Infomotions, Inc.Essays on Scandinavian Literature / Boyesen, Hjalmar Hjorth, 1848-1895



Author: Boyesen, Hjalmar Hjorth, 1848-1895
Title: Essays on Scandinavian Literature
Publisher: Project Gutenberg
Tag(s): bjoernson; tegner; norwegian; jonas; danish; jonas lie; frithjof's saga; norway
Contributor(s): Dickinson, Asa Don, 1876-1960 [Editor]
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Title: Essays on Scandinavian Literature


Author: Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen



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ESSAYS ON SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE

by

HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN



           *       *       *       *       *



BY THE SAME AUTHOR.


  Goethe and Schiller. Their Lives and Works; with a commentary on "Faust."
  Essays on German Literature.
  Essays on Scandinavian Literature.
  A Commentary on the Writings of Henrik Ibsen.
  Literary and Social Silhouettes.
  The Story of Norway.
  Gunnar.
  Tales from Two Hemispheres.
  A Norseman's Pilgrimage.
  Falconberg. A Novel.
  Queen Titania.
  Ilka on the Hill-top, and Other Tales.
  A Daughter of the Philistines.
  The Light of Her Countenance.
  Vagabond Tales.
  The Mammon of Unrighteousness.
  The Golden Calf.
  Social Strugglers.
  Idyls of Norway, and Other Poems.


THE NORSELAND SERIES (JUVENILE).

  The Modern Vikings: Stories of Life and Sport in the Northland.
  Against Heavy Odds, and A Fearless Trio.
  Boyhood in Norway.
  Norseland Tales.



           *       *       *       *       *



ESSAYS ON SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE

by

HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN

Professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures in
Columbia College







London
David Nutt, 270, Strand
1895.

Copyright, 1895, by Charles Scribner's Sons
for the United States of America
Printed by the Trow Directory, Printing and Bookbinding Company
New York, U. S. A.




PREFACE


Some twenty years ago the ambition seized me to write a History of
Scandinavian Literature. I scarcely realized then what an enormous
amount of reading would be required to equip me for this task. My
studies naturally led me much beyond the scope of my original intention.
There was a fascination in the work which lured me perpetually on, and
made me explore with a constantly increasing zest the great literary
personalities of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. Thus my chapter on Henrik
Ibsen grew into a book of three hundred and seventeen pages, which was
published a year ago, and must be regarded as supplementary to the
present volume. The chapter on Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson was in danger of
expanding to similar proportions, and only the most heroic condensation
saved it from challenging criticism as an independent work. As regards
Norway and Denmark, I have endeavored to select all the weightiest and
most representative names. The Swedish authors Johan Ludvig Runeberg,
Mrs. Edgren, and August Strindberg, and the Dane Oehlenschlaeger,
necessity has compelled me to reserve for a future volume.

COLUMBIA COLLEGE, NEW YORK,

February, 1895.




CONTENTS


                                 PAGE

  BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON,              3

  ALEXANDER KIELLAND,               107

  JONAS LIE,                        121

  HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN,          155

  CONTEMPORARY DANISH LITERATURE,   181

  GEORG BRANDES,                    199

  ESAIAS TEGNER,                    219




BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON


I

Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson is the first Norwegian poet who can in any sense
be called national. The national genius, with its limitations as well as
its virtues, has found its living embodiment in him. Whenever he opens
his mouth it is as if the nation itself were speaking. If he writes a
little song, hardly a year elapses before its phrases have passed into
the common speech of the people; composers compete for the honor of
interpreting it in simple, Norse-sounding melodies, which gradually work
their way from the drawing-room to the kitchen, the street, and thence
out over the wide fields and highlands of Norway. His tales, romances,
and dramas express collectively the supreme result of the nation's
experience, so that no one to-day can view Norwegian life or Norwegian
history except through their medium. The bitterest opponent of the poet
(for like every strong personality he has many enemies) is thus no less
his debtor than his warmest admirer. His speech has stamped itself upon
the very language and given it a new ring, a deeper resonance. His
thought fills the air, and has become the unconscious property of all
who have grown to manhood and womanhood since the day when his titanic
form first loomed up on the horizon of the North. It is not only as
their first and greatest poet that the Norsemen love and hate him, but
also as a civilizer in the widest sense. But like Kadmus, in Greek myth,
he has not only brought with him letters, but also the dragon-teeth of
strife, which it is to be hoped will not sprout forth in armed men.

A man's ancestry and environment, no doubt, account in a superficial
manner for his appearance and mental characteristics. Having the man, we
are able to trace the germs of his being in the past of his race and his
country; but, with all our science we have not yet acquired the
ingenuity to predict the man--to deduce him _a priori_ from the tangle
of determining causes which enveloped his birth. It seems beautifully
appropriate in the Elder Edda that the god-descended hero Helge the
Voelsung should be born amid gloom and terror in a storm which shakes the
house, while the Norns--the goddesses of fate--proclaim in the tempest
his tempestuous career. Equally satisfactory it appears to have the
modern champion of Norway--the typical modern Norseman--born on the
bleak and wild Dovre Mountain,[1] where there is winter eight months of
the year and cold weather during the remaining four. The parish of
Kvikne, in Oesterdalen, where his father, the Reverend Peder Bjoernson,
held a living, had a bad reputation on account of the unruly ferocity
and brutal violence of the inhabitants. One of the Reverend Peder
Bjoernson's recent predecessors never went into his pulpit, unarmed; and
another fled for his life. The peasants were not slow in intimating to
the new pastor that they meant to have him mind his own business and
conform to the manners and customs of the parish; but there they
reckoned without their host. The reverend gentleman made short work of
the opposition. He enforced the new law of compulsory education without
heeding its unpopularity; and when the champion fighter of the valley
came as the peasants' spokesman to take him to task in summary fashion,
he found himself, before he was aware of it, at the bottom of the
stairs, where he picked himself up wonderingly and promptly took to his
heels.

    [1] December 8, 1832.

During the winter the snow reached up to the second-story windows of the
parsonage; and the servants had to tunnel their way to the storehouse
and the stables. The cold was so intense that the little Bjoernstjerne
thought twice before touching a door knob, as his fingers were liable to
stick to the metal. When he was six years old, however, his father was
transferred to Romsdal, which is, indeed, a wild and grandly picturesque
region; but far less desolate than Dovre. "It lies," says Bjoernson,
"broad--bosomed between two confluent fjords, with a green mountain
above, cataracts and homesteads on the opposite shore, waving meadows
and activity in the bottom of the valley; and all the way out toward the
ocean, mountains with headland upon headland running out into the fjord
and a large farm upon each."

The feeling of terror, the crushing sense of guilt which Bjoernson has so
strikingly portrayed in the first chapters of "In God's Way," were
familiar to his own childhood. In every life, as in every race, the God
of fear precedes the God of love. And in Northern Norway, where nature
seems so tremendous and man so insignificant, no boy escapes these
phantoms of dread which clutch him with icy fingers. But as a
counterbalancing force in the young Bjoernson, we have his confidence in
the strength and good sense of his gigantic father, who could thrash the
strongest champion in the parish. He used to stand in the evening on the
beach "and gaze at the play of the sunshine upon fjord and mountain,
until he wept, as if he had done something wrong. Now he would suddenly
stop in this or that valley, while running on skees, and stand
spell-bound by its beauty and a longing which he could not comprehend,
but which was so great that in the midst of the highest joy he was
keenly conscious of a sense of confinement and sorrow."[2] "We catch a
glimpse in these childish memories," says Mr. Nordahl Rolfsen, "of the
remarkable character, we are about to depict: Being the son of a giant,
he is ever ready to strike out with a heavy hand, when he thinks that
anyone is encroaching upon what he deems the right. But this same
pugnacious man, whom it is so hard to overcome, can be overwhelmed by an
emotion and surrender himself to it with his whole being."

    [2] Nordahl Rolfsen: Norske Digtere, pp. 450, 451.

At the age of twelve Bjoernson was sent to the Latin school at Molde,
where, however, his progress was not encouraging. He was one of those
thoroughly healthy and headstrong boys who are the despair of ambitious
mothers, and whom fathers (when the futility of educational chastisement
has been finally proved) are apt to regard with a resigned and
half-humorous regret. His dislike of books was instinctive, hearty, and
uncompromising. His strong, half-savage boy-nature could brook no
restraints, and looked longingly homeward to the wide mountain plains,
the foaming rivers where the trout leaped in the summer night, and the
calm fjord where you might drift blissfully along, as it were, suspended
in the midst of the vast, blue, ethereal space. And when the summer
vacation came, with its glorious freedom and irresponsibility, he would
roam at his own sweet will through forest and field, until hunger and
fatigue forced him to return to his father's parsonage.

After several years of steadily unsuccessful study, Bjoernson at last
passed the so-called _examen artium_, which admitted him to the
University of Christiania. He was now a youth of large, almost athletic
frame, with a handsome, striking face, and a pair of blue eyes which no
one is apt to forget who has ever looked into them. There was a certain
grand simplicity and _naivete_ in his manner, and an exuberance of
animal spirits which must have made him an object of curious interest
among his town-bred fellow-students. But his University career was of
brief duration. All the dimly fermenting powers of his rich nature were
now beginning to clarify, the consciousness of his calling began to
assert itself, and the demand for expression became imperative. His
literary _debut_ was an historic drama entitled "Valborg," which was
accepted for representation by the directors of the Christiania Theatre,
and procured for its author a free ticket to all theatrical
performances; it was, however, never brought on the stage, as Bjoernson,
having had his eyes opened to its defects, withdrew it of his own
accord.

At this time the Norwegian stage was almost entirely in the hands of the
Danes, and all the more prominent actors were of Danish birth.
Theatrical managers drew freely on the dramatic treasures of Danish
literature, and occasionally, to replenish the exchequer, reproduced a
French comedy or farce, whose epigrammatic pith and vigor were more than
half-spoiled in the translation. The drama was as yet an exotic in
Norway; it had no root in the national soil, and could accordingly in no
respect represent the nation's own struggles and aspirations. The
critics themselves, no doubt, looked upon it merely as a form of
amusement, a thing to be wondered and stared at, and to be dismissed
from the mind as soon as the curtain dropped. Bjoernson, whose patriotic
soul could not endure the thought of this abject foreign dependence,
ascribed all the existing abuses to the predominance of the Danish
element, and in a series of vehement articles attacked the Danish
actors, managers, and all who were in any way responsible for the
unworthy condition of the national stage. In return he reaped, as might
have been expected, an abundant harvest of abuse, but the discussion he
had provoked furnished food for reflection, and the rapid development of
the Norwegian drama during the next decade is, no doubt, largely
traceable to his influence.

