Wanderers by Knut Hamsun

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At long last I came to a place where there was no dog. There was still a
light in the window, and, without more ado, I walked up and asked shelter
for the night.

XXVIII

A young girl sat at a table sewing; there was no one else in the room.
When I asked for shelter, she answered brightly and trustingly that she
would see, and went into a little room at the side. I called after her as
she went that I would be glad only to sit here by the stove till daylight.

A little after the girl came in again with her mother, who was still
buttoning her clothes about her. _Godkvald!_ Shelter for the night?
Well, well, there wasn't that room in the place they could make me
properly comfortable, but I'd be welcome to the bedroom, such as it was.

And where would they sleep themselves?

Why, it was near day now, and the girl'd be sitting up anyhow for a bit
with her sewing.

What was she sewing to sit up for all night? A new dress?

No, only the skirt. She was to wear it to church in the morning, but
wouldn't hear of her mother helping.

I brought up my sewing-machine, and said jestingly that a skirt more or
less was a mere trifle for a thing like this. Wait, and I'd show them.

Was I a tailor, then?

No. But I sold sewing-machines.

I took out the printed directions and studied them to see how it worked.
The girl listened attentively; she was a mere child; her thin fingers were
all blue with the dye from the stuff. There was something so poor-looking
about those blue fingers; I brought out some wine and poured out for all
of us. Then we go on sewing again--I with the printed paper, and the girl
working the machine. She is delighted to see how easily it goes, and her
eyes are all aglow.

How old was she?

Sixteen. Confirmed last year.

And what was her name?

Olga.

Her mother stands watching us, and would dearly like to try the machine
herself, but every time she comes near, Olga says: "Be careful, mother,
you'll despise it." And when the spool needs filling, and her mother takes
the shuttle in her hand a moment, the child is once more afraid it may be
"despised." [Footnote: Foragte, literally "despise." The word is evidently
to be understood as used in error by the girl herself, in place of some
equivalent of "spoil (destroy)," the author's purpose being to convey an
impression of something touchingly "poor," as with the dye-stained fingers
earlier and her awkward gait and figure later mentioned. Precisely similar
characteristics are used to the same end in _Pan_, and elsewhere.]

The old woman puts on the coffee-pot, and tends the fire; the room is soon
warm and cosy. The lonely folk are as trusting and kindly as could be.
Olga laughs when I make a little jest about the machine. I noted that
neither of them asked how much the thing cost, though I had told them it
was for sale. They looked on it as hopelessly beyond their reach. But they
could still take a delight in seeing it work.

I hinted that Olga really ought to have a machine like that, seeing she'd
got the way of it so neatly all at once.

Her mother answered it would have to wait till she'd been out in service
for a bit.

Was she going out in service?

Why, yes, she hoped so, anyway. Both her other daughters were in service,
and doing well--thank God. Olga would be meeting them at church in the
morning.

There was a little cracked mirror hanging on one of the walls, on the
other a few cheap prints had been tacked up--pictures of soldiers on
horseback and royalties with a great deal of finery. One of these pictures
is old and frayed. It is a portrait of the Empress Eugenie, and evidently
not a recent purchase. I asked where it had come from.

The good woman did not know. Must be something her husband had bought in
his time.

"Did he buy it here?"

More likely 'twould have been at Hersat, where he had been in service as a
young man. Might be thirty years gone now.

I have a little plan in my head already, and say:

"That picture is worth a deal of money."

The woman thinks I am making game of her, so I make a close inspection of
the picture, and declare emphatically that it is no cheap print--no.

But the woman is quite stupid, and simply says: well, did I think so, now?
The thing had hung there ever since the house was built. It was Olga's, by
the way, she had called it hers from the time she was a little one.

I put on a knowing, mysterious air, and ask for further details of the
case--where Hersat might be.

Hersat was in the neighbouring parish, some eight miles away. The Lensmand
lived there....

The coffee is ready, and Olga and I call a halt. There are only the
fastenings to be done now. I ask to see the blouse she is to wear with the
skirt, and it appears that this is not a real blouse at all, but a knitted
kerchief. But she has a left-off jacket that one of her sisters gave her,
and that will go outside and hide all the rest.

Olga is growing so fast, I am told, that there's no sense in buying a
blouse for her this twelvemonth to come.

