Pan by Knut Hamsun

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An hour might pass, or perhaps more--the time went so quickly. I let
Asop loose, slung my bag over the other shoulder, and set off towards
home. It was getting late. Lower down in the forest, I came unfailingly
upon my old, well-known path, a narrow ribbon of a path, with the
strangest bends and turns. I followed each one of them, taking my
time--there was no hurry. No one waiting for me at home. Free as a
lord, a ruler, I could ramble about there in the peaceful woods, just as
idly as I pleased. All the birds were silent; only the grouse was
calling far away--it was always calling.

I came out of the wood and saw two figures ahead, two persons moving. I
came up with them. One was Edwarda, and I recognized her, and gave a
greeting; the Doctor was with her. I had to show them my gun; they
looked at my compass, my bag; I invited them to my hut, and they
promised to come some day.

It was evening now. I went home and lit a fire, roasted a bird, and had
a meal. To-morrow there would be another day...

All things quiet and still. I lay that evening looking out the window.
There was a fairy glimmer at that hour over wood and field; the sun had
gone down, and dyed the horizon with a rich red light that stood there
still as oil. The sky all open and clean; I stared into that clear sea,
and it seemed as if I were lying face to face with the uttermost depth
of the world; my heart beating tensely against it, and at home there.
God knows, I thought to myself, God knows why the sky is dressed in gold
and mauve to-night, if there is not some festival going on up there in
the world, some great feast with music from the stars, and boats gliding
along river ways. It looks so!--And I closed my eyes, and followed the
boats, and thoughts and thoughts floated through my mind...

So more than one day passed.

I wandered about, noting how the snow turned to water, how the ice
loosed its hold. Many a day I did not even fire a shot, when I had food
enough in the hut--only wandered about in my freedom, and let the time
pass. Whichever way I turned, there was always just as much to see
and hear--all things changing a little every day. Even the osier
thickets and the juniper stood waiting for the spring. One day I went
out to the mill; it was still icebound, but the earth around it had been
trampled through many and many a year, showing how men and more men had
come that way with sacks of corn on their shoulders, to be ground. It
was like walking among human beings to go there; and there were many
dates and letters cut in the walls.

Well, well...

V

Shall I write more? No, no. Only a little for my own amusement's sake,
and because it passes the time for me to tell of how the spring came two
years back, and how everything looked then. Earth and sea began to smell
a little; there was a sweetish, rotting smell from the dead leaves in
the wood, and the magpies flew with twigs in their beaks, building their
nests. A couple of days more, and the brooks began to swell and foam;
here and there a butterfly was to be seen, and the fishermen came home
from their stations. The trader's two boats came in laden deep with
fish, and anchored off the drying grounds; there was life and commotion
all of a sudden out on the biggest of the islands, where the fish were
to be spread on the rocks to dry. I could see it all from my window.

But no noise reached the hut; I was alone, and remained so. Now and
again someone would pass. I saw Eva, the blacksmith's girl; she had got
a couple of freckles on her nose.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Out for firewood," she answered quietly. She had a rope in her hand to
carry the wood, and her white kerchief on her head. I stood watching
her, but she did not turn round.

After that I saw no one for days.

The spring was urging, and the forest listened; it was a great delight
to watch the thrushes sitting in the tree-tops staring at the sun and
crying; sometimes I would get up as early as two in the morning, just
for a share of the joy that went out from bird and beast at sunrise.

The spring had reached me too, maybe, and my blood beat at times as if
it were footsteps. I sat in the hut, and thought of overhauling my
fishing rods and lines and gear, but moved never a finger to any work at
all, for a glad, mysterious restlessness that was in and out of my heart
all the while. Then suddenly Asop sprang up, stood and stiffened, and
gave a short bark. Someone coming to the hut! I pulled off my cap
quickly, and heard Edwarda's voice already at the door. Kindly and
without ceremony she and the Doctor had come to pay me a visit, as they
had said.

"Yes," I heard her say, "he is at home." And she stepped forward, and
gave me her hand in her simple girlish way. "We were here yesterday, but
you were out," she said.

She sat down on the rug over my wooden bedstead and looked round the
hut; the Doctor sat down beside me on the long bench. We talked, chatted
away at ease; I told them things, such as what kinds of animals there
were in the woods, and what game I could not shoot because of the closed
season. It was the closed season for grouse just now.