The liberty for which he had yearned so long, Bjoernson found at the
International Students' Reunion of 1856. Then the students of the
Norwegian and Danish Universities met in Upsala, where they were
received with grand festivities by their Swedish brethren. Here the poet
caught the first glimpse of a greater and freer life than moved within
the narrow horizon of the Norwegian capital. This gay and careless
student-life, this cheerful abandonment of all the artificial shackles
which burden one's feet in their daily walk through a bureaucratic
society, the temporary freedom which allows one without offence to toast
a prince and hug a count to one's bosom--all this had its influence
upon Bjoernson's sensitive nature; it filled his soul with a happy
intoxication and with confidence in his own strength. And having once
tasted a life like this he could no more return to what he had left
behind him.

The next winter we find him in Copenhagen, laboring with an intensity of
creative ardor which he had never known before. His striking appearance,
the pithy terseness of his speech, and a certain _naive_ self-assertion
and impatience of social restraints made him a notable figure in the
polite and somewhat effeminate society of the Danish capital. There was
a general expectation at that time that a great poet was to come, and
although Bjoernson had as yet published nothing to justify the
expectation, he found the public of Copenhagen ready to recognize in him
the man who was to rouse the North from its long intellectual torpor,
and usher in a new era in its literature. It is needless to say that he
did not discourage this belief, for he himself fervently believed that
he would before long justify it. The first proof of his strength he gave
in the tale "Synnoeve Solbakken" (Synnoeve Sunny-Hill), which he published
in an illustrated weekly, and afterward in book-form. It is a very
unpretending little story, idyllic in tone, but realistic in its
coloring, and redolent of the pine and spruce and birch of the Norwegian
highlands.

It had been the fashion in Norway since the nation regained its
independence to interest one's self in a lofty, condescending way in
the life of the peasantry. A few well-meaning persons, like the poet
Wergeland, had labored zealously for their enlightenment and the
improvement of their economic condition; but, except in the case of such
single individuals, no real and vital sympathy and fellow-feeling had
ever existed between the upper and the lower strata of Norwegian
society. And as long as the fellow-feeling is wanting, this zeal for
enlightenment, however laudable its motive, is not apt to produce
lasting results. The peasants view with distrust and suspicion whatever
comes to them from their social superiors, and the so-called "useful
books," which were scattered broadcast over the land, were of a
tediously didactic character, and, moreover, hardly adapted to the
comprehension of those to whom they were ostensibly addressed. Wergeland
himself, with all his self-sacrificing ardor, had but a vague conception
of the real needs of the people, and, as far as results were concerned,
wasted much of his valuable life in his efforts to improve, edify and
instruct them. It hardly occurred to him that the culture of which he
and his colleagues were the representatives was itself a foreign
importation, and could not by any violent process be ingrafted upon the
national trunk, which drew its strength from centuries of national life,
history, and tradition. That this peasantry, whom the _bourgeoisie_ and
the aristocracy of culture had been wont to regard with half-pitying
condescension, were the real representatives of the Norse nation; that
they had preserved through long years of tyranny and foreign oppression
the historic characteristics of their Norse forefathers, while the upper
classes had gone in search of strange gods, and bowed their necks to the
foreign yoke; that in their veins the old strong saga-life was still
throbbing with vigorous pulse-beats--this was the lesson which Bjoernson
undertook to teach his countrymen, and a very fruitful lesson it has
proved to be. It has inspired the people with renewed courage, it has
turned the national life into fresh channels, and it has revolutionized
national politics.

To be sure all this was not the result of the idyllic little tale which
marked the beginning of his career. But this little tale, although no
trace of what the Germans call "tendency" is to be found in it, is still
significant as being the poet's first indirect manifesto, and as such
distinctly foreshadowing the path which he has since followed.

First, in its purely literary aspect, "Synnoeve Solbakken" was strikingly
novel. The author did not, as his predecessors had done, view the people
from the exalted pedestal of superior culture; not as a subject for
benevolent preaching and charitable condescension, but as a concrete
phenomenon, whose _raison d'etre_ was as absolute and indisputable as
that of the _bourgeoisie_ or the bureaucracy itself. He depicted their
soul-struggles and the incidents of their daily life with a loving
minuteness and a vivid realism hitherto unequalled in the literature of
the North. He did not, like Auerbach, construct his peasant figures
through laborious reflection, nor did he attempt by anxious
psychological analysis to initiate the reader into their processes of
thought and emotion. He simply depicted them as he saw and knew them.
Their feelings and actions have their immediate, self-evident motives in
the characters themselves, and the absence of analysis on the author's
part gives an increased energy and movement to the story.

Mr. Nordahl Rolfsen relates, _a propos_ of the reception which was
accorded Bjoernson's first book, the following amusing anecdote:

"'Synnoeve Solbakken' was printed, and its author was anxious to have his
friends read it. But not one of them could be prevailed upon. At last a
comrade was found who was persuaded to attack it on the promise of a
bottle of punch. He entered Bjoernson's den, got a long pipe which he
filled with tobacco, undressed himself completely--for it was a hot
day--flung himself on the bed, and began to read. Bjoernson sat in the
sofa, breathless with expectation. Leaf after leaf was turned; not a
smile, not a single encouraging word! The young poet had good reason to
regard the battle as lost. At last the pipe, the bottle, and the book
were finished. Then the merciless Stoic rose and began to dress, and the
following little exclamation escaped him: 'That is, the devil take me,
the best book I have read in all my life.'"

Bjoernson's style was no less novel than his theme. It may or it may not
have been consciously modelled after the saga style, to which, however,
it bears an obvious resemblance. In his early childhood, while he lived
among the peasants, he became familiar with their mode of thought and
speech, and it entered into his being, and became his own natural mode
of expression. There is in his daily conversation a certain grim
directness, and a laconic weightiness, which give an air of importance
and authority even to his simplest utterances. This tendency to
compression frequently has the effect of obscurity, not because his
thought is obscure, but rather because energetic brevity of expression
has fallen into disuse, and even a Norse public, long accustomed to the
wordy diffuseness of latter-day bards, have in part lost the faculty to
comprehend the genius of their own language. As a Danish critic wittily
observed: "Bjoernson's language is but one step removed from pantomime."

In 1858 Bjoernson assumed the directorship of the theatre in Bergen, and
there published his second tale, "Arne," in which the same admirable
self-restraint, the same implicit confidence in the intelligence
of his reader, the same firm-handed decision and vigor in the
character-drawing, in fact, all the qualities which delighted the public
in "Synnoeve Solbakken," were found in an intensified degree.

In the meanwhile, Bjoernson had also made his _debut_ as a dramatist. In
the year 1858 he had published two dramas, "Mellem Slagene" (Between the
Battles) and "Halte-Hulda" (Limping Hulda) both of which deal with
national subjects, taken from the old sagas. As in his tales he had
endeavored to concentrate into a few strongly defined types the modern
folk-life of the North, so in his dramas the same innate love of his
nationality leads him to seek the typical features of his people, as
they are revealed in the historic chieftains of the past.

"Between the Battles" is a dramatic episode rather than a drama. During
the civil war between King Sverre and King Magnus in the twelfth
century, the former visits in disguise a hut upon the mountains where a
young warrior, Halvard Gjaela and Inga, his beloved, are living
together. The long internecine strife has raised the hand of father
against son, and of brother against brother. Halvard sympathizes with
Sverre; Inga, who hates the king because he has burned her father's
farm, is a partisan of Magnus. In the absence of her lover she goes to
the latter's camp and brings back with her a dozen warriors for the
purpose of capturing Halvard, and thereby preventing him from joining
the enemy. Sverre discovers the warriors, whom she has hidden in the
cow-stable, and persuading them that he is a spy for King Magnus sends
two of them to his own army for reinforcements. In the meanwhile he
reconciles the estranged lovers, makes peace between them and Inga's
father, and finally, in the last scene, as his men arrive, is recognized
as the king.

This is, of course, a venerable _coup de theatre_. Whatever novelty
there is in the play must be sought, not in the situations, but in the
pithy and laconic dialogue, which has a distinct national coloring. This
was not the amiable diffuseness of Oehlenschlaeger, who had hitherto
dominated the Norwegian as well as the Danish stage; and yet it did not
by any means represent so complete a breach with the traditions of the
romantic drama as was claimed by Bjoernson's admirers. The fresh
naturalness and absence of declamation were a gain, no doubt; but there
are yet several notes remaining which have the well-known romantic
cadence. "Between the Battles," though too slight to be called an
achievement, was accepted as a pledge of achievement in future.

Bjoernson's next drama "Limping Hulda" ("Halte-Hulda") (1858) was a
partial fulfilment of this pledge. If it is not high tragedy, in the
ancient sense, it is of the stuff that tragedy is made of. Hulda is an
impressive stage figure in her demoniac passion and tiger-like
tenderness. Though I doubt if Bjoernson has, in this type, caught the
soul of a Norse woman of the saga age, he has come much nearer to
catching it than any of his predecessors. If Gudrun Osvif's Daughter, of
the Laxdoela Saga, was his model, he has modernized her considerably,
and thereby made her more intelligible to modern readers. Like her,
Hulda causes the murder of the man she loves; and there is a fateful
spell about her beauty which brings death to whomsoever looks too long
upon it. Though ostensibly a saga-drama, the harshness and grim ferocity
of that sanguinary period are softened; and a romantic illumination
pervades the whole action. A certain lyrical effusiveness in the love
passages (which is alien to all Bjoernson's later works) hints at the
influence of the Danish Romanticists, and particularly Oehlenschlaeger.

