Pan by Knut Hamsun

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When I asked her if she understood all this, she said, "Yes."

And I went on, and told her more, because her eyes were on me. "If you
only knew all that I see out in the wilds!" I said. "In winter, I come
walking along, and see, perhaps, the tracks of ptarmigan in the snow.
Suddenly the track disappears; the bird has taken wing. But from the
marks of the wings I can see which way the game has flown, and before
long I have tracked it down again. There is always a touch of newness in
that for me. In autumn, many a time there are shooting stars to watch.
Then I think to myself, being all alone, What was that? A world seized
with convulsions all of a sudden? A world going all to pieces before my
eyes? To think that I--that _I_ should be granted the sight of shooting
stars in my life! And when summer comes, then perhaps there may be a
little living creature on every leaf; I can see that some of them have
no wings; they can make no great way in the world, but must live and die
on that one little leaf where they came into the world.

"Then sometimes I see the blue flies. But it all seems such a little
thing to talk about--I don't know if you understand?"

"Yes, yes, I understand."

"Good. Well, then sometimes I look at the grass, and perhaps the grass
is looking at me again--who can say? I look at a single blade of grass;
it quivers a little, maybe, and thinks me something. And I think to
myself: Here is a little blade of grass all a-quivering. Or if it
happens to be a fir tree I look at, then maybe the tree has one branch
that makes me think of it a little, too. And sometimes I meet people up
on the moors; it happens at times."

I looked at her; she stood bending forward, listening. I hardly knew
her. So lost in attention she was that she took no heed of herself, but
was ugly, foolish looking; her underlip hung far down.

"Yes, yes," she said, and drew herself up.

The first drops of rain began to fall.

"It is raining," said I.

"Oh! Yes, it is raining," she said, and went away on the instant.

I did not see her home; she went on her way alone; I hurried up to the
hut. A few minutes passed. It began to rain heavily. Suddenly I heard
someone running after me. I stopped short, and there was Edwarda.

"I forgot," she said breathlessly. "We were going over to the
islands--the drying grounds, you know. The Doctor is coming to-morrow;
will you have time then?"

"To-morrow? Yes, indeed. I shall have time enough."

"I forgot it," she said again, and smiled.

As she went, I noticed her thin, pretty calves; they were wet far above
the ankle. Her shoes were worn through.

X

There was another day which I remember well. It was the day my summer
came. The sun began shining while it was still night, and dried up the
wet ground for the morning. The air was soft and fine after the last
rain.

In the afternoon I went down to the quay. The water was perfectly
still; we could hear talking and laughter away over at the island, where
men and girls were at work on the fish. It was a happy afternoon.

Ay, was it not a happy afternoon? We took hampers of food and wine with
us; a big party we were, in two boats, with young women in light
dresses. I was so happy that I hummed a tune.

And when we were in the boat, I fell to thinking where all these young
people came from. There were the daughters of the Lensmand and the
district surgeon, a governess or so, and the ladies from the vicarage. I
had not seen them before; they were strangers to me; and yet, for all
that, they were as friendly as if we had known each other for years. I
made some mistakes! I had grown unaccustomed to being in society, and
often said "Du" [Footnote: "Du"=thou, the familiar form of address
(tutoyer), instead of "De"=you.] to the young ladies, but they did not
seem offended. And once I said "dear," or "my dear," but they forgave me
that as well, and took no notice of it.

Herr Mack had his unstarched shirt front on as usual, with the diamond
stud. He seemed in excellent spirits, and called across to the other
boat:

"Hi, look after the hamper with the bottles, you madcaps there. Doctor,
I shall hold you responsible for the wine."

"Right!" cried the Doctor. And just those few words from one boat to
another seemed to me pleasant and merry to hear.

Edwarda was wearing the same dress she had, worn the day before, as if
she had no other or did not care to put on another. Her shoes, too, were
the same. I fancied her hands were not quite clean; but she wore a brand
new hat, with feathers. She had taken her dyed jacket with her, and used
it to sit on.

At Herr Mack's request I fired a shot just as we were about to land, in
fact, two shots, both barrels--and they cheered. We rambled up over the
island, the workers greeted us all, and Herr Mack stopped to speak to
his folk. We found daisies and corn marigolds and put them in our
button-holes; some found harebells.

And there was a host of seabirds chattering and screaming, in the air
and on the shore.

