangel.

Ole Henriksen immediately grasped the situation: on account of the Russian
crop failure, in connection with the already low supplies, Russia was
preparing to prohibit all grain exports. Hard times were coming. Norway,
too, would feel the pressure, and grain would soar to incredible prices.
It was necessary to get hold of as much as possible at no matter what
figure. In spite of official Russian denials of the rumours in English
newspapers, it seemed as if America already had scented the danger, for
American wheat was rising daily. From eighty-seven and eighty-eight it had
risen until it now fluctuated between one hundred and ten and one hundred
and fifteen. Nobody could predict to what heights it would climb.

Tidemand's business with Ole was a proposition that the two friends and
colleagues join in a speculation in American rye while there still was
time. They were to join forces and import a mass of rye that should
materially assist in keeping the country fed during the coming year. But
it was a matter of urgency; rye, too, was soaring; in Russia it was almost
unpurchasable.

Ole left his desk and began to walk up and down. His mind was working; he
had intended to offer Tidemand some refreshment, but forgot it entirely.
He was greatly tempted, but he was up to his neck in other pressing
engagements--that Brazilian affair had almost paralysed him for the
moment, and he did not expect to be able to take his profits until early
summer.

"There ought to be money in it," said Tidemand.

No doubt; that was not why Ole hesitated. But he simply was not able to do
it. He explained his circumstances and added that he was afraid to tackle
anything more at present. The speculation appealed to him, notwithstanding
his inability to participate; his eyes gleamed, and he inquired eagerly
into all the details. He took a piece of paper, made estimates, and
studied the telegram afresh with a thoughtful air. Finally he declared
that he could do nothing.

"Of course I can operate alone," said Tidemand. "I will do it on a smaller
scale, that is all. But I should have liked you to be in on this; I would
have felt safer. I realise that you cannot go further. However, I'll
telegraph myself; have you got a blank?"

Tidemand wrote out his telegram and handed it to Ole.

"I guess that is clear enough?"

Ole stepped back a pace.

"So much?" he exclaimed. "This is a big order, Andreas."

"It is big. But I hope the results will justify it," answered Tidemand
quietly. And unable to control a feeling that overwhelmed him at the
moment, he looked toward the wall and whispered as if to himself: "I don't
care how it turns out or about anything any more."

Ole looked at him and asked:

"Any news?"

"No--"

"Well, we'll see how it turns out."

Tidemand put the telegram in his pocket.

"I should have liked us both to be in this enterprise, Ole. I must confess
that I am in deep elsewhere, too, but--I have my ice to realise on. When
the warm weather comes I'll make money on that, don't you think?"

"Decidedly! As good as ready money, ice is."

"So I am not altogether on my knees. And may the Lord keep that sad fate
from me, both for my own sake and for the sake of mine!"

"But could you not as a matter of safety--Wait a moment. Pardon me for not
offering you a cigar; I know how you like to smoke while talking; I
forgot. Sit down a moment; I'll be back directly."

Tidemand knew that Ole was on his way to the cellar for the usual bottle
of wine, and tried to call him back, but Ole did not hear and returned in
a moment with the old, fuzzy bottle. They sat on the sofa as usual and
drank to each other.

"I simply wanted to ask," continued Ole, "are you sure you have considered
everything in connection with this American affair? I do not flatter
myself that I can teach you anything, you know, but--"

"Yes, I fancy I have calculated all contingencies," answered Tidemand.
"You notice I am using the term 'Delivery within three days.' Success
depends on quick action. I haven't even forgotten to consider the effect
of a possible presidential change in America."

"But wouldn't it be safer to place your limit a little closer? Perhaps you
ought not to buy over twelve."

"No; that would not be well. For you understand that if Russia closes,
then fifteen, or even twenty, is not too much. On the other hand, if she
does not close, then a hundred, yes, ninety, is far too much. In that case
I am done for."

They both reflected.

"I believe this enterprise is going to be lucky," said Tidemand suddenly.
"Really, I feel it. You know what it means when we traders have a
premonition of this kind."

"How are things otherwise?" asked Ole.

"Well," Tidemand answered hurriedly, "it does not look so bad just now,
not at all. Things are very much as usual at home."

"No change, then?"

"Well, no--I must get back now."

Tidemand got up. Ole followed him to the door and said:

"It wasn't you who didn't care how matters turn out, was it? Well, I am
glad you came, anyway."

The awkward fellow! This was Ole Henriksen's way of stiffening a comrade's
backbone.

But Tidemand did not go at once; he stood there with his hand on the
door-knob and shifted his eyes nervously from place to place.