Olga sits sewing on hooks and eyes, and that is soon done. Then she turns
so sleepy, it's a sight to see; wherefore I put on an air of authority and
order her to bed. Her mother feels constrained to sit up and keep me
company, though I tell her myself to go back to bed again.

"You ought to be properly thankful, I'm sure," says the mother, "to the
strange man for all the way he's helped you."

And Olga comes up to me and gives her hand to thank me, and I turn her
round and shuffle her across to the bedroom door.

"You'd better go too," I say to her mother. "I won't sit talking any more,
for I'm tired myself."

And, seeing I settle down by the stove with my sack under my head, she
shakes her head with a smile and goes off too.

XXIX

I am happy and comfortable here; it is morning; the sun coming in through
the window, and both Olga and her mother with their hair so smooth and
plastered down, a wonder to see.

After breakfast, which I share with the two of them, getting quantities of
coffee with it, Olga gets herself up in her new skirt and her knitted
kerchief and the jacket. Eh, that wonderful jacket; lasting at the edge
all round, and two rows of buttons of the same, and the neck and sleeves
trimmed with braid. But little Olga could not fill it out. Nothing near
it! The child is all odd corners and angles, like a young calf.

"Couldn't we just take it in a bit at the sides?" I ask. "There's plenty
of time."

But mother and daughter exchange glances, plainly saying, 'tis Sunday, and
no using needle or knife that day. I understand them well enough, for I
would have thought exactly the same myself in my childhood. So I try to
find a way out by a little free-thinking: 'tis another matter when it's a
machine that does the work; no more than when an innocent cart comes
rumbling down the road, as it may any Sunday.

But no; this is beyond them. And anyhow, the jacket must give her room to
grow; in a couple of years it would fit her nicely.

I thought about for something I could slip into Olga's hand as she went;
but I've nothing, so I gave her a silver Krone. And straightway she gives
her hand in thanks, and shows the coin to her mother, and whispers she
will give it to her sister at church. Her eyes are simply glowing with joy
at the thought. And her mother, hardly less moved herself, answers yes,
perhaps she ought....

Olga goes off to church in her long jacket; goes shambling down the hill
with her feet turning in and out any odd way. A sweet and heartening thing
to see....

Hersat now; was that a big place?

Yes, a fine big place.

I sit for a while blinking sleepy eyes and making excursions in etymology.
Hersat might mean _Herresate_. [Footnote: Manor.] Or possibly some
_herse_ [Footnote: Local chieftain in ancient times.] might have
held sway there. And the _herse's_ daughter was the proudest maiden
for far around, and the Jarl himself comes to ask her hand. And the year
after she bears him a son, who becomes king....

In a word, I would go to Hersat. Seeing it was all the same where I went,
I would go there. Possibly I might get work at the Lensmand's, or there
was always the chance of something turning up; at any rate, I should see
new people. And having thus decided upon Hersat, I felt I had a purpose
before me.

The good woman gives me leave to lie down on her bed, for I am drowsy and
stupid for lack of sleep. A fine blue spider clambers slowly up the wall,
and I lie watching it till I fall asleep.

After a couple of hours I wake suddenly, feeling rested and fresh. The
woman was cooking the dinner. I pack up my sack, pay her for my stay, and
end up by saying I'd like to make an exchange; my sewing-machine for
Olga's picture there.

The woman incredulous as ever.

Never mind, say I; if she was content, why, so was I. The picture was of
value; I knew what I was doing.

I took down the picture from the wall, blew the dust from it, and rolled
it up carefully; the wall showed lighter in a square patch where it had
been. Then I took my leave.

The woman followed me out: wouldn't I wait now, till Olga came back, so
she could thank me? Oh, now if I only would!

I couldn't. Hadn't time. Tell her from me, if there was anything she
couldn't make out, to look in the directions....

The woman stood looking after me as I went. I swaggered down the road,
whistling with satisfaction at what I had done. Only the sack to carry
now; I was rested, the sun was shining, and the road had dried up a
little. I fell to singing with satisfaction at what I had done.

Neurasthenia....

I reached Hersat the following day. At first I felt like passing by, it
looked so big and fine a place; but after I had talked a bit with one of
the farm-hands, I decided to try the Lensmand after all. I had worked for
rich people before--let me see, there was Captain Falkenberg of Ovrebo....

The Lensmand was a little, broad-shouldered man, with a long white beard
and dark eyebrows. He talked gruffly, but had kindly eyes; afterwards, I
found he was a merry soul, who could laugh and jest heartily enough at
times. Now and again, too, he would show a touch of pride in his position,
and his wealth, and like to have it recognized.