It would be unfair, perhaps, to take the author to task because this
youthful drama exhibits no remarkable subtlety in its conception of
character. It contains no really great living figure who stands squarely
upon his feet and lingers in the memory. A certain half-rhetorical
impulse carries you along; and the external effectiveness of the
situations keeps the interest on the alert. For all that "Limping
Hulda," like its predecessors and its successors, tended to stimulate
powerfully the national spirit, which was then asserting itself in every
department of intellectual activity. Thus a national theatre had, by the
perseverance and generosity of Ole Bull, been established in his native
city, Bergen; and it was almost a matter of course that an effort should
be made to identify Bjoernson with an enterprise which accorded so well
with his own aspirations. His connection with the Norwegian Theatre of
Bergen was, however, not of long duration, for though your enthusiasm
may be ever so great it is a thankless task to act as "artistic
director" of a stage in a town which is neither artistic enough nor
large enough to support a playhouse with a higher aim than that of
furnishing ephemeral amusement. From Bergen he was called to the
editorship of _Aftenbladet_ (The Evening Journal), the second political
daily of Christiania, and continued there with hot zeal and eloquence
his battle for "all that is truly Norse."

But a brief experience sufficed to convince him that daily journalism
was not his _forte_. He was and is too indiscreet, precipitate,
credulous, and inconsiderately generous to be a successful editor. If a
paper could be conducted on purely altruistic principles, and without
reference to profits, there would be no man fitter to occupy an
editorial chair. For as an inspiring force, as a radiating focus of
influence, his equal is not to be encountered "in seven kingdoms round."
However, this inspiring force could reach a far larger public through
published books than through the columns of a newspaper. It was
therefore by no means in a regretful frame of mind that he descended
from the editorial tripod, and in the spring of 1860 started for Italy.
Previous to his departure he published, through the famous house of
Gyldendal, in Copenhagen, a volume which, it is no exaggeration to say,
has become a classic of Norwegian literature. It bears the modest title
"Smaa-stykker" (Small Pieces), but it contains, in spite of its
unpretentiousness, some of Bjoernson's noblest work. I need only mention
the masterly tale "The Father," with its sobriety and serene strength. I
know but one other instance[3] of so great tragedy, told in so few and
simple words. "Arne," "En Glad Gut" (A Happy Boy), and the amusing
dialect story, "Ei Faarleg Friing" (A Dangerous Wooing), also belong to
this delightful collection. These little masterpieces of concise
story-telling have been included in the popular two-volume edition of
"Fortaellinger," which contains also "The Fisher-maiden" (1867-68), the
exquisite story, "The Bridal March" (1872), originally written as text
to three of Tidemand's paintings, and a vigorous bit of disguised
autobiography, "Blakken," of which not the author but a horse is the
ostensible hero.

    [3] Austin Dobson's poem, "The Cradle."

The descriptive name for all these tales, except the last, is idyl. It
was, indeed, the period when all Europe (outside the British empire) was
viewing the hardy sons of the soil through poetic spectacles. In Germany
Auerbach had, in his "Black Forest Village Tales" (1843, 1853, 1854),
discarded the healthful but unflattering realism of Jeremias Gotthelf
(1797-1854), and chosen, with a half-didactic purpose, to contrast the
peasant's honest rudeness and straightforwardness with the refined
sophistication and hypocrisy of the higher classes. George Sand, with
her beautiful Utopian genius, poured forth a torrent of rural narrative
of a crystalline limpidity ("Mouny Robin," "La Mare au Diable," "La
Petite Fadette," etc., 1841-1849), which is as far removed from the
turbid stream of Balzac ("Les Paysans") and Zola ("La Terre"), as
Paradise is from the Inferno. There is an echo of Rousseau's gospel of
nature in all these tales, and the same optimistic delusion regarding
"the people" for which the eighteenth century paid so dearly. The
painters likewise caught the tendency, and with the same thorough-going
conscientiousness as their brethren of the quill, disguised coarseness
as strength, bluntness as honesty, churlishness as dignity. What an
idyllic sweetness there is, for instance, in Tidemand's scenes of
Norwegian peasant life! What a _spirituelle_ and movingly sentimental
note in the corresponding German scenes of Knaus and Huebner, and, _longo
intervallo_, Meyerheim and Meyer von Bremen. Not a breath of the broad
humor of Teniers and Van Ostade in these masters; scarcely a hint of the
robust animality and clownish jollity with which the clear-sighted
Dutchmen endowed their rural revellers. Though pictorial art has not,
outside of Russia (where the great and unrivalled Riepin paints the
peasant with the brush as remorselessly as Tolstoi and Dostoyefski with
the pen), kept pace with the realistic movement in literature, yet there
is no lack of evidence that the rose-colored tinge is vanishing even
from the painter's spectacles; and such uncompromising veracity as that
of Millet and Courbet, which the past generation despised, is now hailed
with acclaim in such masters as Bastien-Lepage, Dagnan-Bouveret, and
the Scandinavians, Kristian Krog and Anders Zorn.

Bjoernson is, however, temperamentally averse to that modern naturalism
which insists upon a minute fidelity to fact without reference to
artistic values. His large and spacious mind has a Southern exposure,
and has all "its windows thrown wide open to the sun." A sturdy
optimism, which is prone to believe good of all men, unless they happen
to be his political antagonists, inclines him to overlook what does not
fit into his own scheme of existence. And yet no one can say that, as
presentations of Norwegian peasant life, "Synnoeve," "Arne," "The Bridal
March," etc., are untrue, though, indeed, one could well imagine
pictures in very much sombrer colors which might lay a valider claim to
veracity. Kielland's "Laboring People," and Kristian Elster's "A Walk to
the Cross" and "Kjeld Horge," give the reverse of the medal of which
Bjoernson exhibits the obverse. These authors were never in any way
identified with "the people," and could not help being struck with many
of the rude and unbeautiful phases of rural existence; while Bjoernson,
who sprang directly from the peasantry, had the pride and intelligence
of kinship, and was not yet lifted far enough above the life he depicted
to have acquired the cultivated man's sense of condescension and
patronizing benevolence. He was but one generation removed from the
soil; and he looked with a strong natural sympathy and affectionate
predilection upon whatever reminded him of this origin. If he had been a
peasant, however, he could never have become the wonderful chronicler
that he is. It is the elevation, slight though it be, which enables him
to survey the fields in which his fathers toiled and suffered. Or, to
quote Mr. Rolfsen: "Bjoernson is the son of a clergyman; he has never
himself personally experienced the peasant's daily toil and narrow
parochial vision. He has felt the power of the mountains over his mind,
and been filled with longing, as a grand emotion, but the contractedness
of the spiritual horizon has not tormented him. He has not to take that
into account when he writes. During the tedious school-days, his
beautiful Romsdal valley lay waiting for him, beckoning him home at
every vacation--always alluring and radiant, with an idyllic shimmer."

Hence, no doubt, his sunny poetic vision which unconsciously idealizes.
Just as in daily intercourse he displays a positive genius for drawing
out what is good in a man, and brushes away as of small account what
does not accord with his own conception of him, nay, in a measure,
forces him to be as he believes him to be, so every character in these
early tales seems to bask in the genial glow of his optimism. The farm
Solbakken (Sunny Hill) lies on a high elevation, where the sun shines
from its rise to its setting, and both Synnoeve and her parents walk
about in this still and warm illumination. They are all good, estimable
people, and their gentle piety, without any tinge of fanaticism, invests
them with a quiet dignity. The sterner and hardier folk at Granliden
(Pine Glen) have a rugged honesty and straightforwardness which, in
connection with their pithy and laconic speech, makes them less genial,
but no less typically Norse. They have a distinct atmosphere and spinal
columns that keep them erect, organic, and significant. Even
reprehensible characters like Aslak and Nils Tailor (in "Arne") have a
certain claim upon our sympathy, the former as a helpless victim of
circumstance, the latter as a suppressed and perverted genius.

In the spring of 1860 Bjoernson went abroad and devoted three years to
foreign travel, spending the greater part of his time in Italy. From
Rome he sent home the historical drama "King Sverre" (1861), which is
one of his weakest productions. It is written in blank verse, with
occasional rhymes in the more impressive passages. Of dramatic interest
in the ordinary sense, there is but little. It is a series of more or
less animated scenes, from the period of the great civil war
(1130-1240), connected by the personality of Sverre. Under the mask,
however, of mediaeval history, the author preaches a political sermon to
his own contemporaries. Sverre, as the champion of the common people
against the tribal aristocracy, and the wily Bishop Nicholas as the
representative of the latter become, as it were, permanent forces, which
have continued their battle to the present day. There can be no doubt
that Bjoernson, whose sympathies are strongly democratic, permitted the
debate between the two to become needlessly didactic, and strained
historical verisimilitude by veiled allusions to contemporaneous
conditions. Greatly superior is his next drama, "Sigurd Slembe"[4]
(1862).

    [4] An English version of "Sigurd Slembe" has been published by
    William Morton Payne (Boston, 1888).

The story of the brave and able pretender, Sigurd Slembe, in his
struggle with the vain and mean-spirited king, Harold Gille, is the
theme of the dramatic trilogy. Bjoernson attempts to give the spiritual
development of Sigurd from the moment he becomes acquainted with his
royal birth until his final destruction. From a frank and generous
youth, who is confident that he is born for something great, he is
driven by the treachery, cruelty, and deceit of his brother, the king,
into the position of a desperate outlaw and guerilla. The very first
scene, in the church of St. Olaf, where the boy confides to the saint,
in a tone of _bonne camaraderie_, his joy at having conquered, in
wrestling, the greatest champion in the land, gives one the key-note to
his character:

    "Now only listen to me, saintly Olaf!
    To-day I whipped young Beintein! Beintein was
    The strongest man in Norway. Now am I!
    Now I can walk from Lindesnaes and on,
    Up to the northern boundary of the snow,
    For no one step aside or lift my hat.
    There where I am, no man hath leave to fight,
    To make a tumult, threaten, or to swear--
    Peace everywhere! And he who wrong hath suffered
    Shall justice find, until the laws shall sing.
    And as before the great have whipped the small,
    So will I help the small to whip the great.
    Now I can offer counsel at the Thing,
    Now to the king's board I can boldly walk
    And sit beside him, saying 'Here am I!'"

