Pan — VI-X

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; Æsop 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 Æsop 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.

Æsop 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 Æsop 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.

Æsop, 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...

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.