Victoria: A Love Story

by Knut Hamsun

  They were on their way home.

  “And do you remember that large medallion you gave me? It was quite thick, heavy with gold, and it came with a mount. Inside, the medallion had some kind words you’d written.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Camilla, when I was abroad last year I gave the medallion away.”

  “Oh no, you did? Imagine, giving it away! Why?”

  “I gave it to a young friend of mine, as a memento. He was a Russian. He fell on his knees and thanked me for it.”

  “Did it make him that happy? Goodness, he must’ve been fabulously happy, falling on his knees and all! I’ll give you another medallion instead, to keep for yourself.”

  They had reached the road leading from the mill to the Castle.

  Johannes stopped. “Something happened to me once near this thicket,” he said. “I was taking a walk one evening, as I often did then, being very lonely, and it was summer with a clear sky. I lay down behind the thicket to think. Then two people came quietly walking along the road. The woman stopped. Her companion asked, ‘Why are you stopping?’ When he didn’t get an answer, he asked again, ‘Is something the matter?’ ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but you mustn’t look at me like that.’ ‘I was simply looking at you,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ she answers, ‘I know perfectly well that you love me, but Papa won’t allow it, you see; it’s impossible. ’ ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ he murmurs. Then she says, ‘You’re so broad there, on your hand; you have such unusually broad wrists!’ And she closes her hand over his wrist.”

  Pause.

  “Well, what happened?” Camilla asked.

  “That I don’t know,” Johannes answered. “Why did she say that thing about his wrists?”

  “Perhaps they looked nice. And then there was his white shirt right next to them—oh yes, I quite understand. Maybe she was in love with him too.”

  “Camilla!” he said. “If I was very much in love with you and waited a few years, I’m only asking . . . In a word, I’m not worthy of you, but do you think you could be mine some day, if I asked you next year, or two years from now?”

  Pause.

  Camilla, having suddenly turned crimson with confusion, twists her graceful figure back and forth and clasps her hands. He puts his arm around her and asks, “Do you think you could some day? Would you?”

  “Yes,” she answers, letting her body fall against his.

  The following day he walks her to the pier. He kisses her small hands with their childlike, innocent expression and is filled with gratitude and joy.

  Victoria hadn’t come along.

  “Why didn’t anyone come with you?”

  With terror in her eyes, Camilla relates that the Castle was plunged in the most dreadful grief. A telegram had arrived that morning, the master had turned white as a sheet, the old chamberlain and his wife had cried out in pain—Otto had been shot and killed on the hunt yesterday evening.

  Johannes clutched Camilla’s arm. “Dead? The Lieutenant?”

  “Yes. They are on the way here with the body. It’s awful.”

  They walked on, absorbed in their own thoughts; they were brought back to reality only by the people on the pier, the ship, and the shouts of command. Shyly, Camilla gave him her hand, which he kissed, saying, “Well, Camilla, I’m not worthy of you, not in the least. But I’ll do my best to make you happy, if you will be mine.”

  “I want to be yours. I’ve wanted it all along, all along.”

  “I’ll be coming in a few days,” he said. “In a week I’ll see you again.”

  She was on board. He waved to her, keeping it up until he could no longer make her out. When he turned to go home, Victoria was standing behind him; she too was holding up her handkerchief and waving good-bye to Camilla.

  “I was a bit late,” she said.

  He didn’t answer. What could he say? Console her for her loss, congratulate her, press her hand? Her voice was so toneless and her face so distraught, bearing the marks of a wrenching experience.

  People were leaving the pier.

  “Your eye is still red,” she said, starting to walk away. She looked back over her shoulder.

  He hadn’t moved.

  Then she quickly turned around and went up to him.

  “Otto is dead,” she said harshly, her eyes blazing. “You don’t say a word, you’re so superior. He was a hundred thousand times better than you, do you hear? Do you know how he died? He was shot, his whole head was blown to pieces, his whole stupid little head. He was a hundred thousand . . .”

