Knut Hamsun’s Victoria

1,012 words

Through the eyes of a commoner, the life of an aristocrat may seem blissful and otherworldly. At least, that’s how it must have been in Knut Hamsun’s day when he wrote Victoria. As his second novel, it was originally entitled Bjørger when it was published in Norway in 1878, but was adapted twenty years later into Victoria, an uncommon love story with a common theme: lovers separated by the chasm of class. As with his masterful Growth of the Soil, Hamsun deals with archetypes rather than peculiar characters, at least at first. Johannes, the miller’s son, is a big, strong boy full of ideas. At fourteen, he dreams of working at a matchstick factory because with all that flammable stuff everywhere, it would be “pleasantly dangerous.” Or he could be a diver, exploring the ocean deep with beautiful mermaids. He also holds a candle for Victoria, the local landowner’s daughter. She’s ten and lives in the nearby yet inaccessible castle with her family.

We first meet our protagonists when Johannes is asked to row Victoria and her friends to a nearby island. He knows every fascinating spot on the island, from where one can find mussels to where one can smoke out an adder’s nest. With a keen eye on Victoria, he offers his services as a tour guide, but is largely ignored—except by Victoria, who seems oddly interested in the lumbering lad. Unfortunately, Otto, another child of the upper class, is there, and he literally sweeps Victoria off her feet to carry her from the boat to the island. The supercilious Otto doesn’t even know Johannes’ name and does not care to learn it. Johannes becomes frustrated and bitter, but knows better than to show his true emotions.

Therein begins their love, and the life of obfuscations, obstructions, and missed opportunities, which Johannes and Victoria must endure. Either she pursues him and he rebuffs her, or vice versa.

Over the years, the pair grows apart, but closer in heart. Their love persists but remains unconsummated as Johannes becomes educated and ultimately a successful writer. His miraculous diving rescue of a young girl who had fallen from a ship further enhances his fame and esteem. Meanwhile, Victoria and her family must keep a devastating secret: They are descending into bankruptcy. Hamsun subtly manages this switch in archetypes as the commoner grows into a great man, and the wealthy heiress is forced to contemplate mediocrity. Victoria is presented with a choice: Marry Otto, who has become a decorated soldier and will save their struggling family, or help preside over her family’s ruin. Of course, she cannot share this dilemma with Johannes, which further frustrates both. Coincidences and unexpected happenstance then seem to conspire against them, putting their love to a test more stringent that anyone has a right to undergo. Ultimately, Victoria must make a heartbreaking and irreversible decision, one which will have grave consequences for our lovers.

If it seems that I’m giving out spoilers, I’m not. So much of the enjoyment of this wonderful little novel comes from the sweet, torturous suspense generated by all the false starts and earnest reproaches of this doomed couple. And Hamsun handles it as it he’s writing myth—a modern myth, in which the characters gradually transform from familiar archetypes into three-dimensional, idiosyncratic individuals, driven by an often desperate hope and wizened by time and worry. How much does our capacity for love spring from something noble, altruistic, and divine in our hearts? And how much of it results from mere selfishness and fear of loneliness or poverty? Up until the very end, Hamsun leaves us guessing. But he provides a clue in the following enigmatic anecdote, inserted towards the end of his story:

Asked what love is, some reply: It is only a wind whispering among the roses and dying away. But often it is an inviolable seal that endures for life, endures till death. God has fashioned it of many kinds and seen it endure or perish.

Two mothers were walking along a road talking together. One was dressed in joyful blue because her lover had returned from a journey. The other was dressed in mourning. She had three daughters, two dark and one fair, and the fair one had died. That was ten years ago, ten whole years, and still the mother mourned for her.

“How glorious it is today!” cried the mother in blue, exulting and clapping her hands. “I am drunk with the warmth, I am drunk with love, I am filled with happiness. I could tear off all my clothes, here in the roads, and stretch out my arms to the sun and send him kisses.”

But she in black held her peace, neither smiling nor answering.

“Are you mourning still for your little girl?” asked the one in blue in the innocence of her heart. “Is it not ten years since she died?”

The one in black answered: “Yes. She would have been fifteen now.”

Then, to console her, the one in blue said: “But you have other daughters living, you still have two.”

The one in black sobbed: “Yes, but neither of them is fair. She who died was so fair.”

And the two mothers parted and went their separate ways, each with her love . . .

As much as I want to, I won’t give away the ending. Presenting it here will only diminish its immediacy when the reader later experiences it for himself. But I will say this: for such a short novel of a mere 170 wide-margined pages, it packs a punch far above the story’s weight class. What I want is for others to also read it and be struck by its revelation, its cruelty, and its redemptive power. And then we can talk about it. As a novelist myself, I am in awe that Hamsun had even come up with it. It exemplifies all that I look for in literature—narrative moments which embody all the pain, euphoria, and mystery of life. For such poignant moments, readers can do no better than Knut Hamsun’s Victoria.