Pan by Knut Hamsun

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Silence. A fir cone falls dully to the ground. A fir cone fell! I think
to myself. The moon is high, the fire flickers over the half-burned
brands and is dying. And in the late night I wander home.

The second iron night; the same stillness and mild weather. My soul is
pondering. I walk mechanically over to a tree, pull my cap deep down
over my eyes, and lean against that tree, with hands clasped behind my
neck. I gazed and think; the flame from my fire dazzles my eyes, and I
do not feel it. I stand in that stupor for a while, looking at the fire;
my legs fail me first, and grow tired; thoroughly stiff, I sit down. Not
till then do I think of what I have been doing. Why should I stare so
long at the fire?

Asop lifts his head and listens; he hears footsteps; Eva appears among
the trees.

"I am very thoughtful and sad this evening," I say.

And in sympathy she makes no answer.

"I love three things," I go on. "I love a dream of love I once had; I
love you; and I love this spot of ground."

"And which do you love most?"

"The dream."

All still again. Asop knows Eva; he lays his head on one side and looks
at her. I murmur:

"I saw a girl on the road to-day; she walked arm in arm with her lover.
The girl looked towards me, and could scarcely keep from laughing as I
passed."

"What was she laughing at?"

"I don't know. At me, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"Did you know her?"

"Yes. I bowed."

"And didn't she know you?"

"No, she acted as if she didn't know me... But why do you sit there
worming things out of me? It is not a nice thing to do. You will not get
me to tell you her name."

Pause.

I murmur again:

"What was she laughing at? She is a flirt; but what was she laughing at?
What had I done to harm her?"

Eva answers:

"It was cruel of her to laugh at you."

"No, it was not cruel of her," I cry. "How dare you sit there speaking
ill of her? She never did an unkind thing; it was only right that she
should laugh at me. Be quiet, devil take you, and leave me in peace--do
you hear?"

And Eva, terrified, leaves me in peace. I look at her, and repent my
harsh words at once; I fall down before her; wringing my hands.

"Go home, Eva. It is you I love most; how could I love a dream? It was
only a jest; it is you I love. But go home now; I will come to you
to-morrow; remember, I am yours; yes, do not forget it. Good-night."

And Eva goes home.

* * * * *

The third iron night, a night of extremes! tension. If only there were
a little frost! Instead, still heat after the sun of the day; the night
is like a lukewarm marsh. I light my fire...

"Eva, it can be a delight at times to be dragged by the hair. So
strangely can the mind of a man be warped. He can be dragged by the hair
over hill and dale, and if asked what is happening, can answer in
ecstasy: 'I am being dragged by the hair!' And if anyone asks: 'But
shall I not help you, release you?' he answers: 'No.' And if they ask:
'But how can you endure it?' he answers: 'I can endure it, for I love
the hand that drags me.' Eva, do you know what it is to hope?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Look you, Eva, hope is a strange thing, a very strange thing. You can
go out one morning along the road, hoping to meet one whom you are fond
of. And do you? No. Why not? Because that one is busy that morning--is
somewhere else, perhaps... Once I got to know an old blind Lapp up in
the hills. For fifty-eight years he had seen nothing, and now he was
over seventy. It seemed to him that his sight was getting better little
by little; getting on gradually, he thought. If all went well he would
be able to make out the sun in a few years' time. His hair was still
black, but his eyes were quite white. When we sat in his hut, smoking,
he would tell of all the things he had seen before he went blind. He
was hardy and strong; without feeling, indestructible; and he kept his
hope. When I was going, he came out with me, and began pointing in
different ways. 'There's the south,' he said, 'and there's north. Now
you go that way first, and when you get a little way down, turn off that
way.' 'Quite right,' I said. And at that the Lapp laughed contentedly,
and said: 'There! I did not know that forty or fifty years back, so I
must see better now than I used to--yes, it is improving all the time.'
And then he crouched down and crept into his hut again--the same old
hut, his home on earth. And he sat down by the fire as before, full of
hope that in some few years he would be able to make out the sun...
Eva, 'tis strange about hope. Here am I, for instance, hoping all the
time that I may forget the one I did not meet on the road this
morning..."

"You talk so strangely."

"It is the third of the iron nights. I promise you, Eva, to be a
different man to-morrow. Let me be alone now. You will not know me again
to-morrow, I shall laugh and kiss you, my own sweet girl. Just
think--only this one night more, a few hours--and then I shall be a
different man. _Godnat_, Eva."