"It can hardly be thought strange if I get a little downhearted once in a
while," he said. "Things do not look very bright for me; I do my best to
fix everything up, but I do not make much headway, not very much, no.
Well, we'll have to wait and see how matters shape themselves. I think it
is getting a little better, thank God."

"Does your wife keep at home more now? It seems to me that--"

"Hanka has been a good mother to the children lately. I have been very
happy because of that; it has brought us closer together, as it were. She
is busy fitting the children out for the country. It is wonderful the
things she gets together; I have never seen anything like it--blue and
white and red dresses! They are lying home; I look at them whenever I am
home. Perhaps I shouldn't place too much faith in it. She does not
consider herself married yet, she continues to call herself Lange. That
may be only a whim. She calls herself Tidemand, too; she does not forget
that. You yourself heard last night in Tivoli how she asked me for a
hundred. I am glad she does that; I don't mind, and shouldn't have
mentioned it if you hadn't heard it yourself. But it happened to be the
third hundred crowns she had got from me in two days. Don't misunderstand
me! But why does she ask me for money before people? Isn't that as if she
wanted to give out the impression that that is the only way to take me,
otherwise she wouldn't get any? She uses a good deal of money; I hardly
think she uses it for herself; I am sure she doesn't, for Hanka was never
extravagant. She must be giving it away; it is her affair if she helps
somebody. She gets quite a lot of money from me in a week's time;
sometimes she gets it when she goes out, and she has nothing left when she
returns, although she has bought nothing. Well, that does not matter. As
long as I have anything it belongs to her as well as to me; that is only
right and natural. I asked her jokingly once if she wanted to ruin me--
make a beggar out of me. It was only a joke, and I laughed heartily myself
as I said it. But I shouldn't have said it; she offered to leave the house
whenever I wanted her to--in short, divorce. She has told me that often
enough, but this time simply because of a joke. I said that I was sorry,
and I asked her pardon; I had never for a moment thought of such a thing
as that she might ruin me. 'Dear Andreas,' she asked me, 'can we never get
free from each other?' I do not know what I answered; I guess there was
not much sense to it, for she asked immediately for my key, as she had
lost her own. I gave it to her, and then she smiled. 'Smile again,' I
said, and she did it for my sake, and said smilingly that I was a big
baby. Yesterday morning I didn't see her before I got home from the
office. She was still working with the children's summer outfit and showed
me everything. She took out her handkerchief, and as she pulled it out
from her dress a tie fell out, a gentleman's red tie. I made out that I
did not see it; but I knew very well that the tie did not belong to me. I
knew it only too well. That is--understand me correctly--I did not see it
well enough to be sure whom it might belong to. It might even have been
one of my own ties, some old rag I have ceased to use. It is a peculiarity
of mine never to remember my own ties; I notice them so little, I
imagine--So things are coming around, as I said. And if my big trade now
succeeds, perhaps that will bring luck for us all. It would be fun to show
her that I am not such a dunce, ha, ha!"

The two friends talked a little further, after which Tidemand went to the
telegraph office. He was full of hope. His great idea was to discount the
crisis, to hold enormous supplies of grain when nobody else should have
any. He would succeed! He walked with a springy step, like a youth, and
avoided meeting anybody who might detain him.

* * * * *

A telegram to the foreign office announced five days later that the
Russian government, owing to the shortage of grain and the dark outlook
for the coming harvests, had been obliged to prohibit all exports of rye,
wheat, corn, and grist from the harbours of Russia and Finland.

Tidemand's calculations had proven correct.

RIPENING

I

Irgens had published his book. This superior soul, who never took anybody
into his confidence, had, to the great surprise of everybody, put out a
charming volume of poems just when spring was in full blow. Was that not a
surprise? True, it was two years since his drama had appeared; but it was
now proven that he had not been idle; he had conceived one poem after
another, and quietly put them away, and when the heap had grown big enough
he had given it to the printer. It was thus a proud man should act; nobody
exceeded Irgens in strong and warm discretion.

His book was exhibited in the bookstore windows; people discussed it and
predicted it would attract much attention; the ladies were enraptured with
the gently glowing love stanzas scattered through it. There were also many
bold and courageous words, full of manliness and will: poems to Justice,
to Liberty, to the Kings--God knows he did not spare the kings. But Irgens
noticed no more than ever that people admired him when he strolled down
the promenade. Gracious! if they enjoyed looking at him, that was their
affair. He was frigidly indifferent, as ever.

"I must admit you are a foxy fellow!" exclaimed even Norem, the Actor,
when he ran across him on the street. "Here you go along quietly and say
nothing, and all of a sudden you set off a rocket right under our very
noses. You are unique!"

