Pan — XI-XVI
XI
In the night I heard Æsop 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!
” And he knelt on the grass before the two ladies, and instead of taking his hat off and laying it before him he held it straight up in the air with one hand, and emptied his glass with his head bent back.
I was altogether carried away by his wonderful ease of manner, and would have drunk with him myself but that his glass was empty.
Edwarda was following him with her eyes.
I placed myself near her, and said: “Shall we play '_Enke_' to-day?
” She started slightly, and got up.
“Be careful not to say '_Du_' to each other now,” she whispered.
Now I had not said “_Du_” at all.
I walked away.
Another hour passed.
The day was getting long; I would have rowed home alone long before if there had been a third boat; Æsop lay tied up in the hut, and perhaps he was thinking of me.
Edwarda's thoughts must surely be far away from me; she talked of how lovely it would be to travel, and see strange places; her cheeks flushed at the thought, and she even stumbled in her speech: “No one could be more happier than I the day ...
” “'More happier'...?
” said the Doctor.
“What?
” said she.
“'More happier.'
” “I don't understand.
” “You said 'more happier,' I think.
” “Did I?
I'm sorry.
No one could be happier than I the day I stood on board the ship.
Sometimes I long for places I do not know myself.
” She longed to be away; she did not think of me.