_"Godnat."_

I lie down closer to the fire, and look at the flames. A pine cone falls
from the branch; a dry twig or so falls too. The night is like a
boundless depth. I close my eyes.

After an hour, my senses begin swinging in a certain rhythm. I am
ringing in tune with the great stillness--ringing with it. I look at the
half-moon; it stands in the sky like a white scale, and I have a feeling
of love for it; I can feel myself blushing. "It is the moon!" I say
softly and passionately; "it is the moon!" and my heart strikes toward
it in a soft throbbing. So for some minutes. It is blowing a little; a
stranger wind comes to me a mysterious current of air. What is it? I
look round, but see no one. The wind calls me, and my soul bows
acknowledging the call; and I feel myself lifted into the air, pressed
to an invisible breast; my eyes are dewed, I tremble--God is standing
near, watching me. Again several minutes pass. I turn my head round; the
stranger wind is gone, and I see something like the back of a spirit
wandering silently in through the woods...

I struggle a short while with a heavy melancholy; I was worn out with
emotions; I am deathly tired, and I sleep.

* * * * *

When I awoke the night was past. Alas, I had been going about for a long
time in a sad state, full of fever, on the verge of falling down
stricken with some sickness or other. Often things had seemed upside
down. I had been looking at everything through inflamed eyes. A deep
misery had possessed me.

It was over now.

XXV

It was autumn. The summer was gone. It passed as quickly as it had come;
ah, how quickly it was gone! The days were cold now. I went out shooting
and fishing--sang songs in the woods. And there were days with a thick
mist that came floating in from the sea, damming up everything behind a
wall of murk.

One such day something happened. I lost my way, blundered through into
the woods of the annexe, and came to the Doctor's house. There were
visitors there--the young ladies I had met before--young people dancing,
just like madcap foals.

A carriage came rolling up and stopped outside the gate; Edwarda was in
it. She started at sight of me. "Good-bye," I said quietly. But the
Doctor held me back. Edwarda was troubled by my presence at first, and
looked down when I spoke; afterwards, she bore with me, and even went so
far as to ask me a question about something or other. She was strikingly
pale; the mist lay grey and cold upon her face. She did not get out of
the carriage.

"I have come on an errand," she said. "I come from the parish church,
and none of you were there to-day; they said you were here. I have been
driving for hours to find you. We are having a little party
to-morrow--the Baron is going away next week--and I have been told to
invite you all. There will be dancing too. To-morrow evening."

They all bowed and thanked her.

To me, she went on:

"Now, don't stay away, will you? Don't send a note at the last minute
making some excuse." She did not say that to any of the others. A little
after she drove away.

I was so moved by this unexpected meeting that for a little while I was
secretly mad with joy. Then I took leave of the Doctor and his guests
and set off for home. How gracious she was to me, how gracious she was
to me! What could I do for her in return? My hands felt helpless; a
sweet cold went through my wrists. _Herregud!_ I thought to myself, here
am I with my limbs hanging helpless for joy; I cannot even clench my
hands; I can only find tears in my eyes for my own helplessness. What is
to be done about it?

It was late in the evening when I reached home. I went round by the quay
and asked a fisherman if the post-packet would not be in by to-morrow
evening. Alas, no, the post-packet would not be in till some time next
week. I hurried up to the hut and began looking over my best suit. I
cleaned it up and made it look decent; there were holes in it here and
there, and I wept and darned them.

When I had finished, I lay down on the bed. This rest lasted only a
moment. Then a thought struck me, and I sprang up and stood in the
middle of the floor, dazed. The whole thing was just another trick! I
should not have been invited if I had not happened to be there when the
others were asked. And, moreover, she had given me the plainest possible
hint to stay away--to send a note at the last moment, making some
excuse...

I did not sleep all that night, and when morning came I went to the
woods cold, sleepless, and feverish. Ho, having a party at Sirilund!
What then? I would neither go nor send any excuse. Herr Mack was a very
thoughtful man; he was giving this party for the Baron; but I was not
going--let them understand that! ...

The mist lay thick over valley and hills; a clammy rime gathered on my
clothes and made them heavy, my face was cold and wet. Only now and then
came a breath of wind to make the sleeping mists rise and fall, rise and
fall.

It was late in the afternoon, and getting dark; the mist hid everything
from my eyes, and I had no sun to show the way. I drifted about for
hours on the way home, but there was no hurry. I took the wrong road
with the greatest calmness, and came upon unknown places in the woods.
At last I stood my gun against a tree and consulted my compass. I marked
out my way carefully and started off. It would be about eight or nine
o'clock.