The Attorney, however, could not help giving him a little dig; he laughed
and said: "But you have enemies, Irgens. I was talking to a man today who
refused to see anything gigantic in the publishing of a small volume after
a lapse of nearly two years and a half!"

Then Irgens flung back the haughty reply: "I take a pride in a limited
production. The quantity does not matter."

Later on, however, he inquired concerning the identity of this detractor.
He was not tortured by curiosity; people knew fortunately that he was
quite indifferent to public opinion. But anyhow--was it Paulsberg?

No, it was not Paulsberg.

Irgens made a few more questions and guesses, but the pretentious Attorney
refused to betray his critic. He made a secret out of it, and irritated
Irgens as much as he could. "It seems you are not so altogether
indifferent," he teased and chuckled gleefully.

Irgens murmured contemptuously: "Nonsense!" But he was evidently
considerably bothered by this defamer, this jealous fellow who had
criticised him, and tried to belittle his exploit. If not Paulsberg, who
then? Who among them had done better during the last two and a half years?
Irgens knew nobody; among the younger writers he was absolutely paramount.
Suddenly something struck him, and he said indifferently:

"Of course, it is a matter of absolute indifference to me who the person
is; but if it is that lout Coldevin--Lord, man! do you really pay any
attention to what such a freak says? A man who carries a cigar-holder and
a dirty comb in the same pocket! Well, I must be going; so long!"

Irgens walked off. If the enemy was this barbarian from the backwoods,
well and good! His mind was again relieved; he nodded to acquaintances and
looked quite cheerful. He had for a moment felt aggrieved that anybody
should be grumbling behind his back, but that was now forgotten; it would
be foolish to take offence at this old bushwhacker.

Irgens intended to take a walk around the harbour so as to be left in
peace; this more or less stupid talk about his book had really got on his
nerves. Were people now beginning to prate about working hours and
quantity in connection with poetry? In that case his book would be found
wanting; it was not so very ponderous; it did not outweigh one of
Paulsberg's novels, thank God!

When he reached the harbour he suddenly caught a glimpse of Coldevin's
head behind a pile of packing-cases. Irgens noticed the direction of his
glance, but this told him nothing; the old imbecile was evidently lost in
some crazy meditation or other. It was amusing to see him so altogether
unconscious of his surroundings, standing there agape with his nose in the
air. His eyes were almost in a direct line with the little office window
at the end of Henriksen's warehouse; he stared unblinkingly and apparently
unseeingly at that particular spot. Irgens was on the point of going over
in order to inquire if he perhaps wanted to see Ole Henriksen; he would
then be able to turn the conversation to his book and get the old man to
express an opinion. It would be quite entertaining; the oaf would be
forced to admit that he valued poetry according to weight. But was it
worth while? It was really of no account whatever what this person might
think. Irgens made a turn across the docks; he looked up--Coldevin had not
moved. Irgens sauntered past, crossed the street on his way up-town.
Suddenly Ole Henriksen and Aagot came out of the warehouse and caught
sight of him.

"Good day, good day, Irgens!" called Ole with outstretched hand. "Glad to
see you. I want to thank you for the book you sent us. You are a wonder;
you surprise your very best friends even--poet, master!"

Ole talked on, pleased and happy over his friend's accomplishment,
admiring now one stanza, now another, and thanking Irgens over and over.

"Aagot and I have read it with beating hearts!" he said. "I really believe
Aagot wept a little now and then--Yes; you did; no use denying it, Aagot.
You need not feel ashamed of that--What I wanted to say--come along to
the telegraph office, Irgens; then we'll drop in at Sara's afterward, if
you like. I have a little surprise for you."

Aagot said nothing.

"You can walk up and down a little while I telegraph," said Ole. "But
don't get impatient if it takes some time. I have got to catch a ship
before it leaves Arendal!"

And Ole ran up the stairs and disappeared; Irgens looked after him.

"Listen--I want to thank you for your book!" said Aagot quickly in a low
voice. "You will never know how I have enjoyed it."

"Really? Truly? It is good to hear you say that," he replied, full of
gratitude. That she should have waited until Ole had left in order to
thank him was a charming and delicate tribute; she had done it now much
more genuinely and warmly; her words meant so much more now. She told him
what had especially stirred her; it was that wonderful "Song to Life";
never had she read anything so beautiful. Then, as if she feared she had
spoken too warmly and laid herself open to misunderstanding, she added in
an ordinary tone of voice that Ole had been just as enchanted as she; he
had read most of it aloud to her.

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