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Shallow Soil

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SHALLOW SOIL

BY

KNUT HAMSUN




AUTHORISED TRANSLATION FROM THE NORWEGIAN BY

CARL CHRISTIAN HYLLESTED




TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE


In the autumn of 1888 a Danish magazine published a few chapters of an
autobiographical novel which instantly created the greatest stir in
literary circles throughout Europe. At that time Ibsen, Björnson, Brandes,
Strindberg, and other Scandinavian writers were at the height of their
cosmopolitan fame, and it was only natural that the reading world should
keep in close touch with the literary production of the North. But even
the professional star-gazers, who maintained a vigilant watch on northern
skies, had never come across the name of Knut Hamsun. He was unknown;
whatever slight attention his earlier struggles for recognition may have
attracted was long ago forgotten. And now he blazed forth overnight, with
meteoric suddenness, with a strange, fantastic, intense brilliance which
could only emanate from a star of the first magnitude.

Sudden as was Hamsun's recognition, however, it has proved lasting. The
story of his rise from obscurity to fame is one of absorbing interest.
Behind that hour of triumph lay a long and bitter struggle, weary years of
striving, of constant and courageous battle with a destiny that strewed
his path with disappointments and defeats, overwhelming him with
adversities that would have swamped a genius of less energy and real
power.

Knut Hamsun began life in one of the deep Norwegian valleys familiar to
English readers through Björnson's earlier stories. He was born in August,
1860. When he was four years old his poverty-stricken parents sent him to
an uncle, a stern, unlovely man who made his home on one of the Lofoten
Islands--that "Drama in Granite" which Norway's rugged coast-line flings
far into the Arctic night. Here he grew up, a taciturn, peculiar lad,
inured to hardship and danger, in close communion with nature; dreaming
through the endless northern twilight, revelling through the brief intense
summer, surrounded by influences and by an atmosphere which later were to
give to his production its strange, mystical colouring, its
pendulum-swings from extreme to extreme.

At seventeen he was apprenticed to a cobbler, and while working at his
trade he wrote and, at the cost of no one knows what sacrifices, saved
enough money to have his first literary efforts printed and published.
They consisted of a long, fantastic poem and a novel, "Björger"--the
latter a grotesque conglomeration of intense self-analytical studies.
These attracted far less attention than they really deserved. However, the
cobbler's bench saw no more of Knut Hamsun.

During the next twelve years he led the life of a rover, but a rover with
a fixed purpose from which he never swerved. First he turned his face
toward Christiania, the capital and the intellectual centre of the
country; and in order to get there he worked at anything that offered
itself. He was a longshoreman on Bodö's docks, a road-labourer, a
lumberjack in the mountains; a private tutor and court messenger. Finally
he reached the metropolis and enrolled as a student at the university. But
the gaunt, raw-boned youth, unpractical and improvident, overbearing of
manner, passionately independent in thought and conduct, failed utterly in
his attempts to realise whatever ambitions he had cherished. So it was
hardly strange that this the first chapter of his Odyssey should end in
the steerage of an American-bound emigrant steamer.

In America, where he landed penniless, he turned his strong and capable
hands to whatever labour he could find. He had intended to become a
Unitarian minister. Instead of doing so he had to work as a farm-hand on
the prairie, street-car conductor in Chicago, dairyman in Dakota; and he
varied these pursuits by giving a series of lectures on French literature
in Minneapolis. By that time he probably imagined that he was equipped for
a more successful attack on the literary strongholds of his own country,
and returned to Christiania. Disappointments and privations followed more
bitter than any he had ever known. He starved and studied and dreamed;
vainly he made the most desperate attempts to gain recognition. In despair
he once more abandoned the battle-field and fled to America again, with
the avowed purpose of gaining a reputation on the lecture platform.

Once more he failed; his countrymen resident in the Northwest would have
none of him. Beaten back in every attempt, discouraged, perhaps feeling
the need of solitude and the opportunities for introspective thought which
he could not find in the larger cities, he exiled himself to that most
desolate of existences, a life on a Newfoundland fishing-smack. Three long
years he spent as one of a rude crew with whom he could have nothing in
common save the daily death-struggle with the elements. But these years
finished the preparatory stage of Hamsun's education. During the solitary
watches he matured as an artist and as a man. In his very first effort
upon his return to civilisation he proved that the days of aimless
fumblings were over: in "Hunger" he stands suddenly revealed as a master
of style and description, a bold and independent thinker, a penetrating,
keen psychologist, a realist of marked virility.