Then something happened.

After half an hour, I heard music through the fog, and a few minutes
later I knew where I was: quite close to the main building at Sirilund.
Had my compass misled me to the very place I was trying to avoid? A
well-known voice called me--the Doctor's. A minute later I was being led
in.

My gun-barrel had perhaps affected the compass and, alas, set it wrong.
The same thing has happened to me since--one day this year. I do not
know what to think. Then, too, it may have been fate.

XXVI

All the evening I had a bitter feeling that I should not have come to
that party. My coming was hardly noticed at all, they were all so
occupied with one another; Edwarda hardly bade me welcome. I began
drinking hard because I knew I was unwelcome; and yet I did not go away.

Herr Mack smiled a great deal and put on his most amiable expression; he
was in evening dress, and looked well. He was now here, now there,
mingling with his half a hundred guests, dancing one dance now and then,
joking and laughing. There were secrets lurking in his eyes.

A whirl of music and voices sounded through the house. Five of the rooms
were occupied by the guests, besides the big room where they were
dancing. Supper was over when I arrived. Busy maids were running to and
fro with glasses and wines, brightly polished coffee-pots, cigars and
pipes, cakes and fruit. There was no sparing of anything. The
chandeliers in the rooms were filled with extra-thick candles that had
been made for the occasion; the new oil lamps were lit as well. Eva was
helping in the kitchen; I caught a glimpse of her. To think that Eva
should be here too!

The Baron received a great deal of attention, though he was quiet and
modest and did not put himself forward. He, too, was in evening dress;
the tails of his coat were miserably crushed from the packing. He talked
a good deal with Edwarda, followed her with his eyes, drank with her,
and called her Froken, as he did the daughters of the Dean and of the
district surgeon. I felt the same dislike of him as before, and could
hardly look at him without turning my eyes away with a wretched silly
grimace. When he spoke to me, I answered shortly and pressed my lips
together after.

I happen to remember one detail of that evening. I stood talking to a
young lady, a fair-haired girl; and I said something or told some story
that made her laugh. It can hardly have been anything remarkable, but
perhaps, in my excited state, I told it more amusingly than I remember
now--at any rate, I have forgotten it. But when I turned round, there
was Edwarda standing behind me. She gave me a glance of recognition.

Afterwards I noticed that she drew the fair girl aside to find out what
I had said. I cannot say how that look of Edwarda's cheered me, after I
had been going about from room to room like a sort of outcast all the
evening; I felt better at once, and spoke to several people, and was
entertaining. As far as I am aware, I did nothing awkward or wrong...

I was standing outside on the steps. Eva came carrying some things from
one of the rooms. She saw me, came out, and touched my hands swiftly
with one of hers; then she smiled and went in again. Neither of us had
spoken. When I turned to go in after her, there was Edwarda in the
passage, watching me. She also said nothing. I went into the room.

"Fancy--Lieutenant Glahn amuses himself having meetings with the
servants on the steps!" said Edwarda suddenly, out loud. She was
standing in the doorway. Several heard what she said. She laughed, as
if speaking in jest, but her face was very pale.

I made no answer to this; I only murmured:

"It was accidental; she just came out, and we met in the passage..."

Some time passed--an hour, perhaps. A glass was upset over a lady's
dress. As soon as Edwarda saw it, she cried:

"What has happened? That was Glahn, of course."

I had not done it: I was standing at the other end of the room when it
happened. After that I drank pretty hard again, and kept near the door,
to be out of the way of the dancers.

The Baron still had the ladies constantly round him. He regretted that
his collections were packed away, so that he could not show them--that
bunch of weed from the White Sea, the clay from Korholmerne, highly
interesting stone formations from the bottom of the sea. The ladies
peeped curiously at his shirt studs, the five-pointed coronets--they
meant that he was a Baron, of course. All this time the Doctor created
no sensation; even his witty oath, _Dod og Pinsel_, no longer had any
effect. But when Edwarda was speaking, he was always on the spot,
correcting her language, embarrassing her with little shades of meaning,
keeping her down with calm superiority.

She said:

"... until I go over the valley of death."

And the Doctor asked:

"Over what?"

"The valley of death. Isn't that what it's called--the valley of death?"

"I have heard of the river of death. I presume that is what you mean."

Later on, she talked of having something guarded like a ...

