Wanderers by Knut Hamsun

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Yes, the machine was hers all right; hadn't I taken her picture in
exchange? Did it work all right?

Yes, it worked all right.

We did not talk much together; I wanted to get her away before the
Lensmand came out and began asking questions.

"Well, run along home now, child; you've a long way to go."

Olga gives me her hand--it is swallowed up completely in mine, and she
lets it lie there as long as I will. Then she thanks me, and shambles
gaily off again. And her toes turning in and out all odd ways.

XXXII

I am nearly at my goal.

Sunday evening I lay in a watchman's hut not far from Ovrebo, so as to be
on the place early Monday morning. By nine o'clock every one would be up,
then surely I must be lucky enough to meet the one I sought.

I had grown dreadfully nervous, and kept imagining ugly things. I had
written a nice letter to Falkenberg, using no sharp words, but the Captain
might after all have been offended at my fixing the date like that; giving
him so and so much time.... If only I had never written at all!

Coming up towards the house I stoop more and more, and make myself small,
though indeed I had done no wrong. I turn off from the road up, and go
round so as to reach the outbuildings first--and there I come upon
Falkenberg. He is washing down the carriage. We gave each other greeting,
and were the same good comrades as before.

Was he going out with the carriage?

No, just come back the night before. Been to the railway station.

Who had gone away, then?

Fruen.

Fruen?

Fruen, yes.

Pause.

Really? And where was Fruen gone to?

Gone to stay in town for a bit.

Pause.

"Stranger man's been here writing in the papers about that machine of
yours," says Falkenberg.

"Is the Captain gone away too?"

"No, Captain's at home. You should have seen his face when your letter
came."

I got Falkenberg to come up to the old loft. I had still two bottles of
wine in my sack, and I took them out and we started on them together; eh,
those bottles that I had carried backward and forward, mile after mile,
and had to be so careful with, they served me well just now. Save for them
Falkenberg would never have said so much.

"What was that about the Captain and my letter? Did he see it?"

"Well, it began like this," said Falkenberg. "Fruen was in the kitchen
when I came in with the post. 'What letter's that with all those stamps
on?' she says. I opened it, and said it was from you, to say you were
coming on the 11th."

"And what did she say?"

"She didn't say any more. Yes, she asked once again, 'Coming on the 11th,
is he?' And I said yes, he was."

"And then, a couple of days after, you got orders to drive her to the
station?"

"Why, yes, it must have been about a couple of days. Well, then, I
thought, if Fruen knows about the letter, then Captain surely knows too.
D'you know what he said when I brought it in?"

I made no answer to this, but thought and thought. There must be something
behind all this. Was she running away from me? Madman! the Captain's Lady
at Ovrebo would not run away from one of her labourers. But the whole
thing seemed so strange. I had hoped all along she would give me leave to
speak with her, since I was forbidden to write.

Falkenberg went on, a little awkwardly:

"Well, I showed the Captain your letter, though you didn't say I was to.
Was there any harm in that?"

"It doesn't matter. What did he say?"

"'Yes, look after the machine, do,' he said, and made a face. 'In case any
one comes to steal it,' he said."

"Then the Captain's angry with me now?"

"Nay, I shouldn't think so. I've heard no more about it since that day."

It mattered little after all about the Captain. When Falkenberg had taken
a deal of wine, I asked him if he knew where Fruen was staying in town.
No, but Emma might, perhaps. We get hold of Emma, treat her to wine, talk
a lot of nonsense, and work gradually round to the point; at last asking
in a delicate way. No, Emma didn't know the address. But Fruen had gone to
buy things for Christmas, and she was going with Froken Elisabeth from the
vicarage, so they'd know the address there. What did I want it for, by the
way?

Well, it was only about a filigree brooch I had got hold of, and wanted to
ask if she'd care to buy it.

"Let's look."

Luckily I was able to show her the brooch; it was a beautiful piece of old
work; I had bought it of one of the maids at Hersat.

"Fruen wouldn't have it," said Emma. "I wouldn't have it myself."

"Not if you got me into the bargain, Emma, what?" And I forced myself to
jest again.

Emma goes off. I try drawing out Falkenberg again. Falkenberg was sharp
enough at times to understand people.

Did he still sing for Fruen?

Lord, no; that was all over. Falkenberg wished he hadn't taken service
here at all; 'twas nothing but trouble and misery about the place.

Trouble and misery? Weren't they friends, then, the Captain and his Lady?

Oh yes, they were friends. In the same old way. Last Saturday she had been
crying all day.

"Funny thing it should be like that," say I, "when they're so upright and
considerate towards each other." And I watch to see what Falkenberg says
to that.