Since "Hunger" was written Hamsun has published over thirty large works--
novels, dramas, travel descriptions, essays, and poems. Every one of them
is of a high order. Each is unlike the rest; but through them all flash in
vivid gleams a dazzling witchery of style, a bewildering originality, a
passionate nature-worship, and an imagination which at times takes away
the breath.

"Shallow Soil," in some respects the most contained of Hamsun's works, is
perhaps best suited as a medium for his introduction to Anglo-Saxon
readers. In a very complete analysis of Hamsun's authorship the German
literary critic, Professor Carl Morburger, thus refers to "Shallow Soil":

"Not only is this book Knut Hamsun's most significant work, but it gives
the very best description available of life in Christiania toward the
close of the century. A book of exquisite lyric beauty, of masterly
psychology, and finished artistic form, it is so rich in idea and life
that one must refrain from touching on the contents in order to keep
within the narrow limits of this essay. A most superbly delicate
delineation of the feminine soul is here given in the drawing of Hanka and
Aagot; nowhere else is woman's love in its dawn and growth described with
such mastery, with a deftness and sureness of touch which reminds one of
the very greatest passages in that Danish classic, 'Niels Lyhne.'"

Hamsun is now in his fifty-fourth year. The expectations aroused by his
first book have been more than fulfilled; the star that was born overnight
still shines with undimmed brilliance--nay, with a purer, warmer, steadier
flame. The volcanic violence of earlier days has been mellowed and
subdued; the "red eruptions of flame-tongued, primeval power" have all but
ceased. In one of his latest works Hamsun himself notes this change in
saying: "When a wanderer reaches fifty years he plays with muted strings."
But with or without the sordine Hamsun's production is equally seductive,
equally entrancing and compelling. All over the continent of Europe he is
known and his writings treasured; in Russia his popularity exceeds that of
many of its own inimitable writers. It is to be expected that the
English-speaking world will accord him that appreciation which is the
natural tribute to genius, irrespective of language or clime.

CARL CHR. HYLLESTED.

NEW YORK, December, 1913.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

GERMINATION

RIPENING

SIXTYFOLD

FINALE




PROLOGUE




I


A faint, golden, metallic rim appears in the east where the sun is rising.
The city is beginning to stir; already can be heard an occasional distant
rumble of trucks rolling into the streets from the country, large
farm-wagons heavily loaded with supplies for the markets--with hay and
meat and cordwood. And these wagons make more noise than usual because the
pavements are still brittle from nightly frosts. It is the latter part of
March.

Everything is quiet around the harbour. Here and there a sleepy sailor
tumbles out of a forecastle; smoke is curling from the galleys. A skipper
puts his head out of a companionway and sniffs toward the weather; the sea
stretches in undisturbed calm; all the winches are at rest.

The first wharf gate is thrown open. Through it one catches a glimpse of
sacks and cases piled high, of cans and barrels; men with ropes and
wheelbarrows are moving around, still half asleep, yawning openly with
angular, bearded jaws. And barges are warped in alongside the docks;
another army begins the hoisting and stowing of goods, the loading of
wagons, and the moving of freight.

In the streets one door after another is opened; blinds are raised,
office-boys are sweeping floors and dusting counters. In the H. Henriksen
office the son is sitting at a desk, all alone; he is sorting mail. A
young gentleman is strolling, tired and sleepy, toward the railway square;
he comes from a late party given in some comrade's den and is taking the
morning air. At Fire Headquarters he runs across an acquaintance who has
also been celebrating.

"Abroad so early, Ojen?" asks the first stroller.

"Yes--that is to say, I haven't been in bed yet!"

"Neither have I," laughs the first. "Good night!"

And he wanders on, smiling in amusement over that good night on a bright
and sunny morning. He is a young and promising man; his name had suddenly
become famous two years ago when he published a lyric drama. His name is
Irgens; everybody knows him. He wears patent-leather shoes and is
good-looking, with his curled moustache and his sleek, dark hair.

He drifts from one market square to another; it amuses him, sleepy as he
is, to watch the farmers who are invading the public squares with their
trucks. The spring sun has browned their faces; they wear heavy mufflers
around their necks, and their hands are sinewy and dirty. They are in such
a hurry to sell their wares that they even hail him, a youth of
twenty-four without a family, a lyric writer who is simply loitering at
random in order to divert himself.