The exultation in victory which speaks in every line of this opening
monologue marks the man who, in spite of the obscurity of his origin,
feels his right to be first, and who, in this victory, celebrates the
attainment of his birthright. Equally luminous by way of
characterization is his exclamation to St. Olaf when he hears that he is
King Magnus Barefoot's son:

    "Then we are kinsmen, Olaf, you and I!"

According to Norwegian law at that time, every son of a king was
entitled to his share of the kingdom, and Sigurd's first impulse is to
go straight to Harold Gille and demand his right. His friend Koll
Saebjoernson persuades him, however, to abandon this hopeless adventure,
and gives him a ship with which he sails to the Orient, takes part in
many wars, and gains experience and martial renown.

The second part of the trilogy deals with Sigurd's sojourn at the
Orkneys, where he interferes in the quarrel between the Earls Harold
and Paul. The atmosphere of suspicion, insecurity, and gloom which hangs
like a portentous cloud over these scenes is the very same which blows
toward us from the pages of the sagas. Bjoernson has gazed deeply into
the heart of Northern paganism, and has here reproduced the heroic
anarchy which was a necessary result of the code permitting the
individual to avenge his own wrongs. The two awful women, Helga and
Frakark, the mother and the aunt of the earls, are types which are
constantly met with in the saga. It is a long-recognized fact that
women, under lawless conditions, develop the wildest extremes of
ambition, avarice, and blood-thirstiness, and taunt the men with their
weak scruples. These two furies of the Orkneys plot murder with an
infernal coolness, which makes Lady Macbeth a kind-hearted woman by
comparison. They recognize in Sigurd a man born for leadership;
determine to use him for the furtherance of their plans, and to get rid
of him, by fair means or foul, when he shall have accomplished his task.
But Sigurd is too experienced a chieftain to walk into this trap. While
appearing to acquiesce, he plays for stakes of his own, but in the end
abandons all in disgust at the death of Earl Harold, who intentionally
puts on the poisoned shirt, prepared for his brother. There is no great
and monumental scene in this part which engraves itself deeply upon the
memory. The love scenes with Audhild, the young cousin of the earls,
are incidental and episodical, and exert no considerable influence
either upon Sigurd's character or upon the development of the intrigue.
Historically they are well and realistically conceived; but dramatically
they are not strong. Another criticism, which has already been made by
the Danish critic, Georg Brandes, refers to an offence against this very
historical sense which is usually so vivid in Bjoernson. When Frakark,
the Lady Macbeth of the play, remarks, "I am far from feeling sure of
the individual mortality so much preached of; but there is an
immortality of which I am sure; it is that of the race," she makes an
intellectual somersault from the twelfth century into the nineteenth,
and never gets back firmly on her pagan feet again. As Brandes wittily
observes: "People who talk like that do not torture their enemy to
death; they backbite him."

The third part opens with Sigurd's appearance at court, where he reveals
his origin and asks for his share of the kingdom. The king is not
disinclined to grant his request, but is overruled by his councillors,
who profit by his weakness and rule in his name. They fear this man of
many battles, with the mark of kingship on his brow; and they determine
to murder him. But Sigurd escapes from prison, and, holding the king
responsible for the treachery, kills him. From this time forth he is an
outlaw, hunted over field and fell, and roaming with untold sufferings
through the mountains and wildernesses. There he meets a Finnish maiden
who loves him, reveals his fate to him, and implores him to abandon his
ambition and dwell among her people. These scenes amid the eternal
wastes of snow are perhaps the most striking in the trilogy and most
abounding in exquisite poetic thought. Sigurd hastens hence to his doom
at the battle of Holmengra, where he is defeated, and, with fiendish
atrocity, slowly tortured to death. The rather lyrical monologue
preceding his death, in which he bids farewell to life and calmly
adjusts his gaze to eternity, is very beautiful, but, historically, a
trifle out of tune. Barring these occasional lapses from the key, the
trilogy of "Sigurd Slembe" is a noble work.

A respectful, and in part enthusiastic, reception had been accorded to
Bjoernson's early plays. But his first dramatic triumph he celebrated at
the performance of "Mary Stuart in Scotland." Externally this is the
most effective of his plays. The dialogue is often brilliant, and
bristles with telling points. It is eminently "actable," presenting
striking tableaus and situations. Behind the author we catch a glimpse
of the practical stage-manager who knows how a scene will look on the
boards and how a speech will sound--who can surmise with tolerable
accuracy how they will affect a first-night audience.

"Mary Stuart" is theatrically no less than dramatically conceived.
Theatrically it is far superior to Swinburne's "Chastelard" (not to
speak of his interminable musical verbiage in "Bothwell") but it is
paler, colder, and poetically inferior. The voluptuous warmth and wealth
of color, the exquisite levity, the _debonnaire_ grace of the
Swinburnian drama we seek in vain. Bjoernson is vigorous, but he is not
subtile. Mere feline amorousness, such as Swinburne so inimitably
portrays, he would disdain to deal with if even he could. Such a bit of
intricate self-characterization as the English poet puts into the
Queen's mouth in the first scene with Chastelard, in the third act, lies
utterly beyond the range of the sturdier Norseman.

    _Queen_: "Nay, dear, I have
    No tears in me; I never shall weep much,
    I think, in all my life: I have wept for wrath
    Sometimes, and for mere pain, but for love's pity
    I cannot weep at all. I would to God
    You loved me less: I give you all I can
    For all this love of yours, and yet I am sure
    I shall live out the sorrow of your death
    And be glad afterwards. You know I am sorry.
    I should weep now; forgive me for your part.
    God made me hard, I think. Alas! you see
    I had fain been other than I am."

Add to this the beautifully illuminating threat, "I shall be deadly to
you," uttered in the midst of amorous cooings and murmurings, and we
catch a glimpse of the demoniac depth of this woman's nature. Bjoernson's
"Mary Stuart" weeps more than once; nay, she says to Bothwell, when he
has forcibly abducted her to his castle:

    "This is my first prayer to you,
    That I may weep."

Quite in the same key is her exclamation (in the same scene) in response
to Bothwell's reference to her son:

"My son, my lovely boy! Oh, God, now he lies sleeping in his little
white bed, and does not know how his mother is battling for his sake."

Schiller, whose conception of womankind was as honestly single and
respectful as that of Bjoernson, had set a notable precedent in
representing Mary Stuart as a martyr of a lost cause. The psychological
antitheses of her character, her softness and loving surrender, and her
treachery and cruelty--he left out of account.

Without troubling himself greatly about her guilt, which, though with
many palliating circumstances, he admitted, he undertook to exemplify in
her the beauty and exaltation of noble suffering. His Mary (which has
always been a favorite with tragic actresses) is in my opinion as devoid
of that insinuating, sense-compelling charm which alone can account for
this extraordinary woman's career as is the heroine of Bjoernson's play.
In fact Bjoernson's Mary lies half-way between the amorous young tigress
of Swinburne and the statuesque martyr of Schiller. She is less
intricately feminine than the former, and more so than the latter. But
she is yet a long way removed from her historical original, who must
have been a strong and full-blooded character, with just that touch of
mystery which nature always wears to whomsoever gazes deeply upon her.
That subtile intercoiling of antagonistic traits, which in a man could
never coexist, is to be found in many historic women of the
Renaissance--exquisite, dangerous creatures, half-doves, half-serpents,
half-Clytemnestra, half-Venus, whose full-throbbing passion now made
them soft and tender, over-brimming with loveliness, now fierce and
imperious, their outraged pride revelling in vengeance and blood. If
Bjoernson could have fathomed the depth and complexity of the historical
Mary Stuart to the extent that Swinburne has done, he would, no doubt,
also have devised a more effective conclusion to his play. There is no
dramatic climax, far less a tragic one, in the dethronement of Mary, and
the proclamation by John Knox, which is chiefly an assertion of popular
sovereignty, and the triumph of the Presbyterian Church. The declaration
of the final chorus, that

    "Evil shall be routed
    And weakness must follow,
    The might of truth shall pierce
    To the last retreat of gloom,"

seems to me rather to muddle than to clarify the situation. There is a
wavering and uncertain sound in it which seems inappropriate to a
triumphant strain, when the organist naturally turns on the full force
of his organ. If (as is obvious) the Queen represents the evil, or at
least the weakness, which has been routed, it would appear that she
ought to have been painted in quite different colors.

Bjoernson's next dramatic venture, which rejoices to this day in an
unabated popularity, was the two-act comedy, "The Newly Married" (_De
Nygifte_). Goethe once made the remark that he was not a good dramatist,
because his nature was too conciliatory. Without intending
disparagement, I am inclined to apply the same judgment to Bjoernson. His
sunny optimism shrinks from irreconcilable conflicts and insoluble
problems; and in his desire to reconcile and solve, he occasionally is
in danger of wrenching his characters out of drawing and muddling their
motives. Half a dozen critics have already called attention to the
ambiguity of Mathilde's position and intentions in "The Newly Married."
That she loves Axel, the husband, is clear; and the probability is that
she meant to avenge herself upon him for having before his marriage used
her as a decoy, when the real object of his attention was her friend
Laura. But if such was her object, she lacked the strength of mind and
hardness of heart to carry it out, and in the end she becomes a
benevolent providence, who labors for the reconciliation of the
estranged couple. She proves too noble for the ignoble _role_ she had
undertaken. Instead of wrecking the marriage, she sacrifices herself
upon the altar of friendship. To that there can, of course, be no
objection; but in that case the process of her mental change ought to
have been clearly shown. In Ibsen's "Rosmersholm," Rebecca West,
occupying a somewhat similar position, is subject to the same ennobling
of motive; but the whole drama hinges upon her moral evolution, and
nothing is left to inference.

