by Knut Hamsun
Not surprisingly, the novel struck a strong emotional chord among critics and readers alike. A Dane who published a book about Hamsun in 1929 said that, for his generation, Victoria was what Goethe’s Werther had been to youth one hundred years earlier.20 Kurt Wais, the German comparatist, called Victoria a work of unprecedented “emotional resonance,” and Thomas Mann, who read the novel as a young man, named both Victoria and Pan “immortal poems.”21 In a more personal vein, Martin Nag reported that, according to the wife of Mikhail Bulgakov, author of The Master and Margarita, she and her husband found each other through their “shared love of Victoria.”22 Such widespread critical acclaim, together with the empathetic response of readers, testifies to the psychological depth of the work. The reputation of the book has not waned: George Steiner, in a recent review of Hunger, writes that Victoria remains, along with Pan, a “powerful, even seductive text,” and Robert Ferguson includes the novel as one of Hamsun’s “four great novels from the 1890s,”23 a judgment with which I fully concur. Though the tale of Johannes and Victoria is outwardly simple, it encapsulates a dense and diverse texture, with a rich array of themes and motifs—love’s predicament in a class-bound society, erotic passion and artistic creativity, ever-renewed hope followed by disillusionment, zest for life and untoward death. The resulting literary structure, complex and many-voiced, manifests a modernist sensibility and calls for a nuanced response tempering empathy with detachment.
Notes
1 The traditional place of birth has been reported as Garmotrædet, Lom, but Lars Frode Larsen has documented that, although the boy was baptized in Garmo, Lom, where the family had lived, Hamsun had been born in Vågå (Den unge Hamsun [Oslo: Schib sted, 1998], 29).
2 Hamsun describes this part of his childhood experience in the travel book In Wonderland, trans. Sverre Lyngstad (Brooklyn, N.Y.: Ig Publishing), 107-8.
3 Larsen, Den unge Hamsun, 84.
4 Letter to Svend Tveraas of February 29, 1884, in Knut Hamsuns brev, ed. Harald S. Næss, I (Oslo: Gyldendal, 1994): 42; Knut Hamsun, Selected Letters, ed. Harald Næss and James McFarlane, I (Norwich, England: Norvik Press, 1990): 42. Hereafter referred to as Brev and Letters, respectively. The translations of letters not in the English edition are my own.
5 Harald Næss, Knut Hamsun (Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1984), 12-13.
6 Letter to Nikolai Frøsland of January 19, 1886, Brev, I: 53.
7 Hamsun had used the spelling without a “d” in correspondence before the Mark Twain article appeared. See letter to Nikolai Frøsland of January 8, 1885, Brev, I: 57 and note 6, same page; Letters, I: 52, 254.
8 Letter to Erik Frydenlund of September 4, 1886, Brev, I: 69; Letters, I: 58.
9 Letter to Bolette and Ole Larsen of November 1894, Brev, I: 431; Letters, I: 214.
10 Letter to Gerda Welhaven of August 23, 1898, Brev, II (Oslo, 1995): 86.
11 Letter (in English) to Albert Langen of September 27, 1898, Brev, II: 88.
12 Letters to Georg Brandes of Christmas Eve, 1898, Brev, II: 109, and to Albert Langen (in English) of November 20, 1898, Brev, II: 92.
13 See Matt. 3:16.
14 An article by Beverly D. Eddy explores the similarities between Hamsun’s use of color symbolism in Victoria and that of the painter Edvard Munch, whose works of the 1890s as represented by the so-called “Frieze of Life” often strike the viewer as illustrative of Hamsun’s obsessive psychological themes.—“Ham sun’s Victoria and Munch’s Livsfrisen: Variations on a Theme,” Scandinavian Studies 48 (1976): 158-60.
15 Atle Kittang views this as an “Orphic fantasy,” namely, Johannes’ descent into the underworld in search of Victoria.—“Kjærleik, dikting og sosial røyndom: Knut Hamsuns Victoria,” in Litteraturhistoriske problem (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1975), 216.
