countrymen call stemning, poorly rendered by the English “atmosphere.”  The epilogue is disproportionately long; the portion written as by another hand is all too recognizably in the style of the rest.  And with all his chivalrous sacrifice and violent end, Glahn is at best a quixotic hero.  Men, as men, would think him rather a fool, and women, as women, might flush at the thought of a cavalier so embarrassingly unrestrained.  He is not to be idolized as a cinema star, or the literary gymnastic hero of a perennial Earl’s Court Exhibition set to music on the stage.  He could not be truthfully portrayed on a flamboyant wrapper as at all seductively masculine.  In a word, he is neither a man’s man nor a woman’s man.  But he is a human being, keenly susceptible to influence which most of us have felt, in some degree.

Closely allied to Pan is Victoria, likewise a story of conflict between two lovers.  The actual plot can only be described as hackneyed.  Girl and boy, the rich man’s daughter and the poor man’s son, playmates in youth, then separated by the barriers of social standing—­few but the most hardened of “best-sellers” catering for semi-detached suburbia would venture nowadays to handle such a theme.  Yet Hamsun dares, and so insistently unlike all else is the impress of his personality that the mechanical structure of the story is forgotten.  It is interspersed with irrelevant fancies, visions and imaginings, a chain of tied notes heard as an undertone through the action on the surface.  The effect is that of something straining towards an impossible realization; a beating of wings in the void; a striving for utterance of things beyond speech.

Victoria is the swan-song of Hamsun’s subjective period.  Already, in the three plays which appeared during the years immediately following Pan, he faces the merciless law of change; the unrelenting “forward” which means leaving loved things behind.  Kareno, student of life, begins his career in resolute opposition to the old men, the established authorities who stand for compromise and resignation.  For twenty years he remains obstinately faithful to his creed, that the old men must step aside or be thrust aside, to make way for the youth that will be served.  “What has age that youth has not?  Experience.  Experience, in, all its poor and withered nakedness.  And what use is their experience to us, who must make our own in every single happening of life?” In Aftenroede, the “Sunset” of the trilogy, Kareno himself deserts the cause of youth, and allies himself to the party in power.  And the final scene shows him telling a story to a child:  “There was once a man who never would give way....”