The sun climbs higher. Now people begin to swarm in all directions; shrill
whistles are heard, now from the factories in the city suburbs, now from
the railway stations and docks; the traffic increases. Busy workers dart
hither and thither--some munching their breakfast from newspaper parcels.
A man pushes an enormous load of bundles on a push-cart, he is delivering
groceries; he strains like a horse and reads addresses from a note-book as
he hurries along. A child is distributing morning papers; she is a little
girl who has Saint Vitus's dance; she jerks her angular body in all
directions, twitches her shoulders, blinks, hustles from door to door,
climbs the stairs in the high-storied houses, presses bells, and hurries
on, leaving papers on every doorstep. A dog follows her and makes every
trip with her.

Traffic and noise increase and spread; beginning at the factories, the
wharves, the shipyards, and the sawmills, they mingle with wagon rumblings
and human voices; the air is rent by steam-whistles whose agonising wails
rise skyward, meeting and blending above the large squares in a booming
diapason, a deep-throated, throbbing roar that enwraps the entire city.
Telegraph messengers dart hither and yon, scattering orders and quotations
from distant markets. The powerful, vitalising chant of commerce booms
through the air; the wheat in India, the coffee in Java promise well; the
Spanish markets are crying for fish--enormous quantities of fish during
Lent.

It is eight o'clock; Irgens starts for home. He passes H. Henriksen's
establishment and decides to drop in a moment. The son of the house, a
young man in a business suit of cheviot, is still busy at his desk. His
eyes are large and blue, although his complexion is rather dark otherwise;
a stray wisp of hair sags untidily over his forehead. The tall, somewhat
gaunt and taciturn fellow looks about thirty years old. His comrades value
him highly because he helps them a good deal with money and articles of
commerce from the firm's cellars.

"Good morning!" calls Irgens.

The other looks up in surprise.

"What--you? Are you abroad so early?"

"Yes. That is to say, I haven't been to bed yet."

"Oh--that's different. I have been at my desk since five; I have cabled to
three countries already."

"Good Lord--you know I am not the least interested in your trading! There
is only one thing I want to discuss with you, Ole Henriksen; have you got
a drink of brandy?"

The two men leave the office and pass through the store down into the
cellar. Ole Henriksen pulls a cork hurriedly; his father is expected any
moment, and for this reason he is in haste. The father is old, but that is
no reason why he should be ignored.

Irgens drinks and says: "Can I take the bottle along?" And Ole Henriksen
nods.

On their way back through the store he pulls out a drawer from the
counter, and Irgens, who understands the hint, takes something from the
drawer which he puts in his mouth. It is coffee, roasted coffee; good for
the breath.




II


At two o'clock people swarm up and down the promenade. They chat and laugh
in all manner of voices, greet each other, smile, nod, turn around, shout.
Cigar smoke and ladies' veils flutter in the air; a kaleidoscopic
confusion of light gloves and handkerchiefs, of bobbing hats and swinging
canes, glides down the street along which carriages drive with ladies and
gentlemen in stylish attire.

Several young gentlemen have taken their accustomed stand at "The Corner."
They form a circle of acquaintances--a couple of artists, a couple of
authors, a business man, an undefinable--comrades all. They are dressed
variously: some have already dispensed with their overcoats, others wear
long ulsters with turned-up collars as in midwinter. Everybody knows "the
clique."

Some join it while others depart; there remain a young, corpulent artist
by the name of Milde, and an actor with a snub nose and a creamy voice;
also Irgens, and Attorney Grande of the prominent Grande family. The most
important, however, is Paulsberg, Lars Paulsberg, the author of half a
dozen novels and a scientific work on the Atonement. He is loudly referred
to as the Poet, even though both Irgens and Ojen are present.

The Actor buttons his ulster tightly and shivers.

"No--spring-time is a little too chilly to suit me," he says.

"The contrary here!" exclaims the Attorney. "I could shout all the time; I
am neighing inwardly; my blood sings a hunting chorus!" And the little
stooping youth straightens his shoulders and glances secretly at
Paulsberg.


"Listen to that!" says the Actor sarcastically. "A man is a man, as the
eunuch said."

"What does that remark signify?"

"Nothing, God bless you! But you in your patent leathers and your silk hat
hunting wolves--the idea appealed to my sense of humour."

"Ha, ha! I note the fact that Norem has a sense of humour! Let us duly
appreciate it."