"Dragon," put in the Doctor.

"Yes, like a dragon," she answered.

But the Doctor said:

"You can thank me for saving you there. I am sure you were going to say
Argus."

The Baron raised his eyebrows and looked at the Doctor in surprise
through his thick glasses, as if he had never heard such ridiculous
things. But the Doctor paid no heed. What did he care for the Baron?

I still lurked by the door. The dancers swept through the room. I
managed to start a conversation with the governess from the vicarage. We
talked about the war, the state of affairs in the Crimea, the happenings
in France, Napoleon as Emperor, his protection of the Turks; the young
lady had read the papers that summer, and could tell me the news. At
last we sat down on a sofa and went on talking.

Edwarda, passing, stopped in front of us. Suddenly she said:

"You must forgive me, Lieutenant, for surprising you outside like that.
I will never do it again."

And she laughed again, and did not look at me.

"Edwarda," I said, "do stop."

She had spoken very formally, which meant no good, and her look was
malicious. I thought of the Doctor, and shrugged my shoulders
carelessly, as he would have done. She said:

"But why don't you go out in the kitchen? Eva is there. I think you
ought to stay there."

And there was hate in her eyes.

I had not been to parties often; certainly I had never before heard such
a tone at any of the few I had been to. I said:

"Aren't you afraid of being misunderstood, Edwarda?"

"Oh, but how? Possibly, of course, but how?"

"You sometimes speak without thinking. Just now, for instance, it
_seemed_ to me as if you were actually telling me to go to the kitchen
and stay there; and that, of course, must be a misunderstanding--I know
quite well that you did not intend to be so rude."

She walked a few paces away from us. I could see by her manner that she
was thinking all the time of what I had said. She turned round, came
back, and said breathlessly:

"It was no misunderstanding, Lieutenant; you heard correctly--I did tell
you to go to the kitchen."

"Oh, Edwarda!" broke out the terrified governess.

And I began talking again about the war and the state of affairs in the
Crimea; but my thoughts were far distant. I was no longer intoxicated,
only hopelessly confused. The earth seemed fading from under my feet,
and I lost my composure, as at so many unfortunate times before. I got
up from the sofa and made as if to go out. The Doctor stopped me.

"I have just been hearing your praises," he said.

"Praises! From whom?"

"From Edwarda. She is still standing away off there in the corner,
looking at you with glowing eyes. I shall never forget it; her eyes were
absolutely in love, and she said out loud that she admired you."

"Good," I said with a laugh. Alas, there was not a clear thought in my
head.

I went up to the Baron, bent over him as if to whisper something--and
when I was close enough, I spat in his ear. He sprang up and stared
idiotically at me. Afterwards I saw him telling Edwarda what had
occurred; I saw how disgusted she was. She thought, perhaps, of her shoe
that I had thrown into the water, of the cups and glasses I had so
unfortunately managed to break, and of all the other breaches of good
taste I had committed; doubtless all those things flashed into her mind
again. I was ashamed. It was all over with me; whichever way I turned, I
met frightened and astonished looks. And I stole away from Sirilund,
without a word of leave-taking or of thanks.

XXVII

The Baron is going away. Well and good: I will load my gun, go up into
the hills, and fire a salvo in his honour and Edwarda's. I will bore a
deep hole in a rock and blow up a mountain in his honour and Edwarda's.
And a great boulder shall roll down the hillside and dash mightily into
the sea just as his ship is passing by. I know a spot--a channel down
the hillside--where rocks have rolled before and made a clean road to
the sea. Far below there is a little boat-house.

"Two mining drills," I say to the smith.

And the smith whets two drills...

Eva has been put to driving back and forth between the mill and the
quay, with one of Herr Mack's horses. She has to do a man's work,
transporting sacks of corn and flour. I meet her; her face is
wonderfully fresh and glowing. Dear God, how tender and warm is her
smile! Every evening I meet her.

"You look as if you had no troubles, Eva, my love."

"You call me your love! I am an ignorant woman, but I will be true to
you. I will be true to you if I should die for it. Herr Mack grows
harsher and harsher every day, but I do not mind it; he is furious, but
I do not answer him. He took hold of my arm and went grey with fury.
One thing troubles me."

"And what is it that troubles you?" "Herr Mack threatens you. He says to
me: 'Aha, it's that lieutenant you've got in your head all the time!' I
answer: 'Yes, I am his.' Then he says: 'Ah, you wait. I'll soon get rid
of him.' He said that yesterday."