The situation in "The Newly Married" is an extremely delicate one, and
required delicate handling. Axel, a young and gifted lawyer, has married
Laura, the daughter of a high and wealthy official, who prides himself
on his family dignity and connections. Laura, being an only child, has
been petted and spoiled since her birth, and is but a grown-up little
girl, with no conception of her matrimonial obligations. She
subordinates her relation to her husband to that to her parents, and
exasperates the former by her bland and obstinate immaturity. At last,
being able to bear it no longer, he compels her to leave the home of her
parents, where they have hitherto been living, and establishes himself
in a distant town. Mathilde, Laura's friend, accompanies them, though it
is difficult to conjecture in what capacity; and publishes an anonymous
novel, in which she enlightens the young wife regarding the probable
results of her conduct. She thrusts a lamp into the dusk of her soul and
frightens her by the things she shows her. She also, by arousing her
jealousy, leads her out of childhood, with its veiled vision and happy
ignorance, into womanhood, with its unflinching recognition of the
realities that were hidden from the child. And thus she paves the way
for the reconciliation which takes place in the presence of the old
people, who pay their daughter a visit _en route_ for Italy. Mathilde,
having accomplished her mission, acknowledges the authorship of the
anonymous novel, and is now content to leave husband and wife in the
confidence that they will work out their own salvation.

A mere skeleton of this simple plot (which barely hints at the real
problem) can, of course, give no conception of the charm, the color, and
the wonderful poetic afflatus of this exquisite little play. It may be
well enough to say that such a situation is far-fetched and not very
typical--that outside of "The Heavenly Twins," _et id omne genus_, wives
who insist upon remaining maidens are not very frequent; but, in spite
of this drawback, the vividness and emotional force of the dialogue and
the beautiful characterization (particularly of the old governor and his
wife) set certain sweet chords in vibration, and carry the play to a
triumphant issue.

As a school-boy I witnessed the first performance of "The Newly
Married," at the Christiania Theatre (1865), (as, indeed, of all the
Bjoernsonian dramas up to 1869); and I yet remember my surprise when,
instead of mail-clad Norse warriors, carousing in a sooty, log-built
hall, the curtain rose upon a modern interior, in which a fashionably
attired young lady kissed a frock-coated old gentleman. It was a dire
disappointment to me and my comrade, who had come thirsting for gore.
But how completely the poet conquered us! Each phrase seemed to woo our
reluctant ears, and the pulse of life that beat in the characters and
carried along the action awakened in us a delighted recognition. Truth
to tell, we had but the very vaguest idea of what was the _prima causa
malorum_; but for all that, with the rest of the audience, we were
immensely gratified that the upshot of it all was so satisfactory.

During the years 1865-67 Bjoernson occupied the position of artistic
director of the Christiania Theatre, and edited the illustrated weekly
paper, _Norsk Folkeblad_ ("The Norwegian People's Journal"). As the
champion of Norwegian nationality in literature, and on the stage, he
unfolded an amazing activity. In 1870 he published "Arnljot Gelline," a
lyrical epic, relating, in a series of poems of irregular metres, the
story of the pagan marauder of that name, and his conversion to
Christianity by King Olaf the Saint. Never has he found a more daring
and tremendous expression for the spirit of old Norse paganism than in
this powerful but somewhat chaotic poem. Never has anyone gazed more
deeply into the ferocious heart of the primitive, predatory man, whose
free, wild soul had not yet been tamed by social obligations and the
scourge of the law. In the same year (1870) was published the now
classical collection of "Poems and Songs" (_Digte og Sange_), which, it
is no exaggeration to say, marks a new era in the Norwegian lyric. Among
Bjoernson's predecessors there are but two lyrists of the first order,
viz., Wergeland and Welhaven. The former was magnificently profuse and
chaotic, abounding in verve and daring imagery, but withal
high-sounding, declamatory, and, at his worst, bombastic. There is a
reminiscence in him of Klopstock's inflated rhetoric; and a certain
dithyrambic ecstasy--a strained, high-keyed aria-style which sometimes
breaks into falsetto. His great rival, Welhaven, was soberer, clearer,
more gravely melodious. He sang in beautiful, tempered strains, along
the middle octaves, never ranging high into the treble or deep into the
base. There is a certain Tennysonian sweetness, artistic self-restraint,
and plastic simplicity in his lyrics; just as there is in Wergeland's
reformatory ardor, his noble rage, and his piling up of worlds, aeons,
and eternities a striking kinship to Shelley. But both these poets,
though their patriotism was strong, were intellectually Europeans,
rather than Norwegians. The roots of their culture were in the general
soil of the century, whose ideas they had absorbed. Their personalities
were not sufficiently tinged with the color of nationality to give a
distinctly Norse cadence to their voices. Wergeland seems to me like a
man who was desperately anxious to acquire a national accent; but
somehow never could catch the trick of it. As regards Welhaven, he was
less aware of his deficiency (if deficiency it was); but was content to
sing of Norse themes in a key of grave, universal beauty. Of the new
note that came into the Norwegian lyric with Bjoernson, I can discover no
hint in his predecessors. Such a poem as, for instance, "Nils Finn,"
with its inimitably droll refrain--how utterly inconceivable it would be
in the mouth of Wergeland or Welhaven! The new quality in it is as
unexplainable as the poem itself is untranslatable. It has that
inexpressible cadence and inflection of the Norse dialect which you feel
(if you have the conditions for recognizing it) in the first word a
Norseman addresses to you. It has that wonderful twang of the Hardanger
fiddle, and the color and sentiment of the ballads sung and the
legendary tales recited around the hearth in a Norwegian homestead
during the long winter nights. With Bjoernson it was in the blood. It was
his soul's accent, the dialect of his thought, the cadence of his
emotion. And so, also, is the touching minor undertone in the poem, the
tragic strain in the half burlesque, which is again so deeply Norwegian.
Who that has ever been present at a Norse peasant wedding has failed to
be struck with the strangely melancholy strain in the merriest dances?
And in Landstad's collection of "Norwegian Ballads" there is the same
blending of humor and pathos in such genuine folk-songs as _Truls med
bogin, Mindre Alf_, and scores of others. To this day I cannot read
"Nils Finn," humorous though it is, without an almost painful emotion.
All Norway, with a host of precious memories, rises out of the mist of
the past at the very first verse:

    "Og vetli Nils Finn skuldi ut at ga,
    Han fek inki ski 'i tel at hanga pa
    --'Dat var ilt' sa'd 'uppundir.'"

Neither Wergeland nor Welhaven nor any other poet has with all his
rapturous description of fjord, valley, and mountain, this power to
conjure up the very soul of the Norseland. The purely juvenile rhymes of
Bjoernson, such as _Killebukken, Lokkeleg_ and _Haren og Raeven_ ("The
Hare and the Fox"), are significant because of the masterly security
with which they strike the national key and keep it. Not a word is there
that rings false. And with what an exquisite tenderness the elegaic
ballad strain is rendered in _Venevil_ and "Hidden Love" (_Dulgt
Kaerlighed_), and the playful in the deliciously girlish roguery of
_Vidste du bare_ ("If you only knew"), and the bold dash and young
wantonness of "Marit's Song!"

It seems to me that every Norseman's life, whether he is willing to
acknowledge it or not, has been made richer and more beautiful by this
precious volume. It contains a legacy to the Norwegian people which can
never grow old. If Bjoernson had written nothing else, he would still be
the first poet of Norway. How brazen, hollow, and bombastic sound the
patriotic lyrics of Bjerregaard Johan Storm Munch, S. O. Wolff, etc.,
which are yet sung at festal gatherings, by the side of Bjoernson's "Yes,
we Love our Native Country," and "I will Guard Thee, my Land!" There is
the brassy blare of challenging trumpets in the former; they defy all
creation, and make a vast deal of impotent and unprofitable noise about
"The roaring northern main," "The ancient Norway's rocky fastness,"
"Liberty's temple in Norroway's valleys," and "Norway's lion, whose axe
doth threaten him who dares break the Northland's peace."

Not a suggestion of this juvenile braggadocio is there to be found in
Bjoernson. Calm, strong, and nobly aglow with love of country, he has no
need of going into paroxysms in order to prove his sincerity. To those
who regard the declamatory note as indispensable to a national hymn (as
we have it, for instance, in "Hail, Columbia," and "The Star-spangled
Banner") the low key in which Bjoernson's songs are pitched will no doubt
appear as a blemish. But it is their very homeliness in connection with
the deep, full-throbbing emotion which beats in each forceful phrase--it
is this, I fancy, which has made them the common property of the whole
people, and thus in the truest sense national. I could never tell why my
heart gives a leap at the sound of the simple verse:

    "Yes, we love this land of ours,
    Rising from the foam,
    Rugged, furrowed, weather-beaten,
    With its thousand homes."

Kjerulf's glorious music is, no doubt, in a measure accountable for it;
but even apart from that, there is a strangely moving power in the
words. The poem, as such, is by no means faultless. It is easy to pick
flaws in it. The transition from the fifth and sixth lines of the first
verse: "Love it, love it, and think of our father and mother," to the
seventh and eighth, "And the saga night which makes dreams to descend
upon our earth," is unwarrantably forced and abrupt. And yet who would
wish it changed? It may be admitted that there is no very subtle art in
the rude rhyme:

       "I will guard thee, my land,
       I will build thee, my land,
    I will cherish my land in my prayer, in my child!
       I will foster its weal,
       And its wants I will heal
    From the boundary out to the ocean wild;"

but, for all that, it touches a chord in every Norseman's breast, which
never fails to vibrate responsively.

As regards Bjoernson's prosody, I am aware that it is sometimes
defective. Measured by the Tennysonian standard it is often needlessly
rugged and eccentric. But a poet whose bark carries so heavy a cargo of
thought may be forgiven if occasionally it scrapes the bottom. Moreover,
the Norwegian tongue has never, as a medium of poetry, been polished and
refined to any such elaborate perfection as the English language
exhibits in the hands of Swinburne and Tennyson.

The saga-drama, "Sigurd the Crusader," which was also published in 1870,
is a work of minor consequence. Its purpose may be stated in the
author's own words:

     "'Sigurd the Crusader' is meant to be what is called a 'folk-play.'
     It is my intention to make several dramatic experiments with grand
     scenes from the sagas, lifting them into a strong but not too heavy
     frame. By a 'folk-play' I mean a play which should appeal to every
     eye and every stage of culture, to each in its own way, and at the
     performance of which all, for the time being, would experience the
     joy of fellow-feeling. The common history of a people is best
     available for this purpose--nay, it ought dramatically never to be
     treated otherwise. The treatment must necessarily be simple and the
     emotions predominant; it should be accompanied with music, and the
     development should progress in clear groups....