They spoke with practised ease about everything, had perfect control over
their words, made quick sallies, and were skilled in repartee.

A number of cadets were passing.

"Did you ever see anything as flabby as these military youths!" said
Irgens. "Look at them; they do not walk past like other mortals, they
_stalk_ past!"

Both Irgens and the Artist laughed at this, but the Attorney glanced
quickly at Paulsberg, whose face remained immovable. Paulsberg made a few
remarks about the Art Exhibition and was silent.

The conversation drifted to yesterday's performance in Tivoli, and from
there to political subjects. Of course, they could refuse to pass all
financial bills, but--And perhaps there was not even a sufficient
majority to defeat the government budget. It certainly looked dubious--
rotten--They cited quotations from leading parliamentarians, they proposed
to put the torch to the Castle and proclaim the republic without delay.
The Artist threatened a general revolt of the labouring classes. "Do you
know what the Speaker told me in confidence? That he never, _never_
would agree to a compromise--rather let the Union sink or swim! 'Sink or
swim,' these were his very words. And when one knows the Speaker--"

Still Paulsberg did not say anything, and as the comrades were eager to
hear his opinion, the Attorney finally ventured to address him:

"And you, Paulsberg, you don't say a word?"

Paulsberg very seldom spoke; he had kept to himself and to his studies and
his literary tasks, and lacked the verbal facility of his comrades. He
smiled good-naturedly and answered:

"'Let your communication be Yea, yea, and Nay, nay,' you know!" At this
they all laughed loudly. "But otherwise," he added, "apart from that I am
seriously considering going home to my wife."

And Paulsberg went. It was his wont to go when he said he would.

But after Paulsberg's departure it seemed as if they might as well all go;
there was no reason to remain now. The Actor saluted and disappeared; he
hurried off in order to catch up with Paulsberg. The Painter threw his
ulster around himself without buttoning it, drew up his shoulders, and
said:

"I feel rotten! If a fellow could only afford a little dinner!"

"You must try and strike a huckster," said Irgens. "I struck one for a
brandy this morning."

"I am wondering what Paulsberg really meant by that remark," said the
Attorney. "'Your communication shall be Yea, yea, and Nay, nay'; it is
evident it had a deeper meaning."

"Yes, very evident," said Milde. "Did you notice, he laughed when he said
it; something must have amused him."

Pause.

A crowd of promenaders were sauntering continually up and down the street,
back and forth, laughing and talking.

Milde continued:

"I have often wished that we had just one more head like Paulsberg's here
in Norway."

"And why, pray?" asked Irgens stiffly.

Milde stared at him, stared at the Attorney, and burst into a surprised
laugh.

"Listen to that, Grande! He asks why we need another head like Paulsberg's
in this country!"

"I do," said Irgens.

But Grande did not laugh either, and Milde was unable to understand why
his words failed to provoke mirth. He decided to pass it off; he began to
speak about other things.

"You said you struck a huckster for brandy; you have got brandy, then?"

"As for me, I place Paulsberg so high that I consider him _alone_
able to do what is needed," said Irgens with thinly veiled sarcasm.

This took Milde by surprise; he was not prepared to contradict Irgens; he
nodded and said:

"Certainly--exactly. I only thought it might accelerate matters to have a
little assistance, so to speak--a brother in arms. But of course I agree
with you."

Outside the Grand Hotel they were fortunate enough to run across Tidemand,
a huckster also, a wholesaler, a big business man, head of a large and
well-known business house.

"Have you dined?" called the Artist to him.

"Lots of times!" countered Tidemand.

"Now, no nonsense! Are you going to take me to dinner?"

"May I be permitted to shake hands first?"

It was finally arranged that they should take a run up to Irgens's rooms
to sample the brandy, after which they were to return to the Grand for
dinner. Tidemand and the Attorney walked ahead.

"It is a good thing that we have these peddlers to fall back on," said
Milde to Irgens. "They are useful after all."

Irgens replied with a shrug of the shoulders which might mean anything.

"And they never consider that they are being imposed upon," continued
Milde. "On the contrary, they think they are highly favoured; it flatters
them. Treat them familiarly, drink their health, that is sufficient. Ha,
ha, ha! Isn't it true?"

The Attorney had stopped; he was waiting.

"While we remember it, we have got to make definite arrangements about
that farewell celebration for Ojen," he said.

Of course, they had almost forgotten about that. Certainly, Ojen was going
away; something had to be done.

