Knut Hamsun - The Collected Works of Knut Hamsun

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.

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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.

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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.