Victoria: A Love Story

by Knut Hamsun

  He sent the letter by messenger.

  V

  Fall came. Victoria had gone home, and the small, out-of-the-way street lay there as before, with its houses and its silence. In Johannes’ room the lamp burned through the night. It was lighted in the evening when the stars came out and was put out at the crack of dawn. He was working tirelessly, writing his big book.

  Weeks and months passed; he was alone and called on nobody, he never went to the Seiers’ anymore. Often his imagination played crazy tricks on him, messing up his book with irrelevant fancies that later had to be erased and trashed. This set him back a great deal. A sudden noise in the nocturnal silence, the rumble of a carriage in the street, would give his thinking a jolt and throw it off course.

  Make way for this carriage in the street, watch out!

  Why? Why should one watch out for this carriage? It rolled past, by now it may be at the corner. Perhaps a man is in the way; coatless and hatless, he stands there bent forward, meeting the carriage head-on—he’ll be run over, irreparably injured, killed. The man wants to die, that’s his affair. He no longer buttons his shirt, has stopped lacing his shoes in the morning, and goes about with everything open, his chest bare and emaciated; he is to die. . . . A man lying at death’s door wrote a letter to his friend, a note, a small request. The man died, leaving this letter. It had a date and a signature, it was written with capital and small letters, though he who wrote it was to die within the hour. It was so strange. He had even made the usual flourish under his name. And an hour later he was dead. . . . There was another man. He lies alone in a small room, painted blue and with wood paneling. So what? Oh, nothing. In the whole wide world, he’s the one who is going to die. Preoccupied by this, he thinks about it to the point of exhaustion. He can see it is evening, that the clock on the wall says eight, and he can’t figure out why it doesn’t strike. The clock doesn’t strike. Actually, it’s a few minutes past eight and it keeps on ticking, but it doesn’t strike. Poor man, his brain is already going to sleep, the clock has struck and he didn’t notice. He pricks a hole in his mother’s picture on the wall—what does he want with this picture now, and why should it remain whole when he’s gone? His weary eyes fall on the flowerpot on the table and, stretching out his hand, he slowly and deliberately pulls the large flowerpot to the floor, where it goes to pieces. Why should it stand there, whole? Then he throws his amber cigarette holder out the window. What does he need that for anymore? It seems quite obvious that it doesn’t have to be left behind. And in a week the man was dead. . . .

  Johannes stands up and paces the floor, up and down. His neighbor in the next room wakes up, his snoring has stopped and a sigh, a pained groan, is heard. Johannes tiptoes over to the table and sits down again. The wind whistles through the poplars outside his window, making him feel cold. The old poplars are stripped of their leaves and look like miserable freaks of nature; some gnarled branches grinding against the wall produce a creaking sound, like a wooden machine, a cracked stamping mill that runs and runs.

  He casts his eyes down at his papers and reads them through. To be sure, his imagination has led him astray again. He has nothing to do with death or with a passing carriage. He’s writing about a garden, about a lush, green garden near his home, the Castle garden. That is what he’s writing about. It’s dead and covered with snow now, and yet that is what he’s writing about, and it isn’t winter with snow at all, but spring with fragrance and mild breezes. And it’s evening. The lake below is still and deep, it’s like a leaden sea; there’s a scent of lilacs, hedge after hedge is in bud or green with foliage, and the air is so still that you can hear the blackcock’s mating call across the bay. In one of the garden walks stands Victoria, alone, dressed in white, with twenty summers behind her. There she stands. Her figure is taller than the tallest rosebushes; she’s looking out over the lake to the woods, toward the sleeping mountains in the distance. She appears like a white spirit in the middle of the green garden. Footsteps are heard from the road, she takes a few steps forward, down to the hidden pavilion, leans her elbows on the garden wall and looks downward. The man on the road doffs his hat, nearly sweeping the ground with it, and nods to her. She nods back. The man looks about him; seeing no spies around, he takes a few steps toward the wall. She falls back, crying, No, no! She also wards him off with her hand. Victoria, he says, what you once told me was absolutely true, I shouldn’t have deluded myself, because it is impossible. Yes, she replies, but what then do you want? He’s now quite close to her, only the wall separates them as he answers, What I want? Well, you see, I just want to stand here a minute. It’s the last time. I want to be as close to you as possible; now I’m not so far away! She is silent. The minute passes. Good night, he says, and again he doffs his hat and nearly sweeps the ground with it. Good night, she answers. And he leaves without looking back. . . .

