Wanderers by Knut Hamsun

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I sit and think of all these things; of how summer has its joys for a
wanderer, so there's no sort of need to wait till autumn comes.

And here I am writing cool words of these quiet things--for all the world
as if there were no violent and perilous happenings ahead. 'Tis a trick,
and I learned it of a man in the southern hemisphere--of a Mexican called
Rough. The brim of his huge hat was hung with tinkling sequins: that in
itself was a thing to remember. And most of all, I remember how calmly he
told the story of his first murder: "I'd a sweetheart once named Maria,"
said Rough, with that patient look of his; "well, she was no more than
sixteen, and I was nineteen then. She'd such little hands when you touched
them; fingers thin and slight, you know the sort. One evening the master
called her in from the fields to do some sewing for him. No help for it
then; and it wasn't more than a day again before he calls her in same as
before. Well, it went on like that a few weeks, and then stopped. Seven
months after Maria died, and they buried her, little hands and all. I went
to her brother Inez and said: 'At six tomorrow morning the master rides to
town, and he'll be alone.' 'I know,' said he. 'You might lend me that
little rifle of yours to shoot him with.' 'I shall be using it myself,'
said he. Then we talked for a bit about other things: the crops, and a big
new well we'd dug. And when I left, I reached down his rifle from the wall
and took it with me. In the timber I heard Inez at my heels, calling to me
to stop. We sat down and talked a bit more this way and that; then Inez
snatched the rifle away from me and went home. Next morning I was up
early, and out at the gate ready to open it for the master; Inez was there
too, hiding in the bushes. I told him he'd better go on ahead; we didn't
want to be two to one. 'He's pistols in his belt.' said Inez; 'but what
about you?' 'I know,' said I; 'but I've a lump of lead here, and that
makes no noise.' I showed him the lump of lead, and he thought for a bit;
then he went home. Then the master came riding up; grey and old he was,
sixty at least. 'Open the gate!' he called out. But I didn't. He thought I
must be mad, no doubt, and lashed out at me with his whip, but I paid no
heed. At last he had to get down himself to open the gate. Then I gave him
the first blow: it got him just by one eye and cut a hole. He said,
'_Augh_!' and dropped. I said a few words to him, but he didn't
understand; after a few more blows he was dead. He'd a deal of money on
him; I took a little to help me on my way, then I mounted and rode off.
Inez was standing in the doorway as I rode past his place. 'It's only
three and a half days to the frontier,' he said."

So Rough told his story, and sat staring coolly in front of him when it
was ended.

I have no murders to tell of, but joys and sufferings and love. And love
is no less violent and perilous than murder.

Green in all the woods now, I thought to myself this morning as I dressed.
The snow is melting on the hills, and everywhere the cattle in their sheds
are eager and anxious to be out; in houses and cottages the windows are
opened wide. I open my shirt and let the wind blow in upon me, and I mark
how I grow starstruck and uncontrollable within; ah, for a moment it is
all as years ago, when I was young, and a wilder spirit than now. And I
think to myself: maybe there's a tract of woodland somewhere east or west
of this, where an old man can find himself as well bested as a young. I
will go and look for it.

Rain and sun and wind by turns; I have been many days on the road already.
Too cold yet to lie out in the open at night, but there is always shelter
to be had at farmsteads by the way. One man thinks it strange that I
should go tramping about like this for nothing; he takes me, no doubt, for
somebody in disguise, just trying to be original like Wergeland.
[Footnote: A Norwegian poet.]The man knows nothing of my plans, how I am
on my way to a place I know, where live some people I have a fancy to see
again. But he is a sensible fellow enough, and involuntarily I nod as if
to agree there is something in what he says. There's a theatrical touch in
most of us that makes us feel flattered at being taken for more than we
are. Then up come his wife and daughter, good, ordinary souls, and carry
all away with their kindly gossip; he's no beggar, they say; be paid for
his supper and all. And at last I turn crafty and cowardly and say never a
word, and let the man lay more to my charge and still never a word. And we
three hearty souls outwin his reasoning sense, and he has to explain he
was only jesting all the time; surely we could see that. I stayed a night
and a day there, and greased my shoes with extra care, and mended my
clothes.

But then the man begins to suspect once more. "There'll be a handsome
present for that girl of mine when you leave, I know," says he. I made as
if his words had no effect, and answered with a laugh: "You think so?"
"Yes," says he; "and then when you're gone we'll sit thinking you must
have been somebody grand, after all."