"Eh, but they're ever weary," says Falkenberg in his Valdres dialect. "And
she's losing her looks too. Only in the time you've been gone, she's got
all pale and thin."

I sat up in the loft for a couple of hours, keeping an eye on the main
building from my window, but the Captain did not appear. Why didn't he go
out? It was hopeless to wait any longer; I should have to go without
making my excuses to the Captain. I could have found good grounds enough;
I might have put the blame on to the first article in the paper, and said
it had rather turned my head for the moment--and there was some truth in
that. Well, all I had to do now was to tie up the machine in a bundle,
cover it up as far as possible with my sack, and start off on my
wanderings again.

Emma stole some food for me before I went.

It was another long journey this time; first to the vicarage--though that
was but a little out of the way--and then on to the railway station. A
little snow was falling, which made it rather heavy walking; and what was
more, I could not take it easy now, but must get on as fast as I could.
The ladies were only staying in town for their Christmas shopping, and
they had a good start already.

On the following afternoon I came to the vicarage. I had reckoned out it
would be best to speak with Fruen.

"I'm on my way into town," I told her. "And I've this machine thing with
me; if I might leave the heaviest of the woodwork here meanwhile?"

"Are you going into town?" says Fruen. "But you'll stay here till
tomorrow, surely?"

"No, thanks all the same. I've got to be in town tomorrow."

Fruen thinks for a bit and then says:

"Elisabeth's in town. You might take a parcel in for her--something she's
forgotten."

That gives me the address! I thought to myself.

"But I've got to get it ready first."

"Then Froken Elisabeth might be gone again before I got there?"

"Oh no, she's with Fru Falkenberg, and they're staying in town for the
week."

This was grand news, joyous news. Now I had both the address and the time.

Fruen stands watching me sideways, and says:

"Well, then, you'll stay the night, won't you? You see, it's something
I've got to get ready first...."

I was given a room in the main building, because it was too cold to sleep
in the barn. And when all the household had gone to rest that night, and
everything was quiet, came Fruen to my room with the parcel, and said:

"Excuse my coming so late. But I thought you might be going early
to-morrow morning before I was up."

XXXIII

So here I am once more in the crush and noise of a city, with its
newspapers and people. I have been away from all this for many months now,
and find it not unpleasant. I spend a morning taking it all in; get hold
of some other clothes, and set off to find Froken Elisabeth at her
address. She was staying with some relatives.

And now--should I be lucky enough to meet the other one? I am restless as
a boy. My hands are vulgarly unused to gloves, and I pull them off; then
going up the step I notice that my hands do not go at all well with the
clothes I am wearing, and I put on my gloves again. Then I ring the bell.

"Froken Elisabeth? Yes, would you wait a moment?"

Froken Elisabeth comes out. "_Goddag_. You wished to speak to.... Oh,
is it you?"

I had brought a parcel from her mother. _Varsaagod_.

She tears open the parcel and looks inside. "Oh, fancy Mama thinking of
that. The opera-glasses! We've been to the theatre already.... I didn't
recognize you at first."

"Really! It's not so very long since...."

"No, but.... Tell me, isn't there any one else you'd like to inquire
about? Haha!"

"Yes," said I.

"Well, she's not here. I'm only staying here with my relations. No, she's
at the Victoria."

"Well, the parcel was for you," said I, trying to master my
disappointment.

"Wait a minute. I was just going out again; we can go together."

Froken Elisabeth puts on some over-things, calls out through a door to say
she won't be very long, and goes out with me. We take a cab and drive to a
quiet cafe. Froken Elisabeth says yes, she loves going to cafes. But
there's nothing very amusing about this one.

Would she rather go somewhere else?

"Yes. To the Grand."

I hesitated; it might be hardly safe. I had been away for a long time now,
and if we met any one I knew I might have to talk to them. But Frokenen
insisted on Grand. She had had but a few days' practice in the capital,
and had already gained a deal of self-assurance. But I liked her so much
before.

We drove off again to Grand. It was getting towards evening. Frokenen
picks out a seat right in the brightest spot, beaming all over herself at
the fun of it. I ordered some wine.

"What fine clothes you're wearing now," she says, with a laugh.

"I couldn't very well come in here in a workman's blouse."

"No, of course not. But, honestly, that blouse ... shall I tell you what I
think?"

"Yes, do."

"The blouse suited you better."

There! Devil take these town clothes! I sat there with my head full of
other things, and did not care for this sort of talk.

"Are you staying long in town?" I asked.

"As long as Lovise does. We've finished our shopping. No, I'm sorry; it's
all too short." Then she turns gay once more, and asks laughingly: "Did
you like being with us out in the country?"