  What did he have to do with death? He crumples the scribbled sheet and tosses it over to the stove, where also other papers covered with writing are waiting to be burned—mere fleeting fancies of an overflowing imagination. And he writes again about the man in the road, a wandering gentleman who gave his greeting and then said good-bye when his minute was up. Remaining in the garden was the young girl of twenty, dressed in white. She wouldn’t have him, well and good. But he had stood by the wall behind which she lived. He was that close to her once.

  Again weeks and months went by and spring came around. The snow was already gone, and the expanse of space, from the sun to the moon, resounded with a roar as of released waters. The swallows had come back, and in the woods outside the city there awakened a bustling life of all kinds of jumping creatures, and of birds chirping in strange tongues. A fresh, sweetish smell rose from the earth.

  Johannes’ work has occupied him all winter. The dry branches of the poplars had creaked against the wall like a sailor’s chantey night and day; now spring has come, the storms are past, and the stamping mill has ground to a halt.

  He opens the window and looks out; the street is already quiet though it’s not yet midnight, the stars twinkle from a cloudless sky: tomorrow promises to be a clear, warm day. He can hear the rumble of the city, which mingles with the ceaseless roar from afar. Suddenly there is the piercing sound of a railroad whistle, the signal of the night train; it sounds like a lone cock crow in the silent night. The time has come for work—this train whistle has been like a signal to him all winter.

  And he closes the window and sits down at the table again. He tosses aside the books he has been reading and gets out his papers. He picks up his pen.

  His long work is nearly finished, only the concluding chapter is lacking, a sort of salute from a departing ship, and it is already there, in his head:A gentleman sits in a wayside inn; he is just passing through on a long, long journey. His hair and beard are gray, the years have left their mark on him; but he’s still big and strong and hardly as old as he looks. His carriage is outside, the horses are resting, the coachman is happy and contented; he has been wined and dined by the stranger. When the gentleman checks in, the innkeeper recognizes his name and bows to him, doing him great honor. Who lives at the Castle now? the gentleman asks. The captain, the innkeeper replies, he’s very rich; the lady is kind to everyone. To everyone? the gentleman asks himself, smiling mysteriously, even to me? And he starts writing something on a piece of paper, and when it’s finished he reads it through; it’s a poem, serene and sad, but with many bitter words. Afterward, however, he tears the paper up, and he continues to sit there tearing the paper up even more. Then there is a knock on his door and a woman dressed in yellow enters. She lifts her veil, it’s the mistress of the Castle, Lady Victoria. She has a majestic air about her. The gentleman rises abruptly, his dark soul illumined as by a spear fisher’s flash the same instant. You are so kind to all, he says bitterly, you even come to me. Instead of answering, she simply stands there gazing at him, her face turning crimson. What do you want? he asks, just as bitterly as before. Have you come to rem
ind me of the past? If so, gracious lady, it will be the last time, for now I’m leaving forever. The young mistress of the Castle still doesn’t answer, but her lips quaver. If it isn’t enough for you that I acknowledged my folly once, he says, then listen, I’ll do it again: My heart was yours, but I wasn’t worthy of you. Are you satisfied now? He continues with increasing vehemence: You refused me, you took another; I was a peasant, a bear, a barbarian who in his youth strayed onto the royal preserve! But then the gentleman flops down in a chair, sobbing and pleading, Oh, go away! Forgive me and go! By now all color has faded from the lady’s face. Then she says, articulating her words slowly and clearly: I love you; do not misunderstand me anymore, you are the one I love. Good-bye! And that was the young mistress of the Castle; she hid her face in her hands and made a quick exit. . . .

