The Seducer

The Mystery

And remember, promise me you will remember, in the midst of all this, how Jonas Wergeland dwelt on the Norwegian landscape in his programme on Knut Hamsun, a programme which also provided him with a golden opportunity for shots of the country’s natural wonders, although a lot of people were surprised at the way in which he did this. Jonas was never in any doubt as to what constituted Knut Hamsun’s key story, the one story which in its own special way shed a revealing light on his life: his meeting with Adolf Hitler. Because Hamsun would never have met Hitler had he not been a great writer. Nor would he have met him had he not sympathized with the Nazis. His meeting with Hitler was an extreme situation which highlighted most clearly the extremes of Hamsun’s own character, the breadth of this most vexatious of all Norwegian authors.

Jonas Wergeland focussed, therefore, on the writer during his last and possibly his most amazing journey to foreign parts, into the heart of darkness, so to speak. Hamsun was eighty-three years old — that in itself is astonishing — and had been attending the German minister of propaganda’s press congress in Vienna. Hamsun had then been invited to meet with Adolf Hitler and duly found himself at Berghof, the Führer’s renowned headquarters in Obersalzberg near Berchtesgaden in Austria. It was Saturday June 26th 1943, the time 2.00 p.m.. The two shook hands, author and dictator, and Wergeland showed this handshake in slow motion, over and over again, the close-up of their hands, as if to emphasize the irrefutability, the irrevocability of this event which shocked so many Norwegians to the roots of their being.

Jonas cheated a little with the setting. There were eight people in the drawing-room at Berghof, but he showed only three: the two protagonists plus assistant secretary Holmbo, who had acted as interpreter, and to save having to reconstruct that remarkable room with all its paintings and tapestries, its oak beams and heavy furniture, he seated the three of them with their teacups right up against the ten metre long panorama window in the gable end, overlooking the valley, and he replaced the view from this window, which should in fact have shown Unterberg and Berchtesgaden, with a glimpse of Salzburg in the distance, with long, almost dreamlike panning shots of the Norwegian landscape, an effect achieved by allowing the camera to almost drift off through the window occasionally, while Hamsun and Hitler were conversing, to present shots of the scenery of north Norway, from Kjerringøy with its beautifully preserved trading post, Kråkmotinden, snub-nosed and majestic — it was at the foot of this mountain that Hamsun had written The Fruits of the Soil, spellbinding, sweeping shots of Lofotveggen, and from Hamarøy, of Hamarøyskaftet in particular, rearing high into the air like a brazen old codpiece, as refractory as Hamsun himself. These sequences were run to the accompaniment of readings from Pan, descriptions of nature, and even though Jonas was well aware of the high cliché factor in this, he could not stop himself, the temptation was simply too great. This was also the only occasion in the Thinking Big series when he consciously set out to woo the public. And it did not fail, could not fail, what with the almost unbelievable landscape of northern Norway and Hamsun’s magical words from Pan. These passages went down particularly well abroad, quite taking the viewers’ breath away, they made the whole programme — in fact they paved the way for all the later programmes in the series. What saved these scenic interludes, however, from being run-of-the-mill, was the ‘impossible’ aspect, the fact that they were viewed from a balcony near Berchtesgaden in Austria. It was as if Jonas wished to hint at the connection between an extreme landscape and an extreme situation. Either that or the paradox of it: the contrast.

In order to underline this paradoxical aspect still further, Jonas did not reconstruct any of the extraordinary dialogue, forty-five minutes of it, during which Hamsun, instead of chatting about the art of writing, spoke out provocatively on such subjects as Norwegian shipping and the political future of Norway in general, in many ways an attack on Reich Commissar Terboven and an attempt to have him removed, while Hitler persisted in beating about the bush and evading the issues. In the programme all one heard in the background was a low murmur on two different levels: Hamsun’s high-pitched voice — he was all but deaf — and Hitler’s droning attempt to hog the conversation. Thus, in spite of everything, one was given the clear impression of a conflict: an old man, despairing and deeply moved, continually interrupting to insist on a point, and a dictator who was being contradicted and not getting his own way, growing more and more annoyed, raging inwardly — an outstanding scene in itself, worth dwelling on for that alone. According to Dr Dietrich, Hitler’s press secretary for twelve years, who was present in the room, only one man had ever gainsaid Hitler, the most powerful man in the world: the Norwegian writer Knut Hamsun.