  Bursting into sobs, she started on her way with long, despairing steps.

  Late that evening there is a knock at the miller’s; Johannes opens the door and looks out: Victoria is standing outside, beckoning to him. He follows her. She clutches his hand and leads him up to the road; her hand is cold as ice.

  “You’d better sit down,” he said. “Sit down and rest awhile; you are all nerves.”

  They sit down.

  “What must you think of me, not being able to leave you alone for a moment!” she murmurs.

  “You’re very unhappy,” he says. “Now, Victoria, listen to me and compose yourself. Can I help you with anything?”

  “For heaven’s sake, you must forgive me for what I said this morning!” she begs him. “Yes, I’m very unhappy, I’ve been unhappy for years. I said he was a hundred thousand times better than you; it wasn’t true, forgive me! He’s dead, and he was my fiancé, that’s all. Do you imagine it was of my own free will? Johannes, do you see this? It’s my engagement ring, I got it a long time ago, a long, long time ago; now I’m throwing it away—throwing it away!” And she throws the ring into the woods; they both hear it fall. “It was Papa who wanted it. Papa is poor, he’s an absolute beggar, and Otto would come into so much money one day. ‘You must do it,’ Papa told me. ‘I won’t,’ I replied. ‘Think of your parents,’ he said, ‘think of the Castle, our ancient name, my honor.’ ‘All right, then I’ll do it,’ I replied. ‘Wait three years and I’ll do it.’ Papa thanked me and waited, Otto waited, they all waited; but I got the ring right away. Then a long time passed, and I came to realize it was no use. ‘Why wait any longer? Bring me my husband,’ I told Papa. ‘God bless you,’ he said, thanking me again for what I was about to do. And Otto came. I didn’t go to meet him on the pier, I stood at my window and saw him drive up. Then I rushed to Mama’s room and went down on my knees before her. ‘What’s wrong, my child?’ she asks. ‘I can’t,’ I reply, ‘I can’t take him; he’s here, he’s standing downstairs. I’d rather we insure my life and I’ll be lost in the bay or the waterfall, that’s better for me.’ Mama turns deathly pale and weeps over me. Papa comes in. ‘Now then, Victoria, my dear,’ he says, ‘it’s time you come down and welcome him.’ ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ I answer and repeat what I’d said, that he should have mercy on me and insure my life. Papa doesn’t utter a word but sits down all in a tremor, trying to think. When I see that I say, ‘Bring me my husband, I’ll take him.’ ”

  Victoria pauses. She’s shaking. Johannes takes her other hand too and warms it.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Johannes, please hold my hand tight! Please! God, how warm you are! I’m so grateful to you. But you must forgive me for what I said on the pier.”

  “Oh, that was forgotten long ago. Would you like me to get you a shawl?”

  “No, thanks. But I can’t understand why I’m shivering when my head is so hot. Johannes, I ought to ask your forgiveness for so many things—”

  “No, no, don’t. There, now you’re calmer. Sit still.”

  “You spoke, you gave a speech for me. I didn’t know what I was doing from the moment you got up until you sat down again; I only heard your voice. It was like an organ, and the fact that it charmed me so made me desperate. Papa asked me why I’d screamed and interrupted you; he felt very bad about it. But Mama didn’t ask, she understood. I’d told Mama everything, I told her years ago, and I repeated it two years ago when I retur
ned from the city. That was the time I met you.”

  “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “No, but forgive me, do you hear, be merciful! What in the world am I to do? There’s Papa at home, pacing up and down in his office; it’s so awful for him. Tomorrow is Sunday; he has decided to let the servants have the day off, that’s the only decision he has made today. His face is gray and he doesn’t speak, that’s how his son-in-law’s death affects him. I told Mama I was going to you. ‘You and I must both go to the city with the chamberlain and his wife tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m going to Johannes,’ I repeated. ‘Papa can’t find money for all three of us, he’s staying on here,’ she said; then she went on talking about other things. I walked to the door. Mama looked at me. ‘I’m going to him now,’ I said for the last time. Mama followed me to the door, kissed me and said, ‘God bless you both, then!’ ”

  Johannes let go of her hands and said, “There, you’re warm now.”