"No, I've no work for you. Where do you come from?"

I named some places I had lately passed.

"No money, I suppose, and go about begging?"

No, I did not beg; I had money enough.

"Well, you'll have to go on farther. I've nothing for you to do here; the
ploughing's done. Can you cut staves for a fence?

"Yes."

"H'm. Well, I don't use wooden fences any more. I've put up wire. Do
bricklayer's work?"

"Yes."

"That's a pity. I've had bricklayers at work here for weeks; you might
have got a job. But it's all done now."

He stood poking his stick in the ground.

"What made you come to me?"

"Every one said go to the Lensmand if I wanted work."

"Oh, did they? Well, I've always got a crowd here working at something or
other--those bricklayers, now. Can you put up a fence that's proof against
fowls?--For that's more than any soul on earth ever could, haha!--

"Worked for Captain Falkenberg, you said, at Ovrebo?"

"Yes."

"What were you doing there?"

"Felling timber."

"I don't know him--he lives a long way off. But I've heard of him. Any
papers from him?"

I showed him what the Captain had written.

"Come along with me," said the Lensmand abruptly. He led me round the
house and into the kitchen.

"Give this man a thorough good meal--he's come a long way, and...."

I sat down in the big, well-lighted kitchen to the best meal I had had for
a long time. I had just finished when the Lensmand came out again.

"Look here, you...." he began.

I got up at once and stood straight as an arrow--a piece of politeness
which I fancy was not lost on him.

"No, no, finish your meal, go on. Finished? Sure? Well, I've been
thinking.... Come along with me."

He took me out to the woodshed.

"You might do a bit of work getting in firewood; what do you say to that?
I've two men on the place, but one of them I shall want for summoners'
work, so you'll have to go woodcutting with the other. You can see there's
plenty of wood here as it is, but it'll take no harm lying here, can't
have too much of that sort of thing. You said you had money; let me see."

I showed him the notes I had.

"Good. I'm an official, you see, and have to know my folk. Though I don't
suppose you've anything on your conscience, seeing you come to the
Lensmand, haha! Well, as I said, you can give yourself a rest today, and
start cutting wood tomorrow."

I set to work getting ready for the next day, looked to my clothes, filed
the saw, and ground my ax. I had no gloves, but it was hardly weather for
gloves as yet, and there was nothing else I was short of.

The Lensmand came out to me several times, and talked in a casual way; it
amused him, perhaps, to talk to a strange wanderer. "Here, Margrethe!" he
called to his wife, as she went across the courtyard; "here's the new man;
I'm going to send him out cutting wood."

XXX

We had no special orders, but set to work as we thought best, felling
dry-topped trees, and in the evening the Lensmand said it was right
enough. But he would show us himself the next day.

I soon realized that the work here would not last till Christmas. With the
weather we were having, and the ground as it was, frost at night and no
snow, we felled a deal each day, and nothing to hinder the work; the
Lensmand himself though we were devilish smart at felling trees, haha! The
old man was easy to work with; he often came out to us in the woods and
chatted and made jokes, and as I never joked in return, he took me, no
doubt, for a dull dog, but a steady fellow. He began sending me on errands
now, with letters to and from the post.

There were no children on the place, no young folk at all save the maids
and one of the farm-hands, so the evenings fell rather long. By way of
passing the time, I got hold of some tin and acids and re-tinned some old
pots and kettles in the kitchen. But that was soon done. And then one
evening I came to write the following letter:

"_If only I were where you are, I would work for two_."

Next day I had to go to the post for the Lensmand; I took my letter with
me and posted it. I was very uneasy. Moreover, the letter looked clumsy as
I sent it, for I had got the paper from the Lensmand, and had to paste a
whole strip of stamps along the envelope to cover where his name was
printed on. I wondered what she would say when she got it. There was no
name, nor any place given in the letter.

And so we work in the woods, the other man and I, talk of our little
affairs, working with heart and soul, and getting on well together. The
days passed; already, worse luck, I could see the end of our work ahead,
but I had a little hope the Lensmand might find something else for me to
do when the woodcutting was finished. Something would surely turn up. I
had no wish to set out wandering anew before Christmas.

Then one day I go to the post again, and there is a letter for me. I
cannot understand that it is for me, and I stand turning and twisting it
confusedly; but the man knows me now; he reads from the envelope again and
says yes, it is my name right enough, and care of the Lensmand.