A detestable fellow this! I did the only thing I could: ignored his
sarcasm and asked for work. I liked the place, I said, and he'd need of
help; I could turn my hand to anything now in the busy time.

"You're a fool," said he, "and the sooner you're off the place the better
I'll be pleased."

Clearly he had taken a dislike to me, and there was none of the womenfolk
at hand to take my part. I looked at the man, at a loss to understand what
was in his mind.

His glance was steady; it struck me suddenly that I had never seen such
wisdom in the eyes of man or woman. But he carried his ill-will too far,
and made a false step. He asked: "What shall we say your name was?" "No
need to say anything at all," I answered. "A wandering Eilert Sundt?" he
suggested. And I entered into the jest and answered: "Yes, why not?" But
at that he fired up and snapped out sharply: "Then I'm sorry for Fru
Sundt, that's all." I shrugged my shoulders in return, and said: "You're
wrong there, my good man; I am not married." And I turned to go. But with
an unnatural readiness he called after me: "'Tis you that's wrong: I meant
for the mother that bore you."

A little way down the road I turned, and saw how his wife and daughter
took him up. And I thought to myself: no, 'tis not all roses when one goes
a-wandering.

At the next place I came to I learned that he had been with the army, as
quartermaster-sergeant; then he went mad over a lawsuit he lost, and was
shut up in an asylum for some time. Now in the spring his trouble broke
out again; perhaps it was my coming that had given the final touch. But
the lightning insight in his eyes at the moment when the madness came upon
him! I think of him now and again; he was a lesson to me. 'Tis none so
easy to judge of men, who are wise or mad. And God preserve us all from
being known for what we are!

* * * * *

That day I passed by a house where a lad sat on the doorstep playing a
mouth-organ. He was no musician to speak of, but a cheerful soul he must
surely be, to sit there playing to himself like that. I would not disturb
him, but simply raised one hand to my cap, and stood a little distance
off. He took no notice of me, only wiped his mouth-organ and went on
playing. This went on for some time; then at last, waiting till he stopped
to wipe his instrument again, I coughed.

"That you, Ingeborg?" he called out. I thought he must be speaking to
someone in the house behind him, and made no answer. "You there, I mean,"
he said again.

I was confused at this. "Can't you see me?" I said.

He did not answer, but fumbled with his hands to either side, as if trying
to get up, and I realized that he was blind, "Sit still; don't be afraid
of me," I said, and set myself down beside him.

We fell into talk: been blind since he was fourteen, it seemed; he would
be eighteen now, and a big, strong fellow he was, with a thick growth of
down on his chin. And, thank Heaven, he said, his health was good. But his
eyesight, I asked; could he remember what the world looked like? Yes,
indeed; there were many pleasant things he could remember from the time
when he could see. He was happy and content enough. He was going in to
Christiania this spring, to have an operation; then perhaps he might at
least be able to see well enough to walk; ay, all would be well in time,
no doubt. He was dull-witted, looked as if he ate a lot; was stout and
strong as a beast. But there was something unhealthy-looking, something of
the idiot about him; his acceptance of his fate was too unreasonable. To
be hopeful in that way implies a certain foolishness, I thought to myself;
a man must be lacking in sense to some degree if he can go ahead feeling
always content with life, and even reckoning to get something new, some
good out of it into the bargain.

But I was in the mood to learn something from all I chanced on in my
wandering; even this poor creature on his doorstep made me the wiser by
one little thing. How was it he could mistake me for a woman; the woman
Ingeborg he had called by name? I must have walked up too quietly. I had
forgotten the plodding cart-horse gait; my shoes were too light. I had
lived too luxuriously these years past; I must work my way back to the
peasant again.

* * * * *

Three more days now to the goal my curious fancy had set before me: to
Ovrebo, to Captain Falkenberg's. It was an opportune time to walk up there
just now and ask for work; there would be plenty to do on a big place like
that in the spring. Six years since I was there last; time had passed, and
for the last few weeks I had been letting my beard grow, so that none
should recognize me now.

It was in the middle of the week; I must arrange to get there on the
Saturday evening. Then the Captain would let me stay over the Sunday while
he thought about taking me on. On Monday he would come and say yes or no.