The Doctor did not say much this time either, but catching sight of my
powder-horn, with a figure of Pan carved on it, he started to explain
the myth of Pan.

"But," said Edwarda suddenly, "what do you live on when it's closed
season for all game?"

"Fish," I said. "Fish mostly. But there's always something to eat."

"But you might come up to us for your meals," she said. "There was an
Englishman here last year--he had taken the hut--and he often came to us
for meals."

Edwarda looked at me and I at her. I felt at the moment something
touching my heart like a little fleeting welcome. It must have been the
spring, and the bright day; I have thought it over since. Also, I
admired the curve of her eyebrows.

She said something about my place; how I had arranged things in the hut.
I had hung up skins of several sorts on the walls, and birds' wings; it
looked like a shaggy den on the inside. She liked it. "Yes, a den," she
said.

I had nothing to offer my visitors that they would care about; I thought
of it, and would have roasted a bird for them, just for amusement--let
them eat it hunter's fashion, with their fingers. It might amuse them.

And I cooked the bird.

Edwarda told about the Englishman. An old man, an eccentric, who talked
aloud to himself. He was a Roman Catholic, and always carried a little
prayer-book, with red and black letters, about with him wherever he
went.

"Was he an Irishman then?" asked the Doctor.

"An Irishman...?"

"Yes--since he was a Roman Catholic."

Edwarda blushed, and stammered and looked away.

"Well, yes, perhaps he was an Irishman."

After that she lost her liveliness. I felt sorry for her, and tried to
put matters straight again. I said:

"No, of course you are right: he was an Englishman. Irishmen don't go
travelling about in Norway."

We agreed to row over one day and see the fish-drying grounds...

When I had seen my visitors a few steps on their way, I walked home
again and sat down to work at my fishing gear. My hand-net had been hung
from a nail by the door, and several of the meshes were damaged by rust;
I sharpened up some hooks, knotted them to lengths of line, and looked
to the other nets. How hard it seemed to do any work at all to-day!
Thoughts that had nothing to do with the business in hand kept coming
and going; it occurred to me that I had done wrong in letting Edwarda
sit on the bed all the time, instead of offering her a seat on the
bench. I saw before me suddenly her brown face and neck; she had
fastened her apron a little low down in front, to be long-waisted, as
was the fashion; the girlish contour of her thumb affected me tenderly,
and the little wrinkles above the knuckle were full of kindliness. Her
mouth was large and rich.

I rose up and opened the door and looked out. I could hear nothing, and
indeed there was nothing to listen for. I closed the door again; Asop
came up from his resting-place and noticed that I was restless about
something. Then it struck me that I might run after Edwarda and ask her
for a little silk thread to mend my net with. It would not be any
pretence--I could take down the net and show her where the meshes were
spoiled by rust. I was already outside the door when I remembered that I
had silk thread myself in my fly-book; more indeed than I wanted. And I
went back slowly, discouraged--to think that I had silk thread myself.

A breath of something strange met me as I entered the hut again; it
seemed as if I were no longer alone there.

VI

A man asked me if I had given up shooting; he had not heard me fire a
shot up in the hills, though he had been out fishing for two days. No, I
had shot nothing; I had stayed at home in the hut until I had no more
food in the place.

On the third day I went out with my gun. The woods were getting green;
there was a smell of earth and trees. The young grass was already
springing up from the frozen moss. I was in a thoughtful mood, and sat
down several times. For three days I had not seen a soul except the one
fisherman I had met the day before. I thought to myself, "Perhaps I may
meet someone this evening on the way home, at the edge of the wood,
where I met the Doctor and Edwarda before. Perhaps they may be going
for a walk that way again--perhaps, perhaps not." But why should I think
of those two in particular? I shot a couple of ptarmigan, and cooked one
of them at once; then I tied up the dog.

I lay down on the dry ground to eat. The earth was quiet--only a little
breath of wind and the sound of a bird here and there. I lay and watched
the branches waving gently in the breeze; the little wind was at its
work, carrying pollen from branch to branch and filling every innocent
bloom; all the forest seemed filled with delight. A green worm thing, a
caterpillar, dragged itself end by end along a branch, dragging along
unceasingly, as if it could not rest. It saw hardly anything, for all it
had eyes; often it stood straight up in the air, feeling about for
something to take hold of; it looked like a stump of green thread sewing
a seam with long stitches along the branch. By evening, perhaps, it
would have reached its goal.