  He puts down his pen and leans back. Good, period, the end. There lies the book, all those pages covered with writing, nine months’ labor. The completion of his work gives him a warm thrill of satisfaction. And as he sits there looking through the window at the crack of dawn, his head throbs and buzzes and his mind goes on working. His heart is full, and his brain is like an unhar vested wild garden in which vapors are rising from the earth.

  In some mysterious way he has come to a deep, deserted valley where no living thing can be found. In the distance, alone and abandoned, an organ is playing. He walks closer, he examines it; the organ is bleeding, blood flows from its side as it plays. Farther on, he comes to a market square. It is completely empty, no trees can be seen and no sounds are heard, it’s simply an empty square. But there are footprints in the sand, and the last words spoken there still seem to hover in the air, so it was abandoned very recently. He’s caught up in an eerie sensation: these words hovering in the air over the square frighten him, they close in on him, oppress him. He fends them off, but they come back— they are not words but old men, a group of old men dancing; he can see them now. Why are they dancing, and why are they not the least bit joyful when they dance? A cold wind blows from this company of old men; they don’t see him, they’re blind, and when he calls to them they don’t hear him, they are dead. He wanders east, toward the sun, and comes to a mountain. A voice cries, Are you near a mountain? Yes, he replies, I’m standing near a mountain. Then the voice says, The mountain you’re standing at is my foot; I’m lying bound at the ends of the earth, come and release me! And so he sets off for the ends of the earth. At a bridge he is waylaid by a man who collects shadows; the man is formed of musk. He is seized by a chilling horror at the sight of this man, who wants to take away his shadow. He spits at him and threatens him with clenched fists, but the man remains motionless, waiting for him. Turn around! cries a voice behind him. He turns and sees a head rolling down the road, showing him the way. It is a human head, and now and then it gives a soundless laugh. He follows it. It rolls for days and nights and he follows it; at the seashore it slips into the ground and hides. He wades out into the sea and dives. He’s standing at a huge gate, where he meets a large barking fish. Its neck has a mane, and it barks at him like a dog. Behind the fish stands Victoria. He stretches out his hands toward her; she has no clothes on and gives him a smile, and a gale blows through her hair. Then he calls to her, he hears his own scream—and wakes up.

  Johannes gets up and goes over to the window. It is almost daylight, and in the little mirror on the windowsill he can see that his temples are flushed. He puts out the lamp and reads once more, by the gray light of day, the last page of his book. Then he goes to bed.

  By late afternoon that same day Johannes had paid the rent, delivered his manuscript and left town. He had gone abroad, no one knew where.

  VI

  The big book appeared—a kingdom, a small world astir with moods, voices, and visions. It was sold, read, and put away. A few months went by; when fall came Johannes launched another book. What now? Suddenly his name was on everybody’s lips, he was lucky; the new book was written far away, at a great distance from the goings-on at home, and it was still and strong, like wine:Dear reader! This is the story of Didrik and Iselin. Written in the good days, a time of small sorrows when everything was easy to bear, written with the best will in the world about Didrik, whom God smote with love.

  Johannes was in foreign parts, nobody knew where. More than a year passed before anyone learned about it.

  “I think there is somebody at the door,” says the old miller one evening.

  He and his wife sit quietly and listen.

  “No, there’s no one,” she says. “It’s ten o’clock, almost nighttime.”

  Several minutes go by.

  Then there is a hard, resolute knock, as if someone needed to pluck up courage for it. The miller opens the door. The young lady from the Castle stands outside.

  “Don’t be alarmed, it’s only me,” she says, smiling timorously. She steps in; she’s offered a chair but doesn’t sit down. She has only a shawl over her head and small, low shoes on her feet, though it isn’t yet spring and the roads aren’t dry.