  “Thanks so much, yes, now I’m quite warm. . . . ‘God bless you both,’ she said. I told Mama everything, she has known all along. ‘But darling, whom then do you love, my child?’ she asked. ‘You can still ask about that?’ I said. ‘Johannes is the one I love, he’s the only one I’ve loved all my life, loved, loved. . . .’ ”

  He made a movement. “It’s late. Don’t you think they’ll start worrying about you at home?”

  “No,” she said. “You know it’s you I love, Johannes; you must have seen that? I’ve longed for you so terribly during these years, more than anybody would ever understand. I’ve walked along this road and thought, Now I’ll keep to the woods near the road, that’s where he preferred to walk. And that’s what I do. The day I heard you’d come home I put on a light dress, light yellow; I was sick with suspense and longing and kept walking in and out of every door. ‘How radiant you look today! ’ Mama said. I was saying to myself all the time, ‘He has come home again! He’s gorgeous and he’s back—that’s him!’ The next day I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I put on my light dress again and went up to the quarry to meet you. Do you remember? And I did meet you, but I didn’t pick flowers, as I said, that was not what I came for. You were no longer glad to see me again, but thanks anyway for the chance to meet you. I hadn’t seen you for over two years. You had a twig in your hand and were swishing it in the air when I came; after you left I picked up the twig, hid it, and took it home with me—”

  “Yes, but Victoria,” he said in a trembling voice, “you mustn’t say such things to me anymore.”

  “No,” she replied anxiously and seized his hand. “No, I mustn’t. I can see you don’t like me to.” She began patting his hand nervously. “No, I can’t really expect you to. And besides, I’ve hurt you ever so much. Don’t you think you’ll be able to forgive me sometime?”

  “Oh yes, everything. It’s not that.”

  “What is it then?”

  Pause.

  “I’m engaged,” he said.

  X

  The following day—a Sunday—the Castle proprietor came to the miller in person and asked him to show up around noon and drive Lieutenant Otto’s body to the steamer. The miller didn’t understand and stared at him, but the proprietor explained briefly that all his hired people had been given the day off; they had gone to church, none of the servants were home.

  The proprietor had apparently not slept the night before, he looked cadaverous and, what’s more, was unshaven. Yet, he swung his cane in his usual way and held himself erect.

  The miller put on his best coat and was off. When he had hitched up the horses, the master himself helped him carry the body out to the carriage. It was all done quietly, almost secretively; no observer was present.

  The miller drove off to the pier. He was followed by the chamberlain and his wife, in addition to the lady of the house and Victoria. They were all on foot. The master could be seen standing alone on the steps, waving repeated good-byes; the wind ruffled his gray hair.

  When the body had been brought on board, the mourners followed. From the ship’s rail, the mistress called to the miller on shore, asking him to say good-bye to the master for them, and Victoria asked him the same.

  The ship steamed off. The miller followed it with his eyes for a long while. There was a strong wind and the bay was rough; it was a quarter of an hour before the ship disappeared behind the islands. The miller drove home.

  He stabled the horses, fed them, and was about to go in and bring the master the ladies’ good wishes. However, the back entrance happened to be locked. He walked round the house and tried to get in by the main entrance; the front door was locked too. It’s the dinner hour and the master is taking a nap, he thought. But being a punctilious man who liked to fulfill his promises, he went down to the servants’ hall looking for someone to whom he could deliver the message. There wasn’t a soul around. He went out again, searched all over, even strayed into the maids’ room. There was no one there either. The whole place was deserted.

  He was just about to leave when he noticed a gleam of light in the Castle basement. He stopped short. Through the small barred windows he could clearly see a man entering the basement with a lighted candle in one hand and a silk-upholstered red chair in the other. It was the master. He had shaved and was wearing evening dress, as if for a celebration. Maybe I could knock on the window and pass on his wife’s good wishes that way, the miller thought, but he remained where he was.