Quiet as ever. I get up and move on, sit down and get up again. It is
about four o'clock; about six I can start for home, and see if I happen
to meet anyone. Two hours to wait; a little restless already, I brush
the dust and heather from my clothes. I know the places I pass by, trees
and stones stand there as before in their solitude; the leaves rustle
underfoot as I walk. The monotonous breathing and the familiar trees and
stones mean much to me; I am filled with a strange thankfulness;
everything seems well disposed towards me, mingles with my being; I love
it all. I pick up a little dry twig and hold it in my hand and sit
looking at it, and think my own thoughts; the twig is almost rotten, its
poor bark touches me, pity fills my heart. And when I get up again, I do
not throw the twig far away, but lay it down, and stand liking it; at
last I look at it once more with wet eyes before I go away and leave it
there.

Five o'clock. The sun tells me false time today; I have been walking
westward the whole day, and come perhaps half an hour ahead of my sun
marks at the hut. I am quite aware of all this, but none the less there
is an hour yet before six o'clock, so I get up again and go on a little.
And the leaves rustle under foot. An hour goes that way.

I look down at the little stream and the little mill that has been
icebound all the winter, and I stop. The mill is working; the noise of
it wakes me, and I stop suddenly, there and then. "I have stayed out
too long," I say aloud. A pang goes through me; I turn at once and begin
walking homewards, but all the time I know I have stayed out too long. I
walk faster, then run; Asop understands there is something the matter,
and pulls at the leash, drags me along, sniffs at the ground, and is all
haste. The dry leaves crackle about us.

But when we come to the edge of the wood there was no one there. No, all
was quiet; there was no one there.

"There is no one here," I said to myself. And yet it was no worse than I
had expected.

I did not stay long, but walked on, drawn by all my thoughts, passed by
my hut, and went down to Sirilund with Asop and my bag and gun--with all
my belongings.

Herr Mack received me with the greatest friendliness, and asked me to
stay to supper.

VII

I fancy I can read a little in the souls of those about me--but perhaps
it is not so. Oh, when my good days come, I feel as if I could see far
into others' souls, though I am no great or clever head. We sit in a
room, some men, some women, and I, and I seem to see what is passing
within them, and what they think of me. I find something in every swift
little change of light in their eyes; sometimes the blood rises to their
cheeks and reddens them; at other times they pretend to be looking
another way, and yet they watch me covertly from the side. There I sit,
marking all this, and no one dreams that I see through every soul. For
years past I have felt that I could read the souls of all I met. But
perhaps it is not so...

I stayed at Herr Mack's house all that evening. I might have gone off
again at once--it did not interest me to stay sitting there--but had I
not come because all my thoughts were drawing me that way? And how could
I go again at once? We played whist and drank toddy after supper; I sat
with my back turned to the rest of the room, and my head bent down;
behind me Edwarda went in and out. The Doctor had gone home.

Herr Mack showed me the design of his new lamps--the first paraffin
lamps to be seen so far north. They were splendid things, with a heavy
leaden base, and he lit them himself every evening--to prevent any
accident. He spoke once or twice of his grandfather, the Consul.

"This brooch was given to my grandfather, Consul Mack, by Carl Johan
with his own hands," he said, pointing one finger at the diamond in his
shirt. His wife was dead; he showed me a painted portrait of her in one
of the other rooms--a distinguished looking woman with a lace cap and a
winsome smile. In the same room, also, there was a bookcase, and some
old French books, no less, that might have been an heirloom. The
bindings were rich and gilded, and many owners had marked their names in
them. Among the books were several educational works; Herr Mack was a
man of some intelligence.

His two assistants from the store were called in to make up the party at
whist. They played slowly and doubtfully, counted carefully, and made
mistakes all the same. Edwarda helped one of them with his hand.

I upset my glass, and felt ashamed, and stood up.

"There--I have upset my glass," I said.

Edwarda burst out laughing, and answered:

"Well, we can see that."

Everyone assured me laughingly that it did not matter. They gave me a
towel to wipe myself with, and we went on with the game. Soon it was
eleven o'clock.