Strangely enough, I felt no excitement at the thought of what was to come;
nothing of unrest, no; calmly and comfortably I took my way by farmstead,
wood, and meadow. I thought to myself how I had once, years ago, spent
some adventurous weeks at that same Ovrebo, even to being in love with
Fruen herself, with Fru Lovise. Ay, that I was. She had fair hair and
grey, dark eyes; like a young girl she was. Six years gone, ay, so long it
is ago; would she be greatly changed? Time has had its wear on me; I am
grown dull and faded and indifferent; I look upon a woman now as
literature, no more. It has come to the end. Well, and what then?
Everything comes to an end. When first I entered on this stage I had a
feeling as if I had lost something; as if I had been favoured by the
caresses of a pickpocket. Then I set to and felt myself about, to see if I
could bear myself after this; if I could endure myself as I was now. Oh
well, yes, why not? Not the same as before, of course, but it all passed
off so noiselessly, but peacefully, but surely. Everything comes to an
end.

In old age one takes no real part in life, but keeps oneself on memories.
We are like letters that have been delivered; we are no longer on the way,
we have arrived. It is only a question whether we have whirled up joys and
sorrows out of what was in us, or have made no impression at all. Thanks
be for life; it was good to live!

But Woman, she was, as the wise aforetime knew, infinitely poor in mind,
but rich in irresponsibility, in vanity, in wantonness. Like a child in
many ways, but with nothing of its innocence.

* * * * *

I stand by the guide-post where the road turns off to Ovrebo. There is no
emotion in me. The day lies broad and bright over meadow and woods; here
and there is ploughing and harrowing in the fields, but all moves slowly,
hardly seems to move at all, for it is full noon and a blazing sun. I walk
a little way on beyond the post, dragging out the time before going up to
the house. After an hour, I go into the woods and wander about there for a
while; there are berries in flower and a scent of little green leaves. A
crowd of thrushes go chasing a crow across the sky, making a great to-do,
like a clattering confusion of faulty castanets. I lie down on my back,
with my sack under my head, and drop off to sleep.

A little after I wake again, and walk over to the nearest ploughman. I
want to find out something about the Falkenbergs, if they are still there
and all well. The man answers cautiously; he stands blinking, with his
little, crafty eyes, and says: "All depends if Captain's at home."

"Is he often away, then?"

"Nay, he'll be at home."

"Has he got the field work done?"

The man smiled: "Nay, I doubt it's not finished yet."

"Are there hands enough to the place?"

"That's more than I can say; yes, I doubt there's hands enough. And the
field work's done; leastways, the manure's all carted out."

The man clicks to his horses and goes on ploughing; I walked on beside
him. There was not much to be got out of him; next time the horses stopped
for a breathing space I worried out of him a few more contradictions as to
the family at Ovrebo. The Captain, it seemed was away on manoeuvres all
through the summer, and Fruen was at home alone. Yes, they had always a
heap of visitors, of course; but the Captain was away. That is to say, not
because he wanted to; he liked best to stay at home, by all accounts, but,
of course, he'd his duty as well. No, they'd no children as yet; didn't
look as if Fruen was like to have any. What was I talking about? They
might have children yet, of course; any amount of them for that. On again.

We plough on to the next stop. I am anxious not to arrive at an awkward
time, and ask the man, therefore, if he thinks there would be visitors or
anything of that sort up at the house today. No, he thought not. They'd
parties and visitors now and again, but.... Ay, and music and playing and
fine goings-on as often as could be, but.... And well they might, for that
matter, seeing they were fine folks, and rich and well-to-do as they were.

He was a torment, was that ploughman. I tried to find out something about
another Falkenberg, who could tune pianos at a pinch. On this the
ploughman's information was more definite. Lars? Ay, he was here. Know
him? Why, of course he knew Lars well enough. He'd finished with service
at Ovrebo, but the Captain had given him a clearing of land to live on; he
married Emma, that was maid at the house, and they'd a couple of children.
Decent, hardworking folk, with feed for two cows already out of their
clearing.

Here the furrow ended, and the man turned his team about. I thanked him,
and went on my way.

When I came to the house, I recognized all the buildings; they wanted
painting. The flagstaff I had helped to raise six years before, it stood
there still; but there was no cord to it, and the knob at the top was
gone.

Well, here I was, and that was four o'clock in the afternoon of the 26th
day of April.