Instead of reconstructing the conversation, Jonas accompanied this scene with voice-overs of what other writers had said about Knut Hamsun. So, while watching the Norwegian writer and the German leader, one of the most hated people in the world at that time, viewers heard various actors reciting what such diverse authors as Selma Lagerlöf, Johannes V. Jensen, Maxim Gorky, Boris Pasternak, H.G. Wells, Rebecca West, André Gide, Ernest Hemingway, Henry Miller, Isaac B. Singer, Stefan Zweig, Hermann Hesse and Thomas Mann had written or said about Knut Hamsun, each tribute more glowing than the one before, to the point where it became almost embarrassing, it being nigh on impossible for any Norwegian to imagine that one of their own could have meant so much to so many of the world’s great writers, nay, that he could have been one of most eminent literary figures of the twentieth century.

The truly outrageous thing about the Hamsun programme, a direct consequence of those paradoxical interludes, was Jonas Wergeland’s suggestion that there might be another way of interpreting a person’s character. What Jonas did, you see, as the old writer — in the shape of Normann Vaage — sat there in his dark pinstripe suit, with the NS badge in his buttonhole and one hand on his cane, was to have him undergo a metamorphosis, one which in many ways followed the same shifts that can be detected in Hamsun’s works. Viewers compared this to the ‘heads-bodies-legs’ pictures of their childhood, or with twisting the end of a kaleidoscope, since some parts of the picture remained the same in each frame, while at the same time the picture as a whole changed. By dint of trick photography, and with the help of NRK’s excellent props department, which played a vital part in the Thinking Big series, Normann Vaage’s clothes and makeup changed from one instant to the next in such a way that he not only portrayed all of Hamsun’s many occupations and roles in life — shop assistant, actor, vagabond, road worker, gambler, tram conductor, farmer — but also the characters from Hamsun’s books. So while Hamsun was sitting there talking to Hitler, in between the panorama shots of northern Norway viewers saw him switch identity, becoming by turns the first-person narrator of Hunger, much as he had looked in Per Oscarsson’s rendering, Lieutenant Glahn, Johannes, the miller’s son, Benoni, Tobias Holmengraa from Segelfoss Town, Isak Sellenrå, August or Abel Brodersen from The Ring is Closed in a brown Ulster with his tie all askew. But first and last he was seen as Johan Nilsen Nagel from Mysteries, with his yellow suit and violin case, the most incomprehensible and bizarre of all Hamsun’s characters. Jonas also had Hitler undergo a slow transformation from the Führer, in a double-breasted grey jacket to the humpbacked manikin, the Minute, thus leaving one with a suspicion that there was talk here of a meeting, outside of time and space, between the visionary and his demon.

For Jonas, this meeting with Hitler illustrated what lay at the very heart of Hamsun’s work: the ambiguity, the juggling with lies that turn out to be true, and truths that turn out to be lies. And, not least, it illustrated Hamsun’s greatest achievement: his vision of the complexity of the human consciousness. After all, how was it possible: to be so stubborn, to fight for what one knows to be a lost cause, to do something as monstrous as shake the hand of the very Devil? By and large, Jonas detected a distinct resemblance between Hamsun and his fictional characters, almost all of whom lacked consistency, who refused to be pigeonholed by such terms as ‘identity’ or ‘set personality’; on the contrary, they were unpredictable, they could set the world on fire one day and retire to a mountaintop to meditate the next. They were many. And many people at once.