I felt a vague displeasure at Edwarda's laugh. I looked at her, and
found that her face had become insignificant, hardly even pretty. At
last Herr Mack broke off the game, saying that his assistants must go to
bed; then he leaned back on the sofa and began talking about putting up
a sign in front of his place. He asked my advice about it. What colour
did I think would be best? I was not interested, and answered "black,"
without thinking at all. And Herr Mack at once agreed:

"Black, yes--exactly what I had been thinking myself. 'Salt and barrels'
in heavy black letters--that ought to look as nice as anything...
Edwarda, isn't it time you were going to bed?"

Edwarda rose, shook hands with us both, said good-night, and left the
room. We sat on. We talked of the railway that had been finished last
year, and of the first telegraph line. "Wonder when we shall have the
telegraph up here."

Pause.

"It's like this," said Herr Mack. "Time goes on, and here am I,
six-and-forty, and hair and beard gone grey. You might see me in the
daytime and say I was a young man, but when the evening comes along, and
I'm all alone, I feel it a good deal. I sit here mostly playing
patience. It works out all right as a rule, if you fudge a little.
Haha!"

"If you fudge a little?" I asked.

"Yes."

I felt as if I could read in his eyes...

He got up from his seat, walked over to the window, and looked out; he
stooped a little, and the back of his neck was hairy. I rose in my turn.
He looked round and walked towards me in his long, pointed shoes, stuck
both thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, waved his arms a little, as if
they were wings, and smiled. Then he offered me his boat again if ever I
wanted one, and held out his hand.

"Wait a minute--I'll go with you," he said, and blew out the lamps.
"Yes, yes, I feel like a little walk. It's not so late."

We went out.

He pointed up the road towards the blacksmith's and said:

"This way--it's the shortest."

"No," I said. "Round by the quay is the shortest way."

We argued the point a little, and did not agree. I was convinced that I
was right, and could not understand why he insisted. At last he
suggested that we should each go his own way; the one who got there
first could wait at the hut.

We set off, and he was soon lost to sight in the wood.

I walked at my usual pace, and reckoned to be there a good five minutes
ahead. But when I got to the hut he was there already. He called out as
I came up:

"What did I say? I always go this way--it _is_ the shortest."

I looked at him in surprise; he was not heated, and did not appear to
have been running. He did not stay now, but said good-night in a
friendly way, and went back the way he had come.

I stood there and thought to myself: This is strange! I ought to be some
judge of distance, and I've walked both those ways several times. My
good man, you've been fudging again. Was the whole thing a pretence?

I saw his back as he disappeared into the wood again.

Next moment I started off in track of him, going quickly and cautiously;
I could see him wiping his face all the way, and I was not so sure now
that he had not been running before. I walked very slowly now, and
watched him carefully; he stopped at the blacksmith's. I stepped into
hiding, and saw the door open, and Herr Mack enter the house.

It was one o'clock; I could tell by the look of the sea and the grass.

VIII

A few days passed as best they could; my only friend was the forest and
the great loneliness. Dear God! I had never before known what it was to
be so alone as on the first of those days. It was full spring now; I had
found wintergreen and milfoil already, and the chaffinches had come (I
knew all the birds). Now and again I took a couple of coins from my
pocket and rattled them, to break the loneliness. I thought to myself:
"What if Diderik and Iselin were to appear!"

Night was coming on again; the sun just dipped into the sea and rose
again, red, refreshed, as if it had been down to drink. I could feel
more strangely on those nights than anyone would believe. Was Pan
himself there, sitting in a tree, watching me to see what I might do?
Was his belly open, and he sitting there bent over as if drinking from
his own belly? But all that he did only that he might look up under his
brows and watch me; and the whole tree shook with his silent laughter
when he saw how all my thoughts were running away with me. There was a
rustling everywhere in the woods, beasts sniffing, birds calling one to
another; their signals filled the air. And it was flying year for the
Maybug; its humming mingled with the buzz of the night moths, sounded
like a whispering here and a whispering there, all about in the woods.
So much there was to hear! For three nights I did not sleep; I thought
of Diderik and Iselin.

"See now," I thought, "they might come." And Iselin would lead Diderik
away to a tree and say:

"Stand here, Diderik, and keep guard; keep watch; I will let this
huntsman tie my shoestring."

