Victoria by Knut Hamsun Page B

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.
    It’s winter and cold outside, with fog, dust and wind. Johannes is back in town, in his old room, where he can hear the poplars creak against the woodwork and has greeted the dawn from the window more than once. Now the sun is gone.
    His thoughts had all along been diverted by his work, those large sheets that he covered with writing, of which there were more and more as the winter wore on. It was a series of fairy tales from the land of his fantasy, an endless night with a red sun suffusing the sky.
    But his days varied, the good alternating with the bad, and sometimes when he was working at his best a thought, a pair of eyes, a word from the past would strike him and suddenly break his mood. Then he would get up from his chair and start walking up and down in his room, from wall to wall; he had done this so often that a white track had been worn in the floor, and the track grew whiter every day. . . .
    Today, being unable to work, unable to think, unable to shake off my memories, I begin to write down what happened to me one night. Dear reader, today is one of those terribly difficult days for me. It’s snowing outside, the street is almost deserted, everything is sad, and my soul feels utterly desolate. I have spent hours trying to collect myself a little, walking the streets and afterward pacing up and down in my room, but it’s already afternoon and things are no better. I ought to be warm, but I’m cold and pale as a dying day. Dear reader, in this state I’ll try to write about a thrilling white night. Work will force me to be calm, and in a few hours I may be cheerful again. . . .
    There is a knock on the door and Camilla Seier, his young, secret fiancée, comes in. He puts down his pen and gets up. They smile and say hello.
    “You haven’t asked me about the ball,” she says at once, throwing herself into a chair. “I danced every single dance. It went on till three o’clock in the morning. I danced with Richmond.”
    “Thanks so much for coming, Camilla. I feel so wretchedly low and you’re so cheerful; that will help, don’t you think? And what did you wear at the