16 Letters to Georg Brandes of Christmas Eve and November 25, 1898, Brev, II: 109 and 96, note 3; Letters, II (Norwich, England: Norrik Press, 1998): 21.
17 Times Literary Supplement, May 17, 1923, 341; John Updike, “Love as a Standoff,” The New Yorker 45, June 28, 1969, 93.
18 Edwin Muir, “A Great Writer,” The Freeman 7, August 8, 1923, 522.
19 Updike, 94-95.
20 Cai M. Woel, Knut Hamsun (København, 1929), 6.
21 Kurt Wais, “Knut Hamsuns Wandern durch die Welt,” in An den Grenzen der Nationalliteraturen (Berlin, 1958), 265; “Die Weiber am Brunnen” (Prager Presse, January 29, 1922), in Thomas Mann, Gesammelte Werke in zwölf Bänden X: Reden und Aufsätze (Oldenburg, 1960): 621.
22 Martin Nag, Hamsun i russisk åndsliv (Oslo, 1969), 93.
23 George Steiner, in The Observer Review, January 26, 1997; Robert Ferguson, Enigma: The Life of Knut Hamsun (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1987), 177.
Suggestions for Further Reading
Bale, Kjersti. “Hamsuns hvite hest. Om Victoria.” Edda, 1997: 292-302.
Eddy, Beverly D. “Hamsun’s Victoria and Munch’s Livsfrisen: Variations on a Theme.” Scandinavian Studies 48 (1976): 156-168.
Buttry, Dolores. “Music and the Musician in the Works of Knut Hamsun.” Scandinavian Studies 53 (1981): 171-82.
Enright, D. J. “Blossoms and Blood: On Knut Hamsun.” In Man Is an Onion. London: Chatto & Windus, 1972. 52-58.
Evensen, Per Arne. “ ‘L’orgue saigne’ ou le démon de l’ecriture.” Trans. Regis Boyer. In Présence de Hamsun, ed. Regis Boyer and Jean-Marie Paul. Nancy, France: Presses Uni versitaires, 1994. 73-94.
Ferguson, Robert. Enigma: The Life of Knut Hamsun. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1987.
Friese, Wilhelm. “Hamsun und der Jugendstil.” Edda 67 (1967): 427-49.
Fürstenberg, Hilde. Die Frauengestalten in Werk und Leben Knut Hamsuns. Molln in Lauenburg, 1971.
Kittang, Atle. “Kjærleik, dikting og sosial røyndom: Knut Hamsuns Victoria.” In Litteraturhistoriske problem. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1975. 203-33.
Larsen, Hanna Astrup. Knut Hamsun. New York: Knopf, 1922.
McFarlane, James W. “The Whisper of the Blood: A Study of Knut Hamsun’s Early Novels,” PMLA 71 (1956): 563-94.
Næss, Harald. Knut Hamsun. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1984.
Trana, Nils Filip. “Knut Hamsun: Victoria. En analyse.” Thesis, University of Oslo, 1961.
Updike, John. “Love as a Standoff,” The New Yorker 45, June 28, 1969, 90, 93-95.
I
The miller’s son was walking around, thinking. He was a husky fellow of fourteen, tanned with sun and wind and full of all sorts of ideas.
When he grew up he wanted to be a maker of matches. It was so deliciously dangerous; he would get sulphur on his fingers, making everybody afraid to shake hands with him. His comrades would stand in awe of him because of his sinister trade.
He was looking for his birds in the woods. He knew them all, knew where their nests were, understood their cries and answered them with different calls. More than once he had given them pellets of dough made of flour from his father’s mill.
All these trees along the path were friends of his. In the spring he had drawn sap from them, and in the winter he had been almost like a father to them, clearing away the snow so the branches would spring back. And even up in the abandoned granite quarry no stone was a stranger to him; he had cut letters and signs in them and raised them up, arranging them like a congregation around a parson. Ever so many wonderful things were going on in this old quarry.