Suddenly a thought strikes me, and I grasp the letter. Yes, it is for me;
I forgot ... yes, of course....

And I hurry out into the road, with something ringing in my ears all the
time, and open the letter, and read:

"_Skriv ikke til mig_--" [Footnote: "Do not write (skrive) to me."]

No name, no place, but so clear and lovely. The first word was underlined.

I do not know how I got home. I remember I sat on a stone by the roadside
and read the letter and put it in my pocket, and walked on till I came to
another stone and did the same again. _Skriv ikke_. But--did that
mean I might come and perhaps speak with her? That little, dainty piece of
paper, and the swift, delicate characters. Her hands had held it, her eyes
had looked on it, her breath had touched it. And then at the end a dash.
Which might have a world of meaning.

I came home, handed in the Lensmand's post, and went out into the wood. I
was dreaming all the time. My comrade, no doubt, must have found me an
incomprehensible man, seeing me read a letter again and again, and put it
back with my money.

How splendid of her to have found me! She must have held the envelope up
to the light, no doubt, and read the Lensmand's name under the stamps;
then laid her beautiful head on one side and half closed her eyes and
thought for a moment: he is working for the Lensmand at Hersat now....

That evening, when we were back home, the Lensmand came out and talked to
us of this and that, and asked:

"Didn't you say you'd been working for Captain Falkenberg at Ovrebo?"

"Yes."

"I see he's invented a machine."

"A machine?"

"A patent saw for timber work. It's in the papers."

I started at this. Surely he hadn't invented my patent saw?

"There must be some mistake," I said. "It wasn't the Captain who invented
it."

"Oh, wasn't it?"

"No it wasn't. But the saw was left with him."

And I told the Lensmand all about it. He went in to fetch the paper, and
we both read what it said: "New Invention.... Our Correspondent on the
spot.... Of great importance to owners of timber lands.... Principle of
the mechanism is as follows:..."

"You don't mean to say it's your invention?"

"Yes, it is."

"And the Captain is trying to steal it? Why, this'll be a pretty case, a
mighty pretty case. Leave it to me. Did any one see you working on the
thing?"

"Yes, all his people on the place did."

"Lord save me if it's not the stiffest bit of business I've heard for a
long time. Walk off with another man's invention! And the money,
too ... why, it might bring you in a million!"

I was obliged to confess I could not understand the Captain.

"Don't you? Haha, but I do! I've not been Lensmand all this time far
nothing. No; I've had my suspicions that he wasn't so rich as he
pretended. Well, I'll send him a bit of a letter from me, just a line or
so--what do you say to that? Hahaha! You leave it to me."

But at this I began to feel uneasy. The Lensmand was too violent all at
once; it might well be that the Captain was not to blame in the matter at
all, and that the newspaper man had made the mistake himself. I begged the
Lensmand to let me write myself.

"And agree to divide the proceeds with that rascal? Never! You leave the
whole thing in my hands. And, anyhow, if you were to write yourself, you
couldn't set it out properly the way I can."

But I worked on him until at last he agreed that I should write the first
letter, and then he should take it up after. I got some of the Lensmand's
paper again.

I got no writing done that evening; it had been an exciting day, and my
mind was all in a turmoil still. I thought and reckoned it out; for
Fruen's sake I would not write directly to the Captain, and risk causing
her unpleasantness as well; no, I would send a line to my comrade, Lars
Falkenberg, to keep an eye on the machine.

That night I had another visit from the corpse--that miserable old woman
in her night-shift, that would not leave me in peace on account of her
thumbnail. I had had a long spell of emotion the day before, so this night
she took care to come. Frozen with horror, I saw her come gliding in, stop
in the middle of the room, and stretch out her hand. Over against the
other wall lay my fellow-woodcutter in his bed, and it was a strange
relief to me to hear that he too lay groaning and moving restlessly; at
any rate there were two of us to share the danger. I shook my head, to say
I had buried the nail in a peaceful spot, and could do no more. But the
corpse stood there still. I begged her pardon; but then, suddenly, I was
seized with a feeling of annoyance; I grew angry, and told her straight
out I'd have no more of her nonsense. I'd borrowed that nail of hers at a
pinch, but I'd done all I could do months ago, and buried it again.... At
that she came gliding sideways over to my pillow, trying to get behind me.
I flung myself up in bed and gave a shriek.

