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.