     "The old as well as the new historic folk literature will, with its
     corresponding comic element, as I think, be a great gain to the
     stage, and will preserve its connection with the people where this
     has not already been lost--so that it be no longer a mere
     institution for amusement, and that only to a single class. Unless
     we take this view of our stage, it will lose its right to be
     regarded as a national affair, and the best part of its purpose, to
     unite while it lifts and makes us free, will be gradually assumed
     by some other agency. Nor shall we ever get actors fit for anything
     but trifles, unless we abandon our foreign French tendency as a
     _leading_ one and substitute the national needs of our own people
     in its place."

It would be interesting to note how the poet has attempted to solve a
problem so important and so difficult as this. In the first place, we
find in "Sigurd the Crusader" not a trace of a didactic purpose beyond
that of familiarizing the people with its own history, and this, as he
himself admits in the preface just quoted, is merely a secondary
consideration. He wishes to make all, irrespective of age, culture, and
social station, feel strongly the bond of their common nationality; and,
with this in view, he proceeds to unroll to them a panorama of simple
but striking situations, knit together by a plot or story which, without
the faintest tinge of sensationalism, appeals to those broadly human and
national sympathies which form the common mental basis of Norse
ignorance and Norse culture. He seizes the point in the saga where the
long-smouldering hostility between the royal brothers, Sigurd the
Crusader and Eystein, has broken into full blaze, and traces, in a
series of vigorously sketched scenes, the intrigue and counter-intrigue
which hurry the action onward toward its logically prepared climax--a
mutual reconciliation. The dialogue is pithy, simple, and sententious.
Nevertheless the play, as a whole, makes the impression of
incompleteness. It is a dramatic sketch rather than a drama. It marks no
advance on Bjoernson's previous work in the same line; but perhaps rather
a retrogression.


II

A period is apt to come in the life of every man who is spiritually
alive, when his scholastic culture begins to appear insufficient and the
traditional premises of existence seem in need of readjustment and
revision. This period, with the spiritual crisis which it involves, is
likely to occur between the thirtieth and the fortieth meridian. Ibsen
was thirty-four years old (1862) when in "The Comedy of Love" he broke
with the romanticism of his youth, and began to wrestle with the
problems of contemporary life. Goethe was thirty-seven when, in 1786, he
turned his back upon the Storm and Stress, and in Italy sought and
gained a new and saner vision of the world. This renewal of the sources
which water the roots of his spiritual being becomes an imperative
necessity to a man when he has exhausted the sources which tradition
supplies. It is terrible to wake up one morning and see one's past life
in a new and strange illumination, and the dust of ages lying inch-thick
upon one's thoughts. It is distressing to have to pretend that you do
not hear the doubt which whispers early and late in your ear, _Vanitas,
vanitas, vanitas vanitatum_. Few are those of us who have the courage to
face it, to rise up and fight with it, and rout it or be routed by it.

Bjoernson had up to this time (1870) built solely upon tradition. He had
been orthodox, and had exalted childlike peace and faith above doubt and
struggle. Phrases indicative of a certain spiritual immaturity are
scattered through his early poems. In "The Child in our Soul," he says,
for instance: "The greatest man on earth must cherish the child in his
soul and listen, amid the thunder, to what it whispers low;" and again:
"Everything great that thought has invented sprouted forth in childlike
joy; and everything strong, sprung from what is good, obeyed the child's
voice." Though in a certain sense that may be true enough, it belongs to
the kind of half-truths which by constant repetition grow pernicious
and false. The man who at forty assumes the child's attitude of mere
wondering acceptance toward the world and its problems, may, indeed, be
a very estimable character; but he will never amount to much. It is the
honest doubters, the importunate questioners, the indefatigable fighters
who have broken humanity's shackles, and made the world a more
comfortable abiding-place to the present generation than it was to the
past. There is unquestionably a strain of Danish romanticism in
Bjoernson's persistent harping upon childlike faith and simplicity and a
childlike vision of the world. Grundtvig, with whom this note is
pervasive, had in his early youth a great influence over him. The
glorification of primitive feeling was part of the romantic revolt
against the dry rationalism of the so-called period of enlightenment.

To account for the fact that so mighty a spirit as Bjoernson could have
reached his thirty-eighth year before emerging from this state of
idyllic _naivete_, I am inclined to quote the following passage from
Brandes, descriptive of the condition of the Scandinavian countries
during the decade preceding 1870:

"While the intellectual life languished, as a plant droops in a close,
confined place, the people were self-satisfied--though not with a joyous
or noisy self-satisfaction; for there was much sadness in their minds
after the great disasters [the Sleswick-Holstein War].... They rested
on their laurels and fell into a doze. And while they dozed they had
dreams. The cultivated, and especially the half-cultivated, public in
Denmark and Norway dreamed that they were the salt of Europe. They
dreamed that by their idealism--the ideals of Grundtvig and
Kierkegaard--and their strong vigilance, they regenerated the foreign
nations. They dreamed that they were the power which could rule the
world, but which, for mysterious and incomprehensible reasons, had for a
long series of years preferred to eat crumbs from the foreigners' table.
They dreamed that they were the free, mighty North, which led the cause
of the peoples to victory--and they woke up unfree, impotent,
ignorant."[5]

    [5] Brandes: Det Moderne Gjennembrud's Maend, pp. 44, 45.

Though there is a good deal of malice, there is no exaggeration in this
unflattering statement. Scandinavia had by its own choice cut itself off
from the cosmopolitan world life; and the great ideas which agitated
Europe found scarcely an echo in the three kingdoms. In my own boyhood,
which coincides with Bjoernson's early manhood, I heard on all hands
expressions of self-congratulation because the doubt and fermenting
restlessness which were undermining the great societies abroad had never
ruffled the placid surface of our good, old-fashioned, Scandinavian
orthodoxy. How heartily we laughed at the absurdities of Darwin, who, as
we had read in the newspapers, believed that he was descended from an
ape! How deeply, densely, and solidly ignorant we were; and yet how
superior we felt in the midst of our ignorance!

All this must be taken into account, if we are to measure the
significance, as well as the courage, of Bjoernson's apostasy. For five
years (1870-74) he published nothing of an aesthetical character. But he
plunged with hot zeal into political life, not only because he needed an
outlet for his pent-up energy; but because the question at issue engaged
him, heart and soul. The equal and co-ordinate position of Norway and
Sweden under the union had been guaranteed by the Constitution of 1814;
but, as a matter of fact, the former kingdom is by all the world looked
upon as a dependency, if not a province, of the latter. The Bernadottes,
lacking comprehension of the Norwegian character, had shown themselves
purblind as bats in their dealings with Norway. They had mistaken a
perfectly legitimate desire for self-government for a demonstration of
hostility to Sweden and the royal house; and instead of identifying
themselves with the national movement (which they might well have done),
they fought it, first by cautious measures of repression, and later by
vetoes and open defiance. Charles XV., and, later, Oscar II., kept the
minority ministries, Stang and Selmer, in power, with a bland disregard
of popular condemnation, and snapped their fingers at the parliamentary
majorities which, for well-nigh a quarter of a century, fought
persistently, bravely, and not altogether vainly, for their country's
rights.

There is no doubt that Norway is the most democratic country in Europe,
if not in the world. There is a far sturdier sense of personal worth, a
far more fearless assertion of equality, and a far more democratic
feeling permeating society than, for instance, in the United States.
Sweden, on the other hand, is essentially an aristocratic country, with
a landed nobility and many other remnants of feudalism in her political
and social institutions. Two countries so different in character can
never be good yoke-fellows. They can never develop at an even pace, and
the fact of kinship scarcely helps matters where the temperaments and
the conditions are so widely dissimilar. Brothers who fall out are apt
to fight each other the more fiercely on account of the relationship.
Bjoernson certainly does not cherish any hatred of Sweden, nor do I
believe that there is any general animosity to the Swedish people to be
found anywhere in Norway. It is most unfortunate that the mistaken
policy of the Bernadottes has placed the two nations in an attitude of
apparent hostility. In spite of the loud denunciation of Norway by the
so-called Grand Swedish party, and the equally vociferous response of
the Norwegian journals (of the Left) there is a strong sympathy between
the democracy of Norway and that of Sweden, and a mutual respect which
no misrepresentation can destroy.

It was Bjoernson who, in 1873, began the agitation for the actual and
not merely nominal, equality of the two kingdoms;[6] he appealed to the
national sense of honor, and by his kindling eloquence aroused the
tremendous popular indignation that swept the old ministry of Stang from
power, and caused the impeachment and condemnation of the Selmer
ministry. It would seem when the king, in 1882, charged the liberal
leader, Mr. Johan Sverdrup, to form a ministry, that parliamentarism had
actually triumphed. But unhappily a new Stang ministry (the chief of
which is the son of the old premier) has, recently (1893) re-established
the odious minority rule, which sits like a nightmare upon the nation's
breast, checking its respiration, and hindering its natural development.

    [6] I had the pleasure of accompanying Bjoernson on his first
    political tour in the summer of 1873, and I shall never forget the
    tremendous impression of the man and his mighty eloquence at the
    great folk-meeting at Boee in Guldbrandsdalen.

During this period of national self-assertion Bjoernson has unfolded a
colossal activity. Though holding no office, and steadily refusing an
election to the Storthing, he has been the life and soul of the liberal
party. The task which he had undertaken grew upon his hands, and assumed
wider and wider dimensions. As his predecessor Wergeland had done, and
in a far deeper sense, he consecrated his life to the spiritual and
intellectual liberation of his people. It is told of the former that he
was in the habit of walking about the country with his pockets full of
seeds of grass and trees, of which he scattered a handful here and a
handful there; for, he said, you can never tell what will grow up after
it. There is to me something quite touching in the patriotism which
prompted this act. Bjoernson, too, is in the same sense "a sower who went
forth for to sow." And the golden grain of his thought falls, as in the
parable, in all sorts of places; but, unlike some of the seed in the
parable, it all leaves some trace behind. It stimulates reflection, it
awakens life, it arouses the torpid soul, it shakes the drowsy soul, it
shocks the pious soul, it frightens the timid soul, but it lifts them
all, as it were, by main force, out of themselves, and makes healthful
breezes blow, and refreshing showers fall upon what was formerly a
barren waste. This is Bjoernson's mission; this is, during the second
period of his career, his greatness and his highest significance.