Old folk have a memory for dates.

I

It turned out otherwise than I had thought. Captain Falkenberg came out,
heard what I had to say, and answered no on the spot. He had all the hands
he wanted, and the field work was all but done.

Good! Might I go over to the men's room and sit down and rest a while?

Certainly.

No invitation to stay over Sunday. The Captain turned on his heel and went
indoors again. He looked as if he had only just got out of bed, for he was
wearing a night-shirt tucked into his trousers, and had no waistcoat on;
only a jacket flung on loosely and left unbuttoned. He was going grey
about the ears, and his beard as well.

I sat down in the men's quarters and waited till the farmhands came in for
their afternoon meal. There were only two of them--the foreman and
another. I got into talk with them, and it appeared the Captain had made a
mistake in saying the field work was all but done. Well, 'twas his own
affair. I made no secret of the fact that I was looking for a place, and,
as for being used to the work, I showed them the fine recommendation I had
got from the Lensmand at Hersat years ago. When the men went out again, I
took my sack and walked out with them, ready to go on my way. I peeped in
at the stables and saw a surprising number of horses, looked at the
cowshed, at the fowls, and the pigs. I noticed that there was dung in the
pit from the year before that had not been carted out yet.

I asked how that could be.

"Well, what are we to do?" answered the foreman. "I looked to it from the
end of the winter up till now, and nobody but myself on the place. Now
there's two of us at least, in a sort of way, but now there's all the
ploughing and harrowing to be done."

'Twas his affair.

I bade him farewell, and went on my way. I was going to my good friend,
Lars Falkenberg, but I did not tell them so. There are some new little
buildings far up in the wood I can see, and that I take to be the
clearing.

But the man I had just left must have been inwardly stirred by the thought
of getting an extra hand to help with the work. I saw him tramp across the
courtyard and up to the house as I went off.

I had gone but a couple of hundred yards when he comes hurrying after me
to say I am taken on after all. He had spoken to the Captain, and got
leave to take me on himself. "There'll be nothing to do now till Monday,
but come in and have something to eat."

He is a good fellow, this; goes with me up to the kitchen and tells them
there: "Here's a new man come to work on the place; see he gets something
to eat."

A strange cook and strange maids. I get my food and go out again. No sign
of master or mistress anywhere.

But I cannot sit idle in the men's room all the evening; I walk up to the
field and talk to my two fellow-workers. Nils, the foreman, is from a farm
a little north of here, but, not being the eldest son, and having no farm
of his own to run, he has been sensible enough to take service here at
Ovrebo for the time being. And, indeed, he might have done worse. The
Captain himself was not paying more and more attention to his land,
rather, perhaps, less and less, and he was away so much that the man had
to use his own judgment many a time. This last autumn, for instance, he
has turned up a big stretch of waste land that he is going to sow. He
points out over the ground, showing where he's ploughed and what's to lie
over: "See that bit there how well it's coming on."

It is good to hear how well this young man knows his work; I find a
pleasure in his sensible talk. He has been to one of the State schools,
too, and learned how to keep accounts of stock, entering loads of hay in
one column and the birth dates of the calves in another. His affair. In
the old days a peasant kept such matters in his head, and the womenfolk
knew to a day when each of their twenty or fifty cow was due to calve.

But he is a smart young fellow, nevertheless, and not afraid of work, only
a little soured and spoiled of late by having more on his hands than a man
could do. It was plain to see how he brightened up now he had got a man to
help with the work. And he settles there and then that I am to start on
Monday with the harrow horse, carting out manure, the lad to take one of
the Captain's carriage horses for the harrow; he himself would stick to
the ploughing. Ay, we would get our sowing done this year.

* * * * *

Sunday.

I must be careful not to show any former knowledge of things about the
place here; as, for instance, how far the Captain's timber runs, or where
the various out-houses and buildings are, or the well, or the roads. I
took some time getting things ready for tomorrow--greased the wheels of
the cart, and did up the harness, and gave the horse an extra turn. In the
afternoon I went for a four or five hours' ramble through the woods,
passed by Lars Falkenberg's place without going in, and came right out to
where the Captain's land joined that of the neighbouring village before I
turned back. I was surprised to see the mass of timber that had been cut.

When I got back, Nils asked: "Did you hear them singing and carrying on
last night?"