"Yes. That was a pleasant time."

"And will you come again soon? Haha!"

She seemed to be making fun of me. Trying, of course, to show she saw
through me: that I hadn't played--my part well enough as a country
labourer. Child that she was! I could teach many a labourer his business,
and had more than one trade at my finger-ends. Though in my true calling I
manage to achieve just the next best of all I dream....

"Shall I ask Papa to put up a notice on the post next spring, to say
you're willing to lay down water-pipes and so on?"

She closed her eyes and laughed--so heartily she laughed.

I am torn with excitement, and her merriment pains me, though it is all
good-humoured enough. I glance round the place, trying to pull myself
together; here and there an acquaintance nods to me, and I return it; it
all seems so far away to me. I was sitting with a charming girl, and that
made people notice us.

"You know these people, it seems?"

"Yes, one or two of them. Have you enjoyed yourself in town?"

"Oh yes, immensely. I've two boy cousins here, and then there were their
friends as well."

"Poor young Erik, out in the country," said I jestingly.

"Oh, you with your young Erik. No, there's one here in town; his name's
Bewer. But I'm not friends with him just now."

"Oh, that won't last long."

"Do you think so? Really, though, I'm rather serious about it. I've an
idea he might be coming in here this evening."

"You must point him out to me if he does."

"I thought, as we drove out here, that you and I could sit here together,
you know, and make him jealous."

"Right, then, we will."

"Yes, but.... No, you'd have to be a bit younger. I mean...."

I forced myself to laugh. Oh, we would manage all right. Don't despise us
old ones, us ancient ones, we can be quite surprisingly useful at times.
"Only you'd better let me sit on the sofa beside you there, so he can't
see I'm bald at the back."

Eh, but it is hard to take that perilous transition to old age in any
quiet and beautiful way. There comes a forcedness, a play of jerky effort
and grimaces, the fight against those younger than ourselves, and envy.

"Froken...." I ask this of her now with all my heart. "Froken, couldn't
you ring up Fru Falkenberg and get her to come round here now?"

She thinks for a moment.

"Yes, we will," she says generously.

We go out to the telephone, ring up the Victoria: Fruen is there.

"Is that you, Lovise? You'd never guess who I'm with now? Won't you come
along? Oh, good! We're at the Grand. No, I can't tell you now. Yes, of
course it's a man--only he's a gentleman now--I won't say who it is. Are
you coming? Why, you said just now you would! Some people? Oh, well, do as
you like, of course, but I do think.... Yes, he's standing here. You are
in a hurry...."

Froken Elisabeth rang off, and said shortly:

"She had to go and see some friends."

We went back to our seat, and had some more wine; I tried to be cheerful,
and suggested champagne. Yes, thanks. And then, as we're sitting there,
Frokenen says suddenly:

"Oh, there's Bewer! I'm so glad we're drinking champagne."

But I have only one idea in my mind, and being now called upon to show
what I can do, and charm this young lady to the ultimate advantage of some
one else, I find myself saying one thing and thinking another. Which, of
course, leads to disaster. I cannot get that telephone conversation out of
my head; she must have had an idea--have realized that it was I who was
waiting for her here. But what on earth had I done? Why had I been
dismissed so suddenly from Ovrebo, and Falkenberg taken on in my place.
Quite possibly the Captain and his wife were not always the best of
friends, but the Captain had scented danger in my being there, and wished
to save his wife at least from such an ignominious fall. And now, here she
was, feeling ashamed that I had worked on her place, that she had used me
to drive her carriage, and twice shared food with me by the way. And she
was ashamed, too, of my being no longer young....

"This will never do," says Froken Elisabeth.

So I pull myself together again, and start saying all manner of foolish
things, to make her laugh. I drink a good deal and that helps; at last,
she really seems to fancy I am making myself agreeable to her on her own
account. She looks at me curiously.

"No, really, though, do you think I'm nice?"

"Oh, please--don't you understand?--I was speaking of Fru Falkenberg."

"Sh!" says Froken Elisabeth. "Of course it is Fru Falkenberg; I know that
perfectly well, but you need not say so.... I really think we're beginning
to make an impression on him over there. Let's go on like we are doing,
and look interested."

So she hadn't imagined I was trying on my own account, after all. I was
too old for that sort of thing, anyway. Devil take it, yes, of course.

"But you can't get Fru Falkenberg," she says, beginning again. "It's
simply hopeless."

"No, I can't get her. Nor you either."

"Are you speaking to Fru Falkenberg now again?"

"No, it was to you this time."

Pause.

"Do you know I was in love with you? Yes, when I was at home."