Of course there are many opinions as to the value of the work he has
accomplished in this capacity of political and religious liberator. The
Conservative party of Norway, which runs the errands of the king and
truckles to Sweden, hates him with a bitter and furious hatred; the
clergy denounce him, and the official bureaucracy can scarcely mention
his name without an anathema. But the common people, though he has
frightened many of them away by his heterodoxy, still love him. It is
especially his disrespect to the devil (whom he professes not to believe
in) which has been a sore trial to the Bible-reading, hymn-singing
peasantry. Does not the Bible say that the devil goes about like a
roaring lion seeking whom he may devour? Nevertheless Bjoernson has the
hardihood to assert that there is no such person. And yet Bjoernson is a
man who can talk most beautifully, and who knows as much as any parson.
It is extremely puzzling.

The fact was, Bjoernson's abolition of the devil, and his declaration of
a war against the orthodox miracle faith, were, as far as the Norwegian
people were concerned, somewhat premature. The peasant needs the old
scriptural devil, and is not yet ready to dispense with him. The devil
is a popular character in the folk-stories and legends, and I have known
some excellent people who declare that they have seen him. Creeds are
like certain ancient tumuli, which now are but graves, but were once the
habitations of living men. The dust, ashes, and bones of defunct life
which they often contain, nourish in the dark the green grass, the fair
flowers, the blooming trees, that shoot up into the light. You cannot
dig it all up and throw it out without tearing asunder the net-work of
roots which organically connects the living with the dead.

Bjoernson, though he is an evolutionist, is far removed from the
philosophic temper in his dealings with the obsolete or obsolescent
remnants in political and religious creeds. He has the healthful
intolerance of strong conviction. He is too good a partisan to admit
that there may be another side to the question which might be worth
considering. With magnificent ruthlessness he plunges ahead, and with a
truly old Norse pugnacity he stands in the thick of the fight, rejoicing
in battle. Only combat arouses his Titanic energy and calls all his
splendid faculties into play.

Even apart from his political propaganda the years 1870-74 were a period
of labor and ferment to Bjoernson. The mightier the man, the mightier the
powers enlisted in his conversion, and the mightier the struggle. A
tremendous wrench was required to change his point of view from that of
a childlike, wondering believer to that of a critical sceptic and
thinker. In a certain sense Bjoernson never took this step; for when the
struggle was over, and he had readjusted his vision of life to the
theory of evolution, he became as ardent an adherent of it as he had
ever been of the _naive_ Grundtvigian miracle-faith. And with the deep
need of his nature to pour itself forth--to share its treasures with all
the world--he started out to proclaim his discoveries. Besides Darwin
and Spencer, he had made a study of Stuart Mill, whose noble sense of
fair-play had impressed him. He plunged with hot zeal into the writings
of Steinthal and Max Mueller, whose studies in comparative religion
changed to him the whole aspect of the universe. Taine's historical
criticism, with its disrespectful derivation of the hero from food,
climate, and race, lured him still farther away from his old Norse and
romantic landmarks, until there was no longer any hope of his ever
returning to them. But when from this promontory of advanced thought he
looked back upon his idyllic love-stories of peasant lads and lasses,
and his taciturn saga heroes, with their predatory self-assertion, he
saw that he had done with them forever; that they could never more
enlist his former interest. On the other hand, the problems of modern
contemporary life, of which he had now gained quite a new comprehension,
tempted him. The romantic productions of his youth appeared as a more or
less arbitrary play of fancy emancipated from the stern logic of
reality. It was his purpose henceforth to consecrate his powers to the
study of the deeper soul-life of his own age and the exposition of the
forces which in their interdependence and interaction make modern
society.

This is the significance of the four-act drama "Bankruptcy," with which,
in 1874, he astounded and disappointed the Scandinavian public. I have
called it a drama, in accordance with the author's designation on the
title-page; but it is, in the best sense, a comedy of manners, of the
kind that Augier produced in France; and in everything except the
mechanics of construction superior to the plays of Sardou and Dumas. The
dialogue has the most admirable accent of truth. It is not unnaturally
witty or brilliant; but exhibits exactly the traits which Norwegians of
the higher commercial plutocracy are likely to exhibit. All the poetic
touches which charmed us in Bjoernson's saga dramas were conspicuous by
their absence. Scarcely a trace was there left of that peculiar and
delightful language of his early novels, which can only be described by
the term "Bjoernsonian."

"Dry, prosaic, trivial," said the reviewers; "Bjoernson has evidently
worked out his vein. He has ceased to be a poet. He has lost with his
childhood's faith his ideal view of life, and become a mere prosy
chronicler of uninteresting everyday events."

This was, indeed, the general verdict of the public twenty years ago.
Scarcely anyone had a good word to say for the abused play that marked
the poet's fall from the idealism of his early song. But, for all that,
"Bankruptcy" made a strong impression upon the boards. It not only
conquered a permanent place in the _repertoires_ of the theatres of the
Scandinavian capitals, but it spread through Austria, Germany, and
Holland, and has finally scored a success at the _Theatre Libre_ in
Paris. There is scarcely a theatre of any consequence in Germany which
has not made "Bankruptcy" part of its _repertoire_. At the Royal Theatre
in Munich it was accorded a most triumphant reception, and something
over sixty representations has not yet exhausted its popularity.

The effort to come to close quarters with reality is visible in every
phrase. The denial of the value of all the old romantic stage machinery,
with its artificial climaxes and explosive effects, is perceptible in
the quiet endings of the acts and the entirely unsensational exposition
of the dramatic action. There is one scene (and by no means an unnatural
one) in which there is a touch of violence, viz., where Tjaelde, while
he hopes to avert his bankruptcy, threatens to shoot Lawyer Berent and
himself; but there is a very human quiver in the threat and in the
passionate outbreak which precedes it. Nowhere is there a breath of that
superheated hot-house atmosphere which usually pervades the modern
drama.

"Bankruptcy" deals, as the title indicates, with the question of
financial honesty. Zola has in _Le Roman Sentimental_ made the
observation that "absolute honesty no more exists than perfect
healthfulness. There is a tinge of the human beast in us all, as there
is a tinge of illness." Tjaelde, the great merchant, exemplifies this
proposition. He is a fairly honest man, who by the modern commercial
methods, which, in self-defence, he has been forced to adopt, gets into
the position of a rogue. The commandment, "Thou shalt not steal," seems
at first glance an extremely simple injunction; but in the light of
Bjoernson's searching analysis it becomes a complex and intricate tangle,
capable of interesting shades and _nuances_ of meaning. Tjaelde, in the
author's opinion, certainly does steal, when, in order to save himself
(and thereby the thousands who are involved in his affairs), he
speculates with other people's money and presents a rose-colored account
of his business, when he knows that he is on the verge of bankruptcy.
But, on the other hand, it is extremely difficult to determine the point
where legitimate speculation ceases and the illegitimate begins. And if
Tjaelde neglected any legitimate means of saving his estate he would be
culpable. A stern code of morals (which the commercial world of to-day
would scarcely exact), the poet enforces in the fourth act, where
Tjaelde refuses to accept any concession from his creditors, but insists
upon devoting the remainder of his life to the liquidation of his debts.

Admirably strong and vital is the exposition of the _role_ and functions
of money in the modern world, and the nearer and remoter psychological
effects of the tremendous tyranny of money. A certain external _eclat_
is required to give the great commercial house the proper splendor in
the sight of the world. Thus Tjaelde speculates in hospitality as in
everything else, and when he virtually has nothing, makes the grandest
splurge in order to give a spurious impression of prosperity. Though by
nature an affectionate man, he neglects his family because business
demands all his time. He defrauds himself of the happiness which knocks
at his door, because business fills his head by night and by day, and
absorbs all his energy. A number of parasites (such as the
fortune-hunting lieutenant) attach themselves to him, as long as he is
reputed to be rich, and make haste to vanish when his riches take wings.
On the other hand, the true friends whom in his prosperity he hectored
and contemned are revealed by adversity. There would be nothing
remarkable in so common an experience, if the friends themselves, as
well as the parasites, were not so delightfully delineated. The
lieutenant, with his almost farcical interest in the bay trotter, is
amusingly but lightly drawn; but the awkward young clerk, Sannaes, who
refuses to abandon his master in the hour of trial, is a deeply typical
Norwegian figure. All the little coast towns have specimens to show of
these aspiring, faithful, sensitively organized souls, who, having had
no social advantages are painfully conscious of their deficiencies, but
whose patient industry and sterling worth in the end will triumph. No
less keenly observed and effectively sketched is the whole gallery of
dastardly little village figures--Holm, Falbe, Knutson with an s,
Knutzon, with a z, etc. Signe and Valborg, the two daughters of Tjaelde,
have, in spite of their diversity, a common tinge of Norwegian
nationality which gives a gentle distinctness and relief to the
world-old types.

Bjoernson's next play,[7] "The Editor," grapples with an equally modern
and timely subject, viz., the license of the press. With terrible
vividness he shows the misery, ruin, and degradation which result from
the present journalistic practice of misrepresentation, sophistry, and
defamation. It is a very dark picture he draws, with scarcely a gleam of
light. The satire is savage; and the quiver of wrath is perceptible in
many a sledge-hammer phrase. You feel that Bjoernson himself has suffered
from the terrorism which he here describes, and you would surmise too,
even if you did not know it, that the editor whom he has here pilloried
is no mere general editorial type, but a well-known person who, until
recently, conducted one of the most influential journals in Norway. The
play is an act of retribution, and a deserved one. But its weaknesses,
which it is vain to disguise, are also explained by the author's
personal bias--the desire to wreak vengeance upon an enemy.

    [7] All the literary histories and other authorities which I have
    consulted put the publication of "Bankruptcy," as well as that of
    "The Editor," in 1875. But my own copy of the latter play bears on
    its title-page the year 1874.