He turned off the path and came down to the pond. The mill was running, a big, booming noise came at him from every side. He was used to wandering about here talking aloud to himself; every bubble of foam had, as it were, a little life of its own to relate, and over by the sluice the water fell straight down, looking like a bright-colored fabric hung out to dry. In the pond below the fall there were fish; he had stood there with his rod many a time.
When he grew up he wanted to be a diver. That was a sure thing. Then he would go down into the ocean from the deck of a ship and come to strange lands, to kingdoms with swaying for
ests, vast and mysterious, and with a coral palace on the ocean floor. And the princess waves to him from a window and says, Come in!
Then, from behind, he hears his name being called; his father was shouting “Johannes” to him: “They have sent for you at the Castle. You are to row the young folks over to the island!”
He hurried off. A great, new favor had been granted the miller’s son.
In the green landscape, the manor house looked like a small castle—indeed, like a fantastic palace in the solitude. It was a white-painted wooden building with many arched windows in the walls and on the roof, and from its round tower a flag flew whenever the family had visitors. People called it the Castle. Beyond the manor was the bay on one side, and on the other the great forests; in the distance a few small peasant houses could be seen.
Johannes showed up at the quayside and took the young people on board. He knew them from before, they were the Castle children and their city friends. They were all in high boots for wading, except for Victoria, who, wearing only a pair of small dancing shoes and being no more than ten years old anyway, had to be carried ashore when they reached the island.
“Shall I carry you?” Johannes asked.
“May I!” said Otto, a city gentleman of about fifteen, taking her in his arms.
Johannes stood and watched as she was carried ashore, well beyond the water’s edge, and he heard her say thank you. Then Otto said over his shoulder, “You’ll look after the boat, okay. What’s his name anyway?”
“Johannes,” Victoria replied. “Sure, he’ll look after the boat.”
He was left behind. The others headed for the interior of the island, with baskets in their hands for gathering birds’ eggs. He stood awhile pondering; he would have loved to go with the others, the boat could simply have been pulled ashore. Too heavy? It was not too heavy. And grabbing hold of the boat, he pulled it up a way.
He could hear the young people laughing and talking as they started off. All right, ’bye for now. But they could just as well have let him come along. He knew of nests he could have taken them to, curious hidden holes in the cliffs inhabited by birds of prey with bristles on their beaks. Once he had even seen a weasel.
He shoved the boat off and started rowing around to the other side of the island. He had rowed quite a distance when there came a shout: “Row back! You’re scaring the birds.”
“I just wanted to show you where the weasel is,” he replied uncertainly. He waited for a moment. “And how about smoking out the viper’s nest? I’ve brought matches.”
There was no answer. He turned the boat and rowed back to the landing place. He pulled the boat ashore.
When he grew up he would buy an island from the Sultan and forbid all access to it. A gunboat would protect its shores. Your Honor, his slaves would report, a ship is riding on the reef, it has run aground, the young people on board will perish. Let them perish! he replies. Your Honor, they’re calling for help, we can still save them, and there is a woman in white among them. Save them! he commands in a thundering voice. Then, after many years, he sees the Castle children again, and Victoria throws herself at his feet and thanks him for rescuing her. Never mind, it was only my duty, he replies; go freely wherever you wish in my lands. And he orders the castle gates to be opened for the company and regales them with food from golden plates, and three hundred chocolate-colored slave girls sing and dance all night long. But when the Castle children are to leave, Victoria cannot go through with it; she prostrates herself before him and sobs, because she loves him. Let me stay here, do not turn me away, Your Honor, make me one of your slave girls. . . .
He begins to walk quickly across the island, shivering with excitement. All right, he would rescue the Castle children. Who knows, maybe they had gone astray on the island by now? Maybe Victoria had got stuck between two rocks and couldn’t break free? All he had to do was to stretch out his arm and liberate her.
But when he appeared, the children looked at him in amazement. Had he abandoned the boat?
“I hold you responsible for the boat,” Otto said.
