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Updated: May 5, 2025
Altogether, Isak is trying hard indeed to make himself a better man, better and better, whatever may be his idea, whether it be for the sake of peace in the house, or in some hope that the Lord may give him back his Inger the sooner. He is something given to superstition and a pondering upon things; even his rustic wariness is innocent in its way.
Inger turned and saw him, and bowed forward where she sat; all the life went out of her, she hung like a rag. "H'm. Did you know that ewe's out again?" asked Isak. "But no, you wouldn't know," said he. The young telegraph hand picked up his cap and began sidling away. "I'll be getting along after the others," he said. "Good-night to ye." No one answered. "So you're sitting here," said Isak.
It was her plan to save up cheeses till there were enough to buy a loom. Oh, that Inger; she knew how to weave. And Isak built a shed he too had a plan of his own, no doubt.
This situation in one or another of its subdivisions we find in 'Nicholas Nickleby, as well as in 'OEdipus the King' and in 'Lady Inger of Ostraat'; in Sophocles it is a son who murders his unknown father, and in Ibsen it is a mother who murders her unknown son.
A clock. This was too much for Inger; she was overwhelmed and could not say a word. Isak hung it up on the wall, and set it at a guess, wound it up, and let it strike. The child turned its eyes at the sound and then looked at its mother. "Ay, you may wonder," said Inger, and took the child to her, not a little touched herself.
Isak thought them pretty, and praised them, maybe, a thought too much; Inger hinted that it was nothing to what she could do when she tried. "But they're too short," said Isak. "They're worn that way in town," said Inger. "You know nothing about it." Isak saw he had gone too far, and, to make up for it, said something about getting some material for Inger herself, for something or other.
He was only anxious to see that Geissler was well received. Inger? Inger was out plucking berries; had been out plucking berries ever since Isak started she and Gustaf the Swede. Ay, getting on in years, and all in love again and wild with it; autumn and winter near, but she felt the warmth in herself again, flowers and blossoming again.
Isak with the iron beard and rugged body, a grim and surly figure of a man; ay, as a man seen through a flaw in the window-pane. His look was not a gentle one; as if Barabbas might break loose at any minute. It was a wonder Inger herself did not run away. She did not run away. When he had been out, and came home again, there was Inger at the hut; the two were one, the woman and the hut.
There was a thing Isak had bought once at the village store, a china pot with a dog's head on the lid. It was a sort of tobacco box, really, and stood on a shelf. Oline took off the lid and dropped it on the floor. Inger had left behind some cuttings of fuchsia, under glass. Oline took the glass off and, putting it back, pressed it down hard and maliciously; next day, all the cuttings were dead.
It gave her no concern that she was expected she was so vexed. A half year more had passed. "You must go home some day and see your old parents, little Inger," said the mistress of the house. "Here is a large loaf of white bread you can carry this to them; they will be rejoiced to see you."
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