The situation is as follows: Mr. Evje, a rich and generally respected
distiller, has a daughter, Gertrude, who is engaged to Harold Rein, a
political leader of peasant origin. Mr. Rein's brother, Halfdan, from
whom he has, in a measure, inherited the leadership, is dying from the
persecution to which he has been exposed by the Conservative press and
public. In his zeal for the Radical cause it is his consolation that he
leaves it in such strong hands as those of his brother. The election is
impending and a meeting of the electors has been called for the
following day. Harold is the candidate of the Left. It now becomes a
question with the party of the Right so to ridicule and defame him as to
ruin his chances. His position as prospective son-in-law of the rich
Mr. Evje lends an air of importance and respectability to his candidacy.
Mr. Evje must therefore be induced, or, if necessary, compelled, to
throw him overboard. With this end in view the editor of the
Conservative journal goes to Evje (whose schoolmate and friend he has
been) and tries to persuade him to break the alliance with Rein. Evje,
who prides himself on his "moderation" and tolerance, and his purpose to
keep aloof from partisanship, refuses to be bullied; whereupon the
editor threatens him with social ostracism and commercial ruin. The
distiller, who is at heart a coward, is completely unnerved by this
threat. Well knowing how a paper can undermine a man's reputation
without making itself liable for libel, he sends his friend the doctor
to the editor, suing for peace. Late in the evening he meets his foe
outside of his house, and after much shuffling and parleying agrees to
do his will. He surprises his daughter and Harold Rein in a loving
_tete-a-tete_, and lacks the courage to carry out his bargain. He vainly
endeavors to persuade them to break the engagement and separate until
after the election.

In the meanwhile, John, a discharged servant of Evje (of whose
drunkenness and political radicalism we have previously been informed),
has overheard the parley with the editor, and in order to get even with
his master countermands in the editor's name his order to the foreman of
the printing-office; and the obnoxious article which was intended to be
omitted appears in the paper. John also takes care to procure Evje an
early copy, which, first utterly crushes him, then arouses his wrath,
convinces him that "holding aloof" is mere cowardice, and makes him
resolve to bear his share in the great political battle. The meanness,
the malice of each ingenious thrust, while it stings and burns also
awakens a righteous indignation. He goes straight to the lodgings of
Harold Rein and determines to attend the Radical meeting. Not finding
him at home he goes to the house of his brother Halfdan, where he leaves
the copy of the paper. The sick man picks it up, reads an onslaught on
himself which in baseness surpasses the attack on Evje, starts up in
uncontrollable excitement, and dies of a hemorrhage. The maid, who sees
him lying on the floor, cries out into the street for help, and the
editor, who chances to pass by, enters. He finds the Radical leader
dead, with the paper clutched in his hand.

The fourth act opens with a festal arrangement at Evje's in honor of the
great success of Rein's electoral meeting. There is no more "holding
aloof." Everybody has convictions and is ready to avow the party that
upholds them. All are ignorant of Halfdan Rein's death, until the editor
arrives, utterly broken in spirit and asks Evje's pardon. He wishes to
explain, but no one wishes to listen. When Evje wavers and is on the
point of accepting his proffered hand, his wife and daughter loudly
protest.

The editor declares his purpose to renounce journalism. The festivities
are abandoned, and all betake themselves to the house of the dead
leader. Thus the play ends; there is no tableau, no climax, no dramatic
catastrophe. It is Zola's theory[8] and Maeterlink's practice
anticipated.

    [8] "Naturalism on the Stage."

The journalistic conditions here described are, of course, those of the
Norwegian capital nearly a quarter of a century ago. Few editors, I
fancy, outside of country towns, now go about personally spreading
rumors, with malice aforethought, and collecting gossip. But the power
of the press for good and for ill, and the terrorism which, in evil
hands, it exercises, are surely not exaggerated. But its most striking
application has the drama in its exposure of the desperate and
ignominious expedients to which a party will resort in order to defeat,
defame, and utterly destroy a political opponent. The following passages
may be worth quoting:

"Most of the successful politicians nowadays win not by their own
greatness but by the paltriness of the rest."

"Here is a fine specimen of a fossil. It is a piece of a palm-leaf, ...
which was found in a stratum of Siberian rock.... Thus one must become
in order to endure the ice-storms. Then one is not harmed. But your
brother! In him lived yet the whole murmuring, singing palm-forest....
As regards you, it remains to be seen whether you can get all humanity
in you completely killed.... But who would at that price be a
politician?... That one must be hardened is the watchword of all
nowadays. Not only army officers but physicians, merchants, officials
are to be hardened or dried up; ... hardened for the battle of life, as
they say. But what does that mean? We are to expel and evaporate the
warmth of the heart, the fancy's yearning, ... before we are fit for
life.... No, I say, it is those very things we are to preserve. That's
what we have got them for."

Bjoernson's increasing Radicalism and his outspoken Socialistic
sympathies had by this time alienated a large portion of the
Scandinavian public. The cry was heard on all sides that he had ceased
to be a poet, and had become instead a mere political agitator. I cannot
deny myself the pleasure of quoting Bjoernson's reply when at his request
a friend repeated to him the opinion which was entertained of him in
certain quarters:

"Oh, yes," he cried, with a wrathful laugh, "don't I know it? You must
be a poet! You must not mingle in the world's harsh and jarring tumult.
They have a notion that a poet is a longhaired man who sits on the top
of a tower and plays upon a harp while his hair streams in the wind.
Yes, a fine kind of poet is that! No, my boy, I am a poet, not primarily
because I can write verse (there are lots of people who can do that) but
by virtue of seeing more clearly, and feeling more deeply, and speaking
more truly than the majority of men. All that concerns humanity
concerns me. If by my song or my speech I can contribute ever so little
toward the amelioration of the lot of the millions of my poorer
fellow-creatures, I shall be prouder of that than of the combined
laurels of Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe."

This is the conception of a poet which was prevalent in Norway in the
olden time. The scalds of the sagas were warriors as well as singers.
They fought with sword and battle-axe, and their song rang the more
boldly because they knew how to strike up another tune--the fierce song
of the sword. In modern times Wergeland and Welhaven have demonstrated
not only the pugnacity, but also the noble courage of their ancestry by
espousing the cause of opposing parties during the struggle for national
independence.

Those who demand that literature shall be untinged by any tendency or
strong conviction will do well to eschew all the subsequent works of
Bjoernson. They might perhaps put up with the brief novel "Magnhild,"
which is tolerably neutral in tone, though it is the least enjoyable of
all Bjoernson's works. It gives the impression that the author is half
afraid of his subject (which is an illicit love), and only dares to
handle it so gingerly as to leave half the tale untold. The short,
abrupt sentences which seemed natural enough when he was dealing with
the peasants, with their laconic speech and blunt manners, have a forced
and unnatural air when applied to people to whom this style of language
is foreign. Moreover, these condensed sentences are often vague, full of
innuendo, and mysterious as hieroglyphics. It is as if the author, in
the consciousness of the delicacy of his theme, had lost the bold
security of touch which in his earlier works made his meaning
unmistakable.

The drama "The King" (1877) is an attack upon the monarchical principle
in its political as well as its personal aspect. It is shown how
destructive the royal prerogative is and must be to the king as an
individual; how the artificial regard which hedges him in, interposing
countless barriers between the truth and him, makes his relations to his
surroundings false and deprives him of the opportunity for
self-knowledge which normal relations supply. Royalty is therefore a
curse, because it robs its possessor of the wholesome discipline of life
which is the right of every man that is born into the world.

Furthermore, there is an obvious intention to show that the monarchy,
being founded upon a lie, is incapable of any real adaptation to the
age, and reconciliation with modern progress. The king in the play is a
young, talented, liberal-minded man, who is fully conscious of the
anomaly of his position, and determined to save his throne by stripping
it of all mediaeval and mythological garniture. He dreams of being a
"folk-king," the first citizen of a free people, a kind of hereditary
president, with no sham divinity to fall back upon, and no "grace of
God" to shield him from criticism and sanctify his blunders. He resents
the _role_ of being the lock of the merchant's strong-box and the head
of that mutual insurance company which is called the state. He goes
about _incognito_, first in search of love adventures, and later in
order to acquaint himself with public opinion; and he proves himself
remarkably unprejudiced and capable of profiting by experience. He falls
in love with Clara Ernst, the daughter of a Radical professor, who, on
account of a book he has written, has been sentenced for _crimen laesae
majestatis_, and in an attempt to escape from prison has broken both his
legs. Clara, who is supporting her father in his exile by teaching,
repels the king's advances with indignation and contempt. He perseveres,
however, fascinated by the novelty of such treatment. He manages to
convince her of the purity of his motives; and finally succeeds in
winning her love. It is not a _liaison_ he contemplates, but a valid and
legitimate marriage for which he means to compel recognition. The court,
which he has no more use for, he desires to abolish as a costly and
degrading luxury; and in its place to establish a home--a model
_bourgeois_ home--where affection and virtue shall flourish. Clara,
seeing the vast significance of such a step, is aglow with enthusiasm
for its realization. It is not vanity, but a lofty faith in her mission
to regenerate royalty, by discarding its senseless pomp and bringing it
into accord with, and down to the level of, common citizenship--it is
this, I say, which upholds her in the midst of opprobrium, insults, and
hostile demonstrations. For the king's subjects, so far from being
charmed by his resolution to marry a woman out of their midst, are
scandalized. They riot, sing mocking songs, circulate base slanders, and
threaten to mob the royal bride on her way to her first public function.
She is herself terribly wrought up, particularly by the curse of her
father, who hates the king with the deep hatred of a fanatical
Republican. A royal princess, who had come to insult her, is conquered
by her candor and truth, and stays to sympathize with her and lend her
the support of her presence. But just as the king comes to lead her out
to face the populace, the wraith of her father rises upon the threshold
and she falls back dead. It is learned afterward that Professor Ernst
had died in that very hour.

The king's bosom friend, the Minister of the Interior, Gran, who is
largely responsible for his liberalism, and whose whole policy it has
been to rejuvenate and revitalize the monarchy, is challenged and shot
by his old teacher, the Republican Flink; and the king himself,
convinced of the futility of all his efforts to realize his idea of a
democratic monarchy, commits suicide.

As a piece of sanguinary satire on royalty as an institution "The King"
is most interesting--that is, royalty logically and speculatively
considered, without reference to its historical basis and development.
To me the postulate that it had its origin in a kind of conspiracy (for
mutual benefit) of