We camped out on a patch of grass where there were a few stunted birches
with white stems. The hampers were opened, and Herr Mack saw to the
bottles. Light dresses, blue eyes, the ring of glasses, the sea, the
white sails. And we sang a little.

And cheeks were flushed.

* * * * *

An hour later, my whole being was joy; even little things affected me. A
veil fluttering from a hat, a girl's hair coming down, a pair of eyes
closing in a laugh--and it touched me. That day, that day!

"I've heard you've such a queer little hut up there, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, a nest. And the very thing for me. Come and see me there one day;
there's no such hut anywhere else. And the great forest behind it."

Another came up and said kindly:

"You have not been up here in the north before?"

"No," I answered. "But I know all about it already, ladies. At night I
am face to face with the mountains, the earth, and the sun. But I will
not try to use fine words. What a summer you have here! It bursts forth
one night when everyone is asleep, and in the morning there it is. I
looked out of my window and saw it myself. I have two little windows."

A third came up. She was charming by reason of her voice and her small
hands. How charming they all were! This one said:

"Shall we change flowers? It brings luck, they say."

"Yes," I answered, holding out my hand, "let us change flowers, and I
thank you for it. How pretty you are! You have a lovely voice; I have
been listening to it all the time."

But she drew back her harebells and said curtly:

"What are you thinking about? It was not you I meant."

It was not me she meant! It hurt me to feel that I had been mistaken; I
wished myself at home again, far away in my hut, where only the wind
could speak to me. "I beg your pardon," I said; "forgive me." The other
ladies looked at one another and moved away, so as not to humiliate me.

Just at that moment someone came quickly over towards us. All could see
her--it was Edwarda. She came straight to me. She said something, and
threw her arms round my neck; clasped her arms round my neck and kissed
me again and again on the lips. Each time she said something, but I did
not hear what it was. I could not understand it all; my heart stood
still; I had only a feeling of her burning look. Then she slipped away
from me; her little breast beat up and down. She stood there still, with
her brown face and brown neck, tall and slender, with flashing eyes,
altogether heedless. They were all looking at her. For the second time I
was fascinated by her dark eyebrows, that curved high up into her
forehead.

But, Heavens--the girl had kissed me openly in sight of them all!

"What is it, Edwarda?" I asked, and I could hear my blood beating; hear
it as it were from down in my throat, so that I could not speak
distinctly.

"Nothing," she answered. "Only--that I wanted to. It doesn't matter."

I took off my cap and brushed back my hair mechanically as I stood
looking at her. "Doesn't matter...?"

Herr Mack was saying something, a good way off; we could not hear his
words from where we were. But I was glad to think that Herr Mack had
seen nothing, that he knew nothing of this. It was well indeed that he
had been away from the party just then. I felt relieved at that, and I
stepped over to the others and said with a laugh, and seeming quite
indifferent:

"I would ask you all to forgive my unseemly behavior a moment ago; I am
myself extremely sorry about it. Edwarda kindly offered to change
flowers with me, and I forgot myself. I beg her pardon and yours. Put
yourself in my place; I live all alone, and am not accustomed to the
society of ladies; besides which, I have been drinking wine, and am not
used to that either. You must make allowances for that."

And I laughed, and showed great indifference to such a trifle, that it
might be forgotten; but, inwardly, I was serious. Moreover, what I had
said made no impression on Edwarda. She did not try to hide anything, to
smooth over the effect of her hasty action: on the contrary, she sat
down close to me and kept looking at me fixedly. Now and again she spoke
to me. And afterwards, when we were playing "_Enke_," she said:

"I shall have Lieutenant Glahn. I don't care to run after anyone else."

"_Saa for Satan_, [Footnote: Expletive, equivalent to "The Devil!" or
"Damnation!"] girl, be quiet!" I whispered, stamping my foot.

She gave me a look of surprise, made a wry face as if it hurt, and then
smiled bashfully. I was deeply moved at that; the helpless look in her
eyes and her little thin figure were more than I could resist; I was
drawn to her in that moment, and I took her long, slight hand in mine.

"Afterwards," I said, "No more now. We can meet again to-morrow."

XI

In the night I heard Asop get up from his corner and growl; I heard it
through my sleep, but I was dreaming just then of shooting, the growl of
the dog fitted into the dream, and it did not wake me, quite. When I
stepped out of the hut next morning there were tracks in the grass of a
pair of human feet; someone had been there--had gone first to one of my
windows, then to the other. The tracks were lost again down on the road.

