Growth of the Soil by Knut Hamsun (chromebook ebook reader txt) 📕
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Growth of the Soil was published in 1917 to universal acclaim. A mid- to late-career work for Hamsun, it was celebrated for its then-revolutionary use of literary techniques like stream of consciousness, and for its unadorned depiction of pastoral life. Its focus on the quotidian lives of everyday people has led scholars to classify it as a novel of Norwegian New Realism.
Isak, a man so strong and so simple that he echoes a primitive, foundational “everyman,” finds an empty plot of land in turn-of-the-century Norway, and builds a small home. He soon attracts a wife, Inger, whose harelip has led her to be ostracized from town life but who is nonetheless a hard and conscientious worker. Together the two earthy beings build a farm and a family, and watch as society and civilization grows and develops around them.
Isak and Inger’s toils sometimes bring them up against the burgeoning modernity around them, but curiously, the novel is not one driven by a traditional conflict-oriented plot. Instead, the steady progression of life on the farm, with its ups and downs, its trials and joys, makes the people and their growth the novel’s main propellant. While the humble, homespun protagonists occasionally come into conflict with the awe-inspiring forces of civilization, more often than not, those forces are portrayed as positive and symbiotic companions to the agrarian lifestyle.
Hamsun was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1920 for Growth of the Soil, one of the rare instances in which the Nobel committee awarded a prize for a specific novel, and not a body of work. It has since come to be regarded as a classic of modernist, and Norwegian, literature.
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- Author: Knut Hamsun
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“If we’d only a grain of coffee in the house you should have it,” said she to Barbro. “Going farther up, maybe?”
“No,” said Barbro.
“Ho! Not going farther?”
“No.”
“Why, ’tis no business of mine, no,” says Oline. “Going down again, maybe?”
“No. Nor going down again. I’m staying here for now.”
“Staying here, are you?”
“Ay, staying here, I doubt.”
Oline waits for a moment, using her old head, full of policy. “Ay, well,” says she. “ ’Twill save me, then, no doubt. And glad I’ll be for the same.”
“Oho,” says Barbro in jest, “has Axel here been so hard on you this while?”
“Hard on me? Axel! Oh, there’s no call to turn an old body’s words, there’s naught but living on and waiting for the blessed end. Axel that’s been as a father and a messenger from the Highest to me day and hour together, and gospel truth the same. But seeing I’ve none of my own folks here, and living alone and rejected under a stranger’s roof, with all my kin over across the hills. …”
But for all that, Oline stayed on. They could not get rid of her till after they were wed, and Oline made a deal of reluctance, but said “Yes” at last, and would stay so long to please them, and look to house and cattle while they went down to the church. It took two days. But when they came back wedded and all, Oline stayed on as before. She put off going; one day she was feeling poorly, she said; the next it looked like rain. She made up to Barbro with smooth words about the food. Oh, there was a mighty difference in the food now at Maaneland; ’twas different living now, and a mighty difference in the coffee now. Oh, she stopped at nothing, that Oline; asked Barbro’s advice on things she knew better herself. “What you think now, should I milk cows as they stand in their place and order, or should I take cow Bordelin first?”
“You can do as you please.”
“Ay, ’tis as I always said,” exclaims Oline. “You’ve been out in the world and lived among great folks and fine folks, and learned all and everything. ’Tis different with the likes of me.”
Ay, Oline stopped at nothing, she was intriguing all day long. Sitting there telling Barbro how she herself was friends and on the best of terms with Barbro’s father, with Brede Olsen! Ho, many a pleasant hour they’d had together, and a kindly man and rich and grand to boot was Brede, and never a hard word in his mouth.
But this could not go on forever; neither Axel nor Barbro cared to have Oline there any longer, and Barbro had taken over all her work. Oline made no complaint, but she flashed dangerous glances at her young mistress and changed her tone ever so little.
“Ay, great folk, ’tis true. Axel, he was in town a while last harvest-time—you didn’t meet him there, maybe? Nay, that’s true, you were in Bergen that time. But he went into town, he did; ’twas all to buy a mowing-machine and a harrow-machine. And what’s folk at Sellanraa now beside you here? Nothing to compare!”
She was beginning to shoot out little pinpricks, but even that did not help her now; neither of them feared her. Axel told her straight out one day that she must go.
“Go?” says Oline. “And how? Crawling, belike?” No, she would not go, saying by way of excuse that she was poorly, and could not move her legs. And to make things bad as could be, when once they had taken the work off her hands, and she had nothing to do at all, she collapsed, and was thoroughly ill. She kept about for a week in spite of it, Axel looking furiously at her; but she stayed on from sheer malice, and at last she had to take to her bed.
And now she lay there, not in the least awaiting her blessed end, but counting the hours till she should be up and about again. She asked for a doctor, a piece of extravagance unheard of in the wilds.
“Doctor?” said Axel. “Are you out of your senses?”
“How d’you mean, then?” said Oline quite gently, as to something she could not understand. Ay, so gentle and smooth-tongued was she, so glad to think she need not be a burden to others; she could pay for the doctor herself.
“Ho, can you?” said Axel.
“Why, and couldn’t I, then?” says Oline. “And, anyway, you’d not have me lie here and die like a dumb beast in the face of the Lord?”
Here Barbro put in a word, and was unwise enough to say:
“Well, what you’ve got to complain of, I’d like to know, when I bring you in your meals and all myself? As for coffee, I’ve said you’re better without it, and meaning well.”
“Is that Barbro?” says Oline, turning just her eyes and no more to look for her; ay, she is poorly is Oline, and a pitiful sight with her eyes screwed round cornerways. “Ay, maybe ’tis as you say, Barbro, if a tiny drop of coffee’d do me any harm, a spoonful and no more.”
“If ’twas me in your stead, I’d be thinking of other things than coffee at this hour,” says Barbro.
“Ay, ’tis as I say,” answers Oline. “ ’Twas never your way to wish and desire a fellow-creature’s end, but rather they should be converted and live. What … ay, I’m lying here and seeing things. … Is it with child you are now, Barbro?”
“What’s that you say?” cries Barbro furiously; and goes on again: “Oh, ’twould serve you right if I took and heaved you out on the muck-heap for your wicked tongue.”
And at that the invalid was silent for one thoughtful moment, her
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