"What is it?" asked the lad from the other bed.

I rub my eyes and answer I'd been dreaming, that was all.

"Who was it came in just now?" asks the boy.

"I don't know. Was there any one in here?"

"I saw some one going..."

XXXI

After a couple of days, I set myself down calmly and loftily to write to
Falkenberg. I had a bit of a saw thing I'd left there at Ovrebo, I wrote;
it might be a useful thing for owners of timber lands some day, and I
proposed to come along and fetch it away shortly. Please keep an eye on it
and see it doesn't get damaged.

Yes, I wrote in that gentle style. That was the most dignified way. And
since Falkenberg, of course, would mention it in the kitchen, and perhaps
show the letter round, it had to be delicacy itself. But it was not all
delicacy and nothing else; I fixed a definite date, to make it serious: I
will come for the machine on Monday, 11th December.

I thought to myself: there, that's clear and sound; if the machine's not
there that Monday, why, then, something will happen.

I took the letter to the post myself, and stuck a strip of stamps across
the envelope as before....

My beautiful ecstasy was still on me. I had received the loveliest letter
in the world; here it was in my breast pocket; it was to me. _Skriv
ikke_. No, indeed, but I could come. And then a dash at the end.

There wasn't anything wrong, by any chance, about that underlining the
word: as, for instance, meaning to emphasize the whole thing as an order?
Ladies were always so fond of underlining all sorts of words, and putting
in dashes here, there, and everywhere. But not she; no, not she!

A few days more, and the work at the Lensmand's would be at an end; it
fitted in very well, everything worked out nicely; on the 11th I was to be
at Ovrebo. And that perhaps not a minute too soon. If the Captain really
had any idea of his own about my machine, it would be necessary to act at
once. Was a stranger to come stealing my hard-earned million? Hadn't I
toiled for it? I almost began to regret the gentleness of my letter to
Falkenberg; I might have made it a good deal sharper; now, perhaps, he
would imagine I was too soft to stand up for myself. Why, he might even
take it into his head to bear witness against me, and say I hadn't
invented the machine at all! Hoho, Master Falkenberg, just try it on! In
the first place, 'twill cost you your eternal salvation; and if that's not
enough, I'll have you up for perjury before my friend and patron, the
Lensmand. And you know what that'll mean.

"Of course you must go," said the Lensmand when I spoke to him about it.
"And just come back here to me with your machine. You must look after your
interests, of course; it may be a question of something considerable."

The following day's post brought a piece of news that changed the
situation in a moment; there was a letter from Captain Falkenberg himself
in the paper, saying it was due to a misunderstanding that the new timber
saw had been stated as being of his invention. The apparatus had been
designed by a man who had worked on his estate some time back. As to its
value, he would not express any opinion.--Captain Falkenberg.

The Lensmand and I looked at each other.

"Well, what do you say now?" he asked.

"That the Captain, at any rate, is innocent."

"Ho! D'you know what I think?"

Pause. The Lensmand playing Lensmand from top to toe, unravelling schemes
and plots.

"He is not innocent," said he.

"Really?"

"Ah, I've seen that sort of thing before. Drawing in his horns, that's
all. Your letter put him on his guard. Haha!"

At this I had to confess to the Lensmand that I had not written to the
Captain at all but had merely sent a bit of a note to one of the hands at
Ovrebo; and even that letter could not have reached there yet, seeing it
was only posted the night before.

This left the Lensmand dumb, and he gave up unravelling things. On the
other hand, he seemed from now onward to be greatly in doubt as to whether
the whole thing had any value at all.

"Quite likely the machine's no good at all," he said. But then he added
kindly: "I mean, it may need touching up a bit, and improving. You've seen
yourself how they're always altering things like warships and
flying-machines. Are you still determined to go?"

No more was said about my coming back here and bringing the machine with
me. But the Lensmand wrote me a very nice recommendation. He would gladly
have kept me on longer, it said, but the work was interrupted by private
affairs of my own elsewhere....

In the morning, when I was ready to start, a little girl stood in the
courtyard waiting for me to come out. It was Olga. Was there ever such a
child? She must have been afoot since midnight to get here so early. And
there she stood in her blue skirt and her jacket.

"That you, Olga? Where are you going?"

She had come to see me.

How did she know I was here?

She had asked about me and found out where I was. And please was it true
she was to keep the sewing-machine? But of course it couldn't....

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