She came towards me with hot cheeks, with a face all beaming.

"Have you been waiting?" she said. "I was afraid you would have to
wait."

I had not been waiting; she was on the way before me.

"Have you slept well?" I asked. I hardly knew what to say.

"No, I haven't. I have been awake," she answered. And she told me she
had not slept that night, but had sat in a chair with her eyes closed.
And she had been out of the house for a little walk.

"Someone was outside my hut last night," I said. "I saw tracks in the
grass this morning."

And her face colored; she took my hand there, on the road, and made no
answer. I looked at her, and said:

"Was it you, I wonder?"

"Yes," she answered, pressing close to me. "It was I. I hope I didn't
wake you--I stepped as quietly as I could. Yes, it was I. I was near you
again. I am fond of you!"

XII

Every day, every day I met her. I will tell the truth: I was glad to
meet her; aye, my heart flew. It is two years ago this year; now, I
think of it only when I please, the whole story just amuses and
distracts me. And as for the two green feathers, I will tell about them
in good time.

There were several places where we could meet--at the mill, on the road,
even in my hut. She came wherever I would. _"Goddag!"_ she cried, always
first, and I answered _"Goddag!"_

"You are happy to-day," she says, and her eyes sparkle.

"Yes, I am happy," I answer. "There is a speck there on your shoulder;
it is dust, perhaps, a speck of mud from the road; I must kiss that
little spot. No--let me--I will. Everything about you stirs me so! I am
half out of my senses. I did not sleep last night."

And that was true. Many a night I lay and could not sleep.

We walk side by side along the road.

"What do you think--am I as you like me to be?" she asks. "Perhaps I
talk too much. No? Oh, but you must say what you really think.
Sometimes I think to myself this can never come to any good..."

"What can never come to any good?" I ask.

"This between us. That it cannot come to any good. You may believe it or
not, but I am shivering now with cold; I feel icy cold the moment I come
to you. Just out of happiness."

"It is the same with me," I answer. "I feel a shiver, too, when I see
you. But it will come to some good all the same. And, anyhow, let me pat
you on the back, to warm you."

And she lets me, half unwillingly, and then I hit a little harder, for a
jest, and laugh, and ask if that doesn't make her feel better.

"Oh, please, don't when I ask you; _please_," says she.

Those few words! There was something so helpless about her saying it so,
the wrong way round: "Please don't when I ask you."...

Then we went on along the road again. Was she displeased with me for my
jest, I wondered? And thought to myself: Well, let us see. And I said:

"I just happened to think of something. Once when I was out on a sledge
party, there was a young lady who took a silk kerchief from her neck and
fastened it round mine. In the evening, I said to her: 'You shall have
your kerchief again to-morrow; I will have it washed.' 'No,' she said,
'give it to me now; I will keep it just as it is, after you have worn
it.' And I gave it to her. Three years after, I met the same young lady
again. 'The kerchief,' I said. And she brought it out. It lay in a
paper, just as before; I saw it myself."

Edwarda glanced up at me.

"Yes? And what then?"

"That is all," I said. "There was nothing more. But I thought it was
nice of her."

Pause.

"Where is that lady now?"

"Abroad."

We spoke no more of that. But when it was time for her to go home, she
said:

"Well, good-night. But you won't go thinking of that lady any more, will
you? I don't think of anyone but you."

I believed her. I saw that she meant what she said, and it was more than
enough for me that she thought of no one else. I walked after her.

"Thank you, Edwarda," I said. And then I added with all my heart: "You
are all too good for me, but I am thankful that you will have me; God
will reward you for that. I'm not so fine as many you could have, no
doubt, but I am all yours--so endlessly yours, by my eternal soul.---
What are you thinking of now, to bring tears to your eyes?"

"It was nothing," she answered. "It sounded so strange--that God would
reward me for that. You say things that I ... Oh, I love you so!"

And all at once she threw her arms round my neck, there in the middle of
the road, and kissed me.

When she had gone, I stepped aside into the woods to hide, to be alone
with my happiness. And then I hurried eagerly back to the road to see
if anyone had noticed that I had gone in there. But I saw no one.

XIII

Summer nights and still water, and the woods endlessly still. No cry, no
footsteps from the road. My heart seemed full as with dark wine.