“Maybe I could show you where the raspberries are?” Johannes said.
Silence among the company. But Victoria jumped at it. “Really? Where would that be?”
But the city gentleman quickly got hold of himself and said, “This is not the time to concern ourselves with that.”
“I also know where we can find mussels,” Johannes said.
Another silence.
“Are there pearls in them?” Otto asked.
“What if there were!” Victoria said.
Johannes replied that he knew nothing about that, but the mussels were way out, on the white sand. You needed a boat, and you had to dive for them.
Then the idea was thoroughly laughed down, and Otto remarked, “A fine diver you would make!”
Johannes began to breathe hard. “If you like, I can climb that cliff over there and roll a large stone into the sea,” he said.
“What for?”
“Oh, for nothing. Well, you could watch me.”
But this suggestion wasn’t accepted either and, mortified, Johannes fell silent. Then he started looking for eggs far away from the others, in another part of the island.
When the whole party was again gathered down by the boat, Johannes had many more eggs than the others; he carried them carefully in his cap.
“How come you found so many?” the city gentleman asked.
“I know where the nests are,” Johannes replied happily. “I’m putting them together with yours, Victoria.”
“Stop!” Otto yelled. “Why?”
Everyone looked at him. Otto pointed at the cap and asked, “Who can assure me that that cap is clean?”
Johannes didn’t say a word. His happiness was suddenly gone. He began to wend his way back across the island with the eggs.
“What’s the matter with him? Where is he going?” Otto says impatiently.
“Where are you going, Johannes?” Victoria calls and runs after him.
Stopping, he answers quietly, “I’m putting the eggs back in the nests.”
They stood awhile looking at each other.
“And this afternoon I’m going up to the quarry,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
“I could show you the cave.”
“But I’m so scared,” she replied. “You said it was so dark.”
Then Johannes smiled, for all his sadness, and said bravely, “Yes, but I’ll be with you, you know.”
He had always played in the old granite quarry.
People had heard him talk as he worked up there, although he was alone; sometimes he had been a parson and held a service.
The place had long since been abandoned; moss was growing on the rocks, and almost all traces left by drills and wedges had been erased. But the miller’s son had cleared the interior of the secret cave and decorated it with great artfulness, and there he lived as chieftain of the world’s most daring robber band.
He rings a silver bell. A little manikin, a dwarf with a diamond clip in his cap, hops in. This is his valet. He prostrates himself before him. When Princess Victoria comes you will show her in! Johannes says in a loud voice. The dwarf prostrates himself once more and disappears. Johannes stretches himself easefully on the soft divan and ponders. That’s where she would be seated, while he offered her elegant dishes from receptacles of gold and silver; the cave would be illuminated by a blazing fire, and deep inside, behind a heavy curtain of gold brocade, her bed would be made, guarded by twelve knights. . . .
Johannes gets up, crawls out of the cave and listens. There is a rustle among the twigs and leaves on the path. “Victoria!” he calls.
“Yes,” comes the reply.
He goes to meet her. “I don’t think I dare,” she says.
Rocking his shoulders, he answers, “I’ve just been there. I came back this minute.”
They enter the cave. He motions her to sit down on a stone and says, “T
hat’s the stone the giant sat on.”
“Ooh, not another word, don’t tell me! Weren’t you scared?”
“No.”
“You said he had only one eye, but it’s the trolls who have that.”
Johannes thought it over. “He had two eyes, but he was blind in one of them. He told me so himself.”
“What more did he say? No, don’t tell me!”
“He asked me if I would enter his service.”
“Oh, but surely you wouldn’t? God forbid!”
“Well, I didn’t say no. Not definitely.”
“Are you mad! Do you want to be locked up inside the mountain?”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s miserable here on earth too.”
Pause.
“After those city boys came, you’ve been with them all the time,” he says.
Another pause.
“Still, you know, I’m stronger than any of them for carrying you and for lifting you out of the boat,” Johannes continues. “I’m sure I could stand holding you for a whole hour. Look!”