The situation was this: Ojen had written two novels which had been
translated into German; now his nerves were bothering him; he could not be
allowed to kill himself with work--something had to be done to procure him
a highly needed rest. He had applied for a government subsidy and had
every expectation of receiving it; Paulsberg himself had recommended him,
even if a little tepidly. The comrades had therefore united in an effort
to get him to Torahus, to a little mountain resort where the air was
splendid for neurasthenics. Ojen was to go in about a week; the money had
been raised; both Ole Henriksen and Tidemand had been exceedingly
generous. It now only remained to arrange a little celebration to speed
the parting comrade.

"But where shall we find a battle-ground?" asked Milde. "At your house,
Grande? You have plenty of room?"

Grande was not unwilling; it might be arranged; he would speak to his wife
about it. For Grande was married to Mrs. Liberia, and Mrs. Liberia simply
had to be consulted. It was agreed to invite Paulsberg and his wife; as
contributors Mr. and Mrs. Tidemand and Ole Henriksen were coming as a
matter of course. That was settled.

"Ask whom you like, but I refuse to open my doors to that fellow Norem,"
said the Attorney. "He always gets drunk and sentimental; he is an awful
bore. My wife wouldn't stand for him."

Then the affair could not be held at Grande's house. It would never do to
slight Norem. In the perplexity Milde offered his studio.

The friends considered. It was not a bad idea; a better place would be
hard to find. The studio was big and roomy as a barn, with two cosy
adjoining rooms. Milde's studio, then--settled.

The affair was coming off in a few days.

The four gentlemen stopped at Irgens's place, drank his brandy, and went
out again. The Attorney was going home; this decision about the studio did
not suit him; he felt slighted. He might decide to stay away altogether.
At any rate, he said good-bye now and went his own way.

"What about you, Irgens--I hope you will join us?"

Irgens did not say no; he did not at all refuse this invitation. To tell
the truth, he was not unduly eager to return to the Grand; this fat artist
vexed him considerably with his familiar manners. However, he might be
able to get away immediately after the dinner was over.

In this desire Tidemand himself unconsciously assisted him; he left as
soon as he had paid the check. He was going somewhere.




III


Tidemand made his way to H. Henriksen's large warehouse on the wharf where
he knew that Ole could be found at this time.

Tidemand had passed thirty and was already getting a little grey around
the temples. He, too, was dark of hair and beard, but his eyes were brown
and had a listless expression. When he was sitting still and silent,
blinking slowly, these heavy lids of his would rise and sink almost as if
they were exhausted by much watching. He was beginning to get a little bit
stout. He was considered an exceedingly able business man.

He was married and had two children; he had been married four years. His
marriage had begun auspiciously and was still in force, although people
were at a loss to understand how it could possibly last. Tidemand himself
did not conceal his astonishment over the fact that his wife had managed
to tolerate him so long. He had been a bachelor too long, had travelled
too much, lived too much in hotels; he admitted it himself. He liked to
ring whenever he wanted anything; he preferred his meals served at all
hours, whenever he took a notion, no matter if it happened to be meal-time
or not. And Tidemand went into details: he could not bear to have his wife
serve him his soup, for instance--was it possible for a woman, even with
the best intention in the world, to divine how much soup he might want?

And, on the other side, there was Mrs. Hanka, an artistic nature, two and
twenty, fond of life and audacious as a boy. Mrs. Hanka was greatly gifted
and warmly interested in many things; she was a welcome guest wherever the
youthful assembled, whether in homes or bachelor dens; nobody could resist
her. No, she did not greatly care for home life or house drudgery. She
could not help that; unfortunately she had not inherited these tastes. And
this unbearable blessing, of a child every year two years running, drove
her almost to distraction. Good Lord! she was only a child herself, full
of life and frivolity; her youth was ahead of her. But pursuant to the
arrangement the couple had made last year, Mrs. Hanka now found it
unnecessary to place any restraint upon herself....

Tidemand entered the warehouse. A cool and tart smell of tropical
products, of coffee and oils and wines, filled the atmosphere. Tall piles
of tea-boxes, bundles of cinnamon sewn in bast, fruits, rice, spices,
mountains of flour-sacks--everything had its designated place, from floor
to roof. In one of the corners a stairway led to the cellar, where
venerable hogsheads of wine with copper bands could be glimpsed in the
half-light and where enormous metal tanks rested in massive repose.

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