Moths and night-flies came flying noiselessly in through my window,
lured by the glow from the hearth and the smell of the bird I had just
cooked. They dashed against the roof with a dull sound, fluttered past
my ears, sending a cold shiver through me, and settled on my white
powder-horn on the wall. I watched them; they sat trembling and looked
at me--moths and spinners and burrowing things. Some of them looked like
pansies on the wing.

I stepped outside the hut and listened. Nothing, no noise; all was
asleep. The air was alight with flying insects, myriads of buzzing
wings. Out at the edge of the wood were ferns and aconite, the trailing
arbutus was in bloom, and I loved its tiny flowers... Thanks, my God,
for every heather bloom I have ever seen; they have been like small
roses on my way, and I weep for love of them... Somewhere near were
wild carnations; I could not see them, but I could mark their scent.

But now, in the night hours, great white flowers have opened suddenly;
their chalices are spread wide; they are breathing. And furry twilight
moths slip down into their petals, making the whole plant quiver. I go
from one flower to another. They are drunken flowers. I mark the stages
of their intoxication.

Light footsteps, a human breathing, a happy "_Godaften_."

And I answer, and throw myself down on the road.

"_Godaften_, Edwarda," I say again, worn out with joy.

"That you should care for me so!" she whispers.

And I answered her: "If you knew how grateful I can be! You are mine,
and my heart lies still within me all the day, thinking of you. You are
the loveliest girl on earth, and I have kissed you. Often I go red with
joy, only to think that I have kissed you."

"Why are you so fond of me this evening?" she asks.

I was that for endless reasons; I needed only to think of her to feel
so. That look of hers, from under the high-arched brows, and her rich,
dark skin!

"Should I not be fond of you?" I say again. "I thank every tree in my
path because you are well and strong. Once at a dance there was a young
lady who sat out dance after dance, and they let her sit there alone. I
didn't know her, but her face touched me, and I bowed to her. Well? But
no, she shook her head. Would she not dance, I asked her? 'Can you
imagine it?' she said. 'My father was a handsome man, and my mother a
perfect beauty, and my father won her by storm. But I was born lame.'"

Edwarda looked at me.

"Let us sit down," she said.

And we sat down in the heather.

"Do you know what my friend says about you?" she began. "Your eyes are
like an animal's, she says, and when you look at her, it makes her mad.
It is just as if you touched her, she says."

A strange joy thrilled me when I heard that, not for my own sake, but
for Edwarda's, and I thought to myself: There is only one whom I care
for: what does that one say of the look in my eyes? And I asked her:

"Who was that, your friend?"

"I will not tell you," she said. "But it was one of those that were out
on the island that day."

"Very well, then."

And then we spoke of other things.

"My father is going to Russia in a few days," she said. "And I am going
to have a party. Have you been out to Korholmerne? We must have two
hampers of wine; the ladies from the vicarage are coming again, and
father has already given me the wine. And you won't look at her again,
will you? My friend, I mean. Please, you won't, _will_ you? Or I
shall not ask her at all."

And with no more words she threw herself passionately about my neck, and
looked at me, gazing into my face and breathing heavily. Her glance was
sheer blackness.

I got up abruptly, and, in my confusion, could only say:

"So your father is going to Russia?"

"What did you get up like that for, so quickly?" she asked.

"Because it is late, Edwarda," I said. "Now the white flowers are
closing again. The sun is getting up; it will soon be day."

I went with her through the woodland and stood watching her as long as I
could; far down, she turned round and softly called good-night. Then
she disappeared.

At the same moment the door of the blacksmith's house opened. A man with
a white shirt front came out, looked round, pulled his hat down farther
over his forehead, and took the road down to Sirilund.

Edwarda's good-night was still in my ears.

XIV

A man can be drunk with joy. I fire off my gun, and an unforgettable
echo answers from hill to hill, floats out over the sea and rings in
some sleepy helmsman's ears. And what have I to be joyful about? A
thought that came to me, a memory; a sound in the woods, a human being.
I think of her, I close my eyes and stand still there on the road, and
think of her; I count the minutes.

Now I am thirsty, and drink from the stream; now I walk a hundred paces
forward and a hundred paces back; it must be late by now, I say to
myself.

Can there be anything wrong? A month has passed, and a month is no long
time; there is nothing wrong. Heaven knows this month has been short.
But the nights are often long, and I am driven to wet my cap in the
stream and let it dry, only to pass the time, while I am waiting.