  “I only wanted to let you know that the Lieutenant will be coming this spring,” she says. “The Lieutenant, my fiancé. And he may be hunting woodcock out this way. I just wanted to let you know, so you wouldn’t be worried.”

  The miller and his wife look at the young lady in surprise. This was the first time they had ever been warned when visitors at the Castle would go hunting in field and forest. They thank her humbly; how very kind of her!

  Victoria steps back to the door.

  “That’s all. You people were old, I thought there would be no harm in letting you know.”

  “How nice of you to think of us!” the miller says. “And now you’ve gotten your feet all wet, in those small shoes.”

  “No, the road is dry,” she says shortly. “I was taking this walk anyway. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She unlatches the door and steps out. In the doorway she turns around and asks, “By the way, have you heard from Johannes?”

  “No, not a word. Thanks for asking. Nothing.”

  “He’ll be coming soon, no doubt. I thought you might have some news from him.”

  “No, not since last spring. Johannes is supposed to be abroad.”

  “Yes, abroad. He’s doing well. He says in a book that he’s living in a time of small sorrows. So he must be doing well.”

  “Ah, God knows. We’re waiting for him; but he doesn’t write to us, or to anyone. We can only wait for him.”

  “He’s probably doing better where he is, since his sorrows are small. Well, that’s his business. I only wanted to know if he would be coming home this spring. Good night again.”

  “Good night.”

  The miller and his wife follow her out. They watch her returning to the Castle, head held high, stepping over the puddles on the soggy road in her tiny shoes.

  A couple of days later there is a letter from Johannes. He will be home in just over a month, after finishing yet another book. He has had a nice long spell of fruitful work, a new volume was nearly completed, his brain had been teeming with all the world’s life. . . .

  The miller sets out for the Castle. On the way he finds a handkerchief; it’s marked with Victoria’s initials, she must have dropped it the other evening.

  The young lady is upstairs, but a maid offers to take the message—what was it about?

  The miller declines to say. He prefers to wait.

  At last the young lady appears. “I understand you wish to speak to me,” she says, opening the door to a room.

  The miller walks in, hands her the handkerchief and says, “We’ve had a letter from Johannes.”

  Her face lights up for an instant, a fleeting instant. “Thank you,” she says. “Yes, the handkerchief is mine.”

  “He’ll be coming home,” the miller goes on in a near whisper.

  Her face assumes a chilly expression. “Speak up, miller; who’s coming?” she says.

  “Johannes.”

 
“Johannes. Well, what then?”

  “Oh, it was just . . . We figured I ought to let you know. My wife and I discussed it, and she thought so too. You asked the other day if he would be coming home this spring. Well, he’s coming.”

  “That must make you very happy,” the young lady says. “When is he coming?”

  “In a month.”

  “I see. And there wasn’t anything else?”

  “No. We just thought that since you asked . . . No, there wasn’t anything else. Only this.”

  The miller had again lowered his voice.

  She sees him out. In the hallway they meet her father, and she says to him in passing, loudly and nonchalantly, “The miller tells me that Johannes is coming home. You remember Johannes, don’t you?”

  And the miller walks out through the Castle gate, promising himself never, never again to be a fool and listen to his wife when she claimed to understand hidden things. And he means to let her know.

  VII

  At one time he had wanted to cut down the slender rowan tree by the millpond to make a fishing rod; now many years had passed, and the tree had become thicker than his arm. He looked at it in wonder and walked on.

  Along the river, the impenetrable jungle of ferns still flourished, a veritable forest through which the cattle had trampled regular paths, now arched over by the overhanging fern fronds. He fought his way through the thicket as in his childhood days, swimming with his hands and feeling his way with his feet. Insects and crawling things fled before the enormous man.

  Up by the granite quarry he found blackthorn, white anemones and violets. He picked a few, their familiar fragrance called him back to days gone by. The hills of the neighboring parish showed blue in the distance, and across the bay the cuckoo started calling.

  He sat down; shortly he began humming. Then he heard footsteps on the path.