And the huntsman is myself, and she will give me a glance of her eyes
that I may understand. And when she comes, my heart knows all, and no
longer beats like a heart, but rings as a bell. I lay my hand on her.

"Tie my shoe-string," she says, with flushed cheeks. ...

The sun dips down into the sea and rises again, red and refreshed, as if
it had been to drink. And the air is full of whisperings.

An hour after, she speaks, close to my mouth:

"Now I must leave you."

And she turns and waves her hand to me as she goes, and her face is
flushed still; her face is tender and full of delight. And again she
turns and waves to me.

But Diderik steps out from under the tree and says:

"Iselin, what have you done? I saw you."

She answers:

"Diderik, what did you see? I have done nothing."

"Iselin, I saw what you did," he says again; "I saw you."

And then her rich, glad laughter rings through the wood, and she goes
off with him, full of rejoicing from top to toe. And whither does she
go? To the next mortal man; to a huntsman in the woods.

* * * * *

It was midnight. Asop had broken loose and been out hunting by himself;
I heard him baying up in the hills, and when at last I got him back it
was one o'clock. A girl came from herding goats; she fastened her
stocking and hummed a tune and looked around. But where was her flock?
And what was she doing in the woods at midnight? Ah, nothing, nothing.
Walking there for restlessness, perhaps, for joy; 'twas her affair. I
thought to myself, she had heard Asop in the woods, and knew that I was
out.

As she came up I rose and stood and looked at her, and I saw how slight
and young she was. Asop, too, stood looking at her.

"Where do you come from?" I asked.

"From the mill," she answered.

But what could she have been doing at the mill so late at night?

"How can you venture into the woods so late?" I said--"you so slight and
young?"

She laughed, and said:

"I am not so young--I am nineteen."

But she could not be nineteen; I am certain she was lying by at least
two years, and was only seventeen. But why should she lie to seem older?

"Sit down," I said, "and tell me your name."

And she sat down, blushing, by my side, and told me her name was
Henriette.

Then I asked her:

"Have you a lover, Henriette, and has he ever taken you in his arms?"

"Yes," she said, smiling shyly.

"How many times?"

She was silent.

"How many times?" I asked her again.

"Twice," she answered softly.

I drew her to me and said:

"How did he do it? Was it like this?"

"Yes," she whispered, trembling.

IX

I had some talk with Edwarda.

"We shall have rain before long," I said.

"What time is it?" she asked.

I looked at the sun and answered:

"About five."

She asked:

"Can you tell so nearly by the sun?"

"Yes," I answered; "I can."

Pause.

"But when you can't see the sun, how do you tell the time then?"

"Then I can tell by other things. There's high tide and low tide, and
the grass that lies over at certain hours, and the song of the birds
that changes; some birds begin to sing when others leave off. Then, I
can tell the time by flowers that close in the afternoon, and leaves
that are bright green at some times and dull green at others--and then,
besides, I can feel it."

"I see."

Now I was expecting rain, and for Edwarda's sake I would not keep her
there any longer on the road; I raised my cap. But she stopped me
suddenly with a new question, and I stayed. She blushed, and asked me
why I had come to the place at all? Why I went out shooting, and why
this and why that? For I never shot more than I needed for food, and
left my dog idle...

She looked flushed and humble. I understood that someone had been
talking about me, and she had heard it; she was not speaking for
herself. And something about her called up a feeling of tenderness in
me; she looked so helpless, I remembered that she had no mother; her
thin arms gave her an ill-cared-for appearance. I could not help feeling
it so.

Well, I did not go out shooting just to murder things, but to live. I
had need of one grouse to-day, and so I did not shoot two, but would
shoot the other to-morrow. Why kill more? I lived in the woods, as a son
of the woods. And from the first of June it was closed time for hare and
ptarmigan; there was but little left for me to shoot at all now. Well
and good: then I could go fishing, and live on fish. I would borrow her
father's boat and row out in that. No, indeed, I did no go out shooting
for the lust of killing things, but only to live in the woods. It was a
good place for me; I could lie down on the ground at meals, instead of
sitting upright on a chair; I did not upset my glass there. In the woods
I could do as I pleased; I could lie down flat on my back and close my
eyes if I pleased, and I could say whatever I liked to say. Often one
might feel a wish to say something, to speak aloud, and in the woods it
sounded like speech from the very heart...

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