While working on the series, Jonas Wergeland became almost obsessed with Hamsun, since it seemed that through Hamsun he had been brought face to face with a problem with which he had been battling all his life, one that Gabriel Sand had put him on the track of in the saloon of an old lifeboat, with his mention of ‘his good friend’ Niels Bohr and the latter’s lecture in Como. For both Hamsun himself and his characters were as much of a puzzle as light: that agency which the physicists of the twentieth century had spent so much time and energy in studying and which they believed to take the form of particles one moment and waves the next. Thus, in Hamsun’s case, Jonas Wergeland felt moved to make some reference to Niels Bohr and the concept of complementarity: an obscure concept but one which hinted, nonetheless, that there were two sides to a story — two mutually exclusive aspects, both of which might nonetheless be necessary in order to arrive at a full understanding of the phenomenon. In other words, where the particle and wave properties of light were concerned, it was a matter of looking at light in two different ways at once. And of breaking out of an ingrained and rigid mindset.

This proved to be Jonas’s key to Hamsun. The writer showed him what a little way we have come in terms of understanding a man, or how the pieces of a life fit together. In studying Hamsun, Jonas discovered how dangerous it could be to hang onto some time-honoured psychological theory, to saddle an individual with an identity, a persona, an essence: and equally dangerous to cherish the belief that there has to be some sort of continuity, a thread running through life, as if without this comfort one were liable to become lost in a maze. Such notions prevented one from imagining that there could also be leaps, that there could be interruptions in a life, that it might not hang together at all, at any rate not in the way one thought. So it was with Hamsun. It was only when one held him transfixed, in a still shot, so to speak, that he became either a Nazi sympathizer or the great writer. But Hamsun was both at the same time and something more, something you could never quite put your finger on; and it was this, this great and unsettling enigma, which so few Norwegians seemed able to come to terms with. In the presence of Adolf Hitler, Norway’s worst enemy, Hamsun set out to plead Norway’s cause, tried to do something for Norway, for the people of Norway: a moral endeavour in the midst of immorality, good and evil merging into one. If one is to gain any insight into a man like Hamsun, it is necessary, as Niels Bohr demonstrated in his field, to forsake classic perceptions and plain language. Anyone who says he can think about Hamsun without his head spinning is simply giving away the fact that he has not understood the first thing about Hamsun. It is paradoxical — but also very comforting — that an author, a wordsmith, should constitute a mystery that defies description.

And yet this is exactly what Hamsun’s books are all about: writing the impossible. And it was this that inspired Jonas Wergeland to attempt something similar in his television programme, primarily by introducing an element of undermining, ironic distance to the scene in which Hamsun shook hands with Hitler, and in which Wergeland conveyed both Hamsun’s awe at actually being there in the lion’s den and, with equal force, his knowledge that this was a repellent and monstrous act. One could say that, by dint of its thoroughgoing ambivalence, this programme — one illusion meeting another illusion, two visionaries talking at cross-purposes — dealt as much with the way in which this entire tableau presented a challenge to the creative faculty, that basic element of human life; it dealt, in other words, with something that went beyond all talk, all demands, with a simple message. Consequently, this creative effort on the part of the mind itself became one of the key elements in the programme: that mind with which one perceives, that mind from which spring dreams and illusions and, hence, literature. As much as being a programme about Hamsun, this was a programme about an attempt to stretch the imagination far enough to accommodate this disquieting man by the name of Knut Hamsun. Or, to put it another way: it was about our need for stories. At heart, the whole programme questioned the viewers’ ability to create fantasies, and what part such fantasies — as, for example, those brought into service in understanding a situation as impossible as Hamsun’s meeting with Hitler — actually play in our lives. Hence the reason that this programme with its almost indescribable subject matter — an old man and a tyrant by a panorama window — had a particularly strange effect on the viewers. Everyone enjoyed it, everyone was profoundly intrigued by it, but no one could say exactly why.