"This is getting quite amusing," said I, shifting up on the sofa. "Oh,
we'll manage Bewer, never fear."

"Yes, only fancy, I used to go up to the churchyard to meet you in the
evenings. But you, foolish person, you didn't see it a bit."

"Now you're talking to Bewer, of course," said I.

"No, it's perfectly true. And I came over one day when you were working in
the potato fields. It wasn't your young Erik I came to see, not a bit."

"Only think, that it should have been me," I say, putting on a melancholy
air.

"Yes, of course you think it was strange. But really, you know, people who
live in the country must have some one to be fond of too."

"Does Fru Falkenberg say the same?"

"Fru Falkenberg? No, she says she doesn't want to be fond of anybody, only
play her piano and that sort of thing. But I was speaking of myself. Do
you know what I did once? No, really, I can't tell you that. Do you want
to know?

"Yes, tell me."

"Well, then ... for, after all, I'm only a child compared to you, so it
doesn't matter. It was when you were sleeping in the barn; I went over
there one day and laid your rugs together properly, and made a proper
bed."

"Was it you did that?" I burst out quite sincerely, forgetting to play my
part.

"You ought to have seen me stealing in. Hahaha!"

But this young girl was--not artful enough, she changed colour at her
little confession, and laughed forcedly to cover her confusion.

I try to help her out, and say:

"You're really good-hearted, you know. Fru Falkenberg would never have
done a thing like that."

"No; but then she's older. Did you think we were the same age?"

"Does Fru Falkenberg say she doesn't _want_ to be fond of anybody?"

"Yes. Oh no ... bother, I don't know. Fru Falkenberg's married, of course;
she doesn't say anything. Now talk to me again a little.... Yes, and do
you remember the time we went up to the store to buy things, you know? And
I kept walking slower and slower for you to catch up...."

"Yes ... that was nice of you. And now I'll do something for you in
return."

I rose from my seat, and walked across to where young Bewer sat, and asked
if he would not care to join us at our table. I brought him along; Froken
Elisabeth flushed hotly as he came up. Then I talked those two young
people well together, which done, I suddenly remembered I had some
business to do, and must go off at once. "I'm ever so sorry to leave just
now. Froken Elisabeth, I'm afraid you've turned my head, bewitched me
completely; but I realize it's hopeless to think of it. It's a marvel to
me, by the way...."

XXXIV

I shambled over to Raadhusgaten, and stood awhile by the cab stand,
watching the entrance to the Victoria. But, of course, she had gone to see
some friends. I drifted into the hotel, and got talking to the porter.

Yes, Fruen was in. Room No. 12, first floor.

Then she was not out visiting friends?

No.

Was she leaving shortly?

Fruen had not said so.

I went out into the street again, and the cabmen flung up their aprons,
inviting my patronage. I picked out a cab and got in.

"Where to?"

"Just stay where you are. I'm hiring you by the hour."

The cabmen walk about whispering, one suggesting this, another that: he's
watching the place; out to catch his wife meeting some commercial
traveller.

Yes, I am watching the place. There is a light in one or two of the rooms,
and suddenly it strikes me that she might stand at a window and see me.
"Wait," I say to the cabman, and go into the hotel again.

"Whereabouts is No. 12?"

"First floor."

"Looking out on to Raadhusgaten?"

"Yes."

"Then it must have been my sister," I say, inventing something in order to
slip past the porter.

I go up the stairs, and, to give myself no chance of turning back, I knock
at the door the moment I have seen the number. No answer. I knock again.

"Is it the maid?" comes a voice from within.

I could not answer yes; my voice would have betrayed me. I tried the
handle--the door was locked. Perhaps she had been afraid I might come;
possibly she had seen me outside.

"No, it's not the maid," I say, and I can hear how the words quiver
strangely.

I stand listening a long while after that; I can hear someone moving
inside, but the door remains closed. Then come two short rings from one of
the rooms down to the hall. It must be she, I say to myself; she is
feeling uneasy, and has rung for the maid. I move away from her door, to
avoid any awkwardness for her, and, when the maid comes, I walk past as if
going downstairs. Then the maid says, "Yes, the maid," and the door is
opened.

"No, no." says the maid; "only a gentleman going downstairs."

I thought of taking a room at the hotel, but the idea was distasteful to
me; she was not a runaway wife meeting commercial travellers. When I came
down, I remarked to the porter as I passed that Fruen seemed to be lying
down.

Then I went out and got into my cab again. The time passes, a whole hour;
the cabman wants to know if I do not feel cold? Well, yes, a little. Was I
waiting for some one? Yes.... He hands me down his rug from the box, and I
tip him the price of a drink for his thoughtfulness.