"It doesn't matter; let him threaten..." And with closed eyes she
throws her arms about my neck. A quiver passes through her. The horse
stands waiting.

XXVIII

I sit up in the hills, mining. The autumn air is crystal about me. The
strokes of my drill ring steady and even. Asop looks at me with
wondering eyes. Wave after wave of content swells through my breast. No
one knows that I am here among the lonely hills.

The birds of passage have gone; a happy journey and welcome back again!
Titmouse and blackcap and a hedge-sparrow or so live now alone in the
bush and undergrowth: tuitui! All is so curiously changed--the dwarf
birch bleeds redly against the grey stones, a harebell here and there
shows among the heather, swaying and whispering a little song: sh! But
high above all hovers an eagle with outstretched neck, on his way to the
inland ridges.

And the evening comes; I lay my drill and my hammer in under the rock
and stop to rest. All things are glooming now. The moon glides up in the
north; the rocks cast gigantic shadows. The moon is full; it looks like
a glowing island, like a round riddle of brass that I pass by and wonder
at. Asop gets up and is restless.

"What is it, Asop? As for me, I am tired of my sorrow; I will forget it,
drown it. Lie still, Asop, I tell you; I will not be pestered. Eva asks:
'Do you think of me sometimes?' I answer: 'Always.' Eva asks again: 'And
is it any joy to you, to think of me?' I answer: 'Always a joy, never
anything but a joy.' Then says Eva: 'Your hair is turning grey.' I
answer: 'Yes, it is beginning to turn grey.' But Eva says: 'Is it
something you think about, that is turning it grey?' And to that I
answer: 'Maybe.' At last Eva says: 'Then you do not think only of me...'
Asop, lie still; I will tell you about something else instead..."

But Asop stands sniffing excitedly down towards the valley, pointing,
and dragging at my clothes. When at last I get up and follow, he cannot
get along fast enough. A flush of red shows in the sky above the woods.
I go on faster; and there before my eyes is a glow, a huge fire. I stop
and stare at it, go on a few steps and stare again.

My hut is ablaze.

XXIX

The fire was Herr Mack's doing. I saw through it from the first. I lost
my skins and my birds' wings, I lost my stuffed eagle; everything was
destroyed. What now? I lay out for two nights under the open sky,
without going to Sirilund to ask for shelter. At last I rented a
deserted fisher-hut by the quay. I stopped the cracks with dried moss,
and slept on a load of red horseberry ling from the hills. Once more my
needs were filled.

Edwarda sent me a message to say she had heard of my misfortune and that
she offered me, on her father's behalf, a room at Sirilund. Edwarda
touched! Edwarda generous! I sent no answer. Thank Heaven, I was no
longer without shelter, and it gave me a proud joy to make no answer to
Edwarda's offer. I met her on the road, with the Baron; they were
walking arm in arm. I looked them both in the face and bowed as I
passed. She stopped, and asked:

"So you will not come and stay with us, Lieutenant?"

"I am already settled in my new place," I said, and stopped also.

She looked at me; her bosom was heaving. "You would have lost nothing
by coming to us," she said.

Thankfulness moved in my heart, but I could not speak.

The Baron walked on slowly.

"Perhaps you do not want to see me any more," she said.

"I thank you, Edwarda, for offering me shelter when my house was
burned," I said. "It was the kinder of you, since your father was hardly
willing." And with bared head I thanked her for her offer.

"In God's name, will you not see me again, Glahn?" she said suddenly.

The Baron was calling.

"The Baron is calling," I said, and took off my hat again respectfully.

And I went up into the hills, to my mining. Nothing, nothing should
make me lose my self-possession any more. I met Eva. "There, what did I
say?" I cried. "Herr Mack cannot drive me away. He has burned my hut,
and I already have another hut..." She was carrying a tar-bucket and
brush. "What now, Eva?"

Herr Mack had a boat in a shed under the cliff, and had ordered her to
tar it. He watched her every step--she had to obey.

"But why in the shed there? Why not at the quay?" "Herr Mack ordered it
so..

"Eva, Eva, my love, they make a slave of you and you do not complain.
See! now you are smiling again, and life streams through your smile, for
all that you are a slave."

When I got up to my mining work, I found a surprise. I could see that
someone had been on the spot. I examined the tracks and recognised the
print of Herr Mack's long, pointed shoes. What could he be ferreting
about here for? I thought to myself, and looked round. No one to be
seen--I had no suspicion.

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