  The master looked around, shone the light about him and looked around. He pulled out a sack which seemed to contain hay or grain stalks and put it by the entrance. Then he poured some liquid over the sack from a can. Next, he brought some crates, straw, and a discarded flower-stand up to the door and sprayed it all from the can. The miller noticed that he took great pains not to dirty his fingers or his clothes while doing this. He took the candle stub, placed it on top of the sack, and carefully packed straw around it. Then he sat down in the chair.

  His eyes glued to the basement window, the miller grew more and more thunderstruck as he stared at these preparations, and a dark suspicion entered his soul. The master sat quite still in his chair, watching the candle burn lower and lower; he kept his hands folded. The miller sees him flick a speck of dust from the black sleeve of his tailcoat and fold his hands again.

  Then the horrified old miller lets out a scream.

  The master turns his head and looks out the window. Suddenly he leaps to his feet and comes to the window, where he stops to stare outside. His eyes mirror all the world’s suffering. His mouth oddly twisted, he reaches toward the window with a pair of clenched fists, threateningly, without a word; in the end he threatens with only one hand and backs away across the basement floor. When he bumps into the chair, the candle tips over. Instantly a huge flame leaps up.

  The miller screams and takes flight. For a moment he rushes about the yard frantic with terror and at his wits’ end. He runs up to the basement window, kicks the panes to pieces and cries out; then he bends down, grips the iron bars with his fists and tugs at them, bending them and ripping them out.

  At that point he hears a voice coming from the basement, a voice without words, a groan, as if from a dead man underground; when he hears it again, the horror-struck miller flees from the window, across the yard, down the road and home. He didn’t dare look back.

  When he arrived on the scene with Johannes a few minutes later, the entire Castle, that grand old wooden house, was a sea of flames. A couple of men from the pier had also come, but they were equally unable to do anything. All was lost.

  But the miller’s lips were silent as the grave.

  XI

  Asked what love is, some will say it is nothing but a wind whispering among the roses and then dying down. But often it is like an unbreakable seal that holds for a lifetime, until death. God created it of many different kinds and has seen it endure or perish:

  Two mothers walk along the road talking together. One is dressed in cheerful blue because her lover has just returned
from a journey. The other is in mourning. She had three daughters, two dark, the third one blond, and the blond one died. It’s been ten years since, ten whole years, and still the mother wears mourning for her.

  “What a glorious day!” exclaims the mother in blue, rejoicing and clapping her hands. “I’m drunk with the warmth, I’m drunk with love, I’m filled with happiness. I could strip myself naked right here, on the road, stretch out my arms to the sun and blow it a kiss.”

  But the woman in black is silent and neither smiles nor answers.

  “Are you still mourning your little girl?” asks the one in blue in the innocence of her heart. “Hasn’t it been ten years since she died?”

  “Yes,” the one in black replies. “She would’ve been fifteen now.”

  To console her, the one in blue says, “But you have other daughters, alive, you still have two left.”

  “Yes,” the one in black sobs, “but neither of them is blond. She who died was so blond.”

  And the two mothers part and go their separate ways, each with her love. . . .

  But these same two dark daughters also had each their love, and they loved the same man.

  He came to the elder one and said, “I would like to ask your advice, because I love your sister. Yesterday I was unfaithful to her, she surprised me kissing your maid in the hallway; she gave a little cry, a mere whimper, and passed on. What shall I do now? I love your sister, speak to her for heaven’s sake and help me!”

  The elder sister turned pale and clutched at her heart; but she smiled as if about to bless him and answered, “I’ll help you.”

  The next day he went to the younger sister, threw himself on his knees before her and confessed his love.

  She gave him the once-over and said, “I’m afraid I cannot spare more than a ten-krone note, if that’s what you mean. But go to my sister, she has more.”

  And with that she left him, tossing her head.

  But when she reached her room she threw herself on the floor and wrung her hands for love.