Time goes on; hour after hour. The cabmen talk unrestrainedly now, saying
openly one to another that I'm letting the horse freeze to death.

No, it was no good. I paid for the cab, went home, and wrote the following
letter:

"You would not let me write to you; will you not let me see you once
again? I will ask for you at the hotel at five to-morrow afternoon."

Should I have fixed an earlier hour? But the light in the forenoon was so
white; if I felt moved and my mouth twitched, I should look a dreadful
sight.

I took the letter round myself to the hotel, and went home again.

A long night--oh, how long were those hours! Now, when I ought to sleep
and stretch myself and feel refreshed, I could not. Day dawned, and I got
up. After a long ramble through the streets I came back home again, and
slept.

Hours pass. When I awake and come to my senses, I hurry anxiously to the
telephone to ask if Fruen had left.

No, Fruen had not left.

Thank Heaven then, it seemed she did not wish to run away from me; she
must have had my letter long since. No; I had called at an awkward hour
the evening before, that was all.

I had something to eat, lay down, and slept again. When I woke it was past
noon. I stumble in to the telephone again and ring up as before.

No, Fruen had not left yet. But her things were packed. She was out just
now.

I got ready at once, and hurried round to Raadhusgaten to stand on watch.
In the course of half an hour I saw a number of people pass in and out,
not the one I sought. It was five o'clock now, and I went in and spoke to
the porter.

Fruen was gone.

Gone?

"Was it you that rang up? She came just at that moment and took her
things. But I've a letter here."

I took the letter, and, without opening it, asked about the train.

"Train left at 4.45," says the porter, looking at his watch. "It's five
now."

I had thrown away half an hour keeping watch outside.

I sit down on one of the steps, staring at the floor.

The porter keeps on talking. He must be well aware it was not my sister.

"I said to Fruen there was a gentleman had just rung up. But she only said
she hadn't time, and would I give him this letter."

"Was there another lady with her when she left?"

"No."

I got up and went out. In the street I opened the letter and read:

"You _must_ not follow me about any more--"

Impassively I put the thing away. It had not surprised me, had made no new
impression. Thoroughly womanly, hasty words, written on impulse, with
underlining and a dash....

Then it occurred to me to go round to Froken Elisabeth's address; there
was still a glimmer of hope. I heard the door bell ring inside the house
as I pressed, and stood listening as in a whirling desert.

Froken Elisabeth had left an hour before.

Then wine, and then whisky. And then endless whisky. And altogether a
twenty-one days' debauch, in the course of which a curtain falls and hides
my earthly consciousness. In this state, it enters my head one day to send
something to a little cottage in the country. It is a mirror, in a gay
gilt frame. And it was for a little maid, by name Olga, a creature
touching and sweet to watch as a young calf.

Ay, for I've not got over my neurasthenia yet.

The timber saw is in my room. But I cannot put it together, for the bulk
of the wooden parts I left behind at a vicarage in the country. It matters
little now, my love for the thing is dulled. My neurasthenic friends,
believe me, folk of our sort are useless as human beings, and we should
not even do for any kind of beast.

One day I suppose I shall grow tired of this unconsciousness, and go out
and live on an island once again.

A WANDERER PLAYS ON MUTED STRINGS

INTRODUCTION

It looks to be a fine year for berries, yes; whortleberries, crowberries,
and fintocks. A man can't live on berries; true enough. But it is good to
have them growing all about, and a kindly thing to see. And many a thirsty
and hungry man's been glad to find them.

I was thinking of this only yesterday evening.

There's two or three months yet till the late autumn berries are ripe;
yes, I know. But there are other joys than berries in the wilds. Spring
and summer they are still only in bloom, but there are harebells and
ladyslippers, deep, windless woods, and the scent of trees, and stillness.
There is a sound as of distant waters from the heavens; never so
long-drawn a sound in all eternity. And a thrush may be singing as high as
ever its voice can go, and then, just at its highest pitch, the note
breaks suddenly at a right angle; clear and clean as if cut with a
diamond; then softly and sweetly down the scale once more. Along the
shore, too, there is life; guillemot, oyster-catcher, tern are busy there;
the wagtail is out in search of food, advancing in little spurts, trim and
pert with its pointed beak and swift little flick of a tail; after a while
it flies up to perch on a fence and sing with the rest. But when the sun
has set, may come the cry of a loon from some hill-tarn; a melancholy
hurrah. That is the last; now there is only the grasshopper left. And
there's nothing to say of a grasshopper, you never see it; it doesn't
count, only he's there gritting his resiny teeth, as you might say.

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