I reckoned my time by nights. Sometimes there would be an evening when
Edwarda did not come--once she stayed away two evenings. Nothing wrong,
no. But I felt then that perhaps my happiness had reached and passed its
height.

And had it not?

"Can you hear, Edwarda, how restless it is in the woods to-night?
Rustling incessantly in the undergrowth, and the big leaves trembling.
Something brewing, maybe--but it was not that I had in mind to say. I
hear a bird away up on the hill--only a tomtit, but it has sat there
calling in the same place two nights now. Can you hear--the same, same
note again?"

"Yes, I hear it. Why do you ask me that?"

"Oh, for no reason at all. It has been there two nights now. That was
all... Thanks, thanks for coming this evening, love. I sat here,
expecting you this evening, or the next, looking forward to it, when you
came."

"And I have been waiting too. I think of you, and I have picked up the
pieces of the glass you upset once, and kept them--do you remember?
Father went away last night. I could not come, there was so much to do
with the packing, and reminding him of things. I knew you were waiting
here in the woods, and I cried, and went on packing."

But it is two evenings, I thought to myself. What was she doing the
first evening? And why is there less joy in her eyes now than before?

An hour passed. The bird up in the hills was silent, the woods lay dead.
No, no, nothing wrong; all as before; she gave me her hand to say
good-night, and looked at me with love in her eyes.

"To-morrow?" I said.

"No, not to-morrow," she answered.

I did not ask her why.

"To-morrow is our party," she said with a laugh. "I was only going to
surprise you, but you looked so miserable, I had to tell you at once. I
was going to send you an invitation all on paper."

And my heart was lightened unspeakably.

She went off, nodding farewell.

"One thing more," said I, standing where I was. "How long is it since
you gathered up the pieces of that glass and put them away?"

"Why--a week ago, perhaps, or a fortnight. Yes, perhaps a fortnight.
But why do you ask? Well, I will tell you the truth--it was yesterday."

Yesterday! No longer ago than yesterday she had thought of me. All was
well again now.

XV

The two boats lay ready, and we stepped on board. Talking and singing.
The place, Korholmerne, lay out beyond the islands; it took a good while
to row across, and on the way we talked, one party with another, from
boat to boat. The Doctor wore light things, as the ladies did; I had
never seen him so pleased before; he talked with the rest, instead of
listening in silence. I had an idea he had been drinking a little, and
so was in good humor to-day. When we landed, he craved the attention of
the party for a moment, and bade us welcome. I thought to myself: This
means that Edwarda has asked him to act as host.

He fell to entertaining the ladies in the most amiable manner. To
Edwarda he was polite and kind, often fatherly, and pedantically
instructive, as he had been so many times before. She spoke of some date
or other, saying: "I was born in '38," and he asked, "Eighteen hundred
and thirty-eight, I suppose you mean?" And if she had answered, "No, in
nineteen hundred and thirty-eight," he would have shown no
embarrassment, but only corrected her again, and said, "I think you must
be mistaken." When I said anything myself, he listened politely and
attentively, and did not ignore me.

A young girl came up to me with a greeting. I did not recognize her; I
could not remember her at all, and I said a few words in surprise, and
she laughed. It was one of the Dean's daughters. I had met her the day
we went to the island before, and had invited her to my hut. We talked
together a little.

An hour or so passed by. I was feeling dull, and drank from the wine
poured out for me, and mixed with the others, chatting with them all.
Again I made a mistake here and there: I was on doubtful ground, and
could not tell at the moment how to answer any little civility; now and
then I talked incoherently, or even found nothing at all to say, and
this troubled me. Over by the big rock which we were using as a table
sat the Doctor, gesticulating.

"Soul--what is the soul?" he was saying. The Dean's daughter had accused
him of being a free-thinker--well, and should not a man think freely?
People imagined hell as a sort of house down under the ground, with the
devil as host--or rather as sovereign lord. Then he spoke of the altar
picture in the chapel, a figure of the Christ, with a few Jews and
Jewesses; water into wine--well and good. But Christ had a halo round
His head. And what was a halo? Simply a yellow hoop fixed on three
hairs.

Two of the ladies clasped their hands aghast, but the Doctor extricated
himself, and said jestingly:

"Sounds horrible, doesn't it? I admit it. But if you repeat it and
repeat it again to yourself seven or eight times, and then think it over
a little, it soon sounds easier... Ladies, your very good health!"

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