"Yes; what was it?"

"Visitors," said he, with a laugh.

Visitors! yes, there were always visitors at Ovrebo just now.

There was an extremely fat but sprightly man among them; he wore his
moustache turned up at the ends, and was a captain in the same arm of the
service as the master. I saw him and the other guests come lounging out of
the house in the course of the evening. There was a man they called
Ingenior, [Footnote: Engineer. Men are frequently addressed and referred
to by the title of their occupation, with or without adding the name.] he
was young, a little over twenty, fairly tall, brown-skinned and clean
shaven. And there was Elisabet from the vicarage. I remember Elisabet very
well, and recognized her now at once, for all she was six years older and
more mature. Little Elisabet of the old days was no longer a girl--her
breast stood out so, and gave an impression of exaggerated health. I
learned she is married; she took Erik after all, a farmer's son she had
been fond of as a child. She was still friendly with Fru Falkenberg, and
often came to stay. But her husband never came with her.

Elisabet is standing by the flagstaff, and Captain Falkenberg comes out.
They talk a little, and are occupied with their own affairs. The Captain
glances round every time he speaks; possibly he is not talking of trifles,
but of something he must needs be careful with.

Then comes the other Captain, the fat and jovial one; we can hear his
laugh right over in the servants' quarters. He calls out to Captain
Falkenberg to come along, but gets back only a curt answer. A few stone
steps lead down to the lilac shrubbery; the Captain goes down there now, a
maid following after with wine and glasses. Last of all comes the
engineer.

Nils bursts out laughing: "Oh, that Captain! look at him!"

"What's his name?"

"They all call him Bror; [Footnote: Brother. Not so much a nickname as a
general term of jovial familiarity.] it was the same last year as well. I
don't know his proper name."

"And the Engineer?"

"His name's Lassen, so I've heard. He's only been here once before in my
time."

Then came Fru Falkenberg out on the steps; she stopped for a moment and
glanced over at the two by the flagstaff. Her figure is slight and pretty
as ever; but her face seems looser, as if she had been stouter once and
since grown thin. She goes down to the shrubbery after the others, and I
recognize her walk again--light and firm as of old. But little wonder if
time has taken something of her looks in all those years.

More people come out from the house--an elderly lady wearing a shawl, and
two gentlemen with her.

Nils tells me it is not always there are so many guests in the house at
once; but it was the Captain's birthday two days ago, and two carriage
loads of people had come dashing up; the four strange horses were in the
stables now.

Now voices are calling again for the couple by the flagstaff; the Captain
throws out an impatient "Yes!" but does not move. Now he brushes a speck
of dust from Elisabet's shoulder; now, looking round carefully, he lays
one hand on her arm and tells her something earnestly.

Says Nils:

"They've always such a lot to talk about, those two. She never comes here
but they go off for long walks together."

"And what does Fru Falkenberg say to that?"

"I've never heard she troubled about it any way."

"And Elisabet, hasn't she any children either?"

"Ay, she's many."

"But how can she get away so often with that big place and the children to
look after?"

"It's all right as long as Erik's mother's alive. She can get away all she
wants."

He went out as he spoke, leaving me alone. In this room I had sat once
working out the construction of an improved timber saw. How earnest I was
about it all! Petter, the farm-hand, lay sick in the room next door, and I
would hurry out eagerly whenever I'd any hammering to do, and get it done
outside. Now that patent saw's just literature to me, no more. So the
years deal with us all.

Nils comes in again.

"If the visitors aren't gone tomorrow, I'll take a couple of their horses
for the ploughing," says he, thinking only of his own affairs.

I glanced out of the window; the couple by the flagstaff have moved away
at last.

* * * * *

In the evening things grew more and more lively down in the shrubbery. The
maids went backwards and forwards with trays of food and drink; the party
were having supper among the lilacs. "Bror! Bror!" cried one and another,
but Bror himself was loudest of all. A chair had broken under his enormous
weight, and a message comes out to the servants' quarters to find a good,
solid, wooden chair that would bear him. Oh, but they were merry down in
the shrubbery! Captain Falkenberg walked up now and again in front of the
house to show he was still steady on his legs, and was keeping a watchful
eye on things in general. "You mark my words," said Nils, "he'll not be
the first to give over. I drove for him last year, and he was drinking all
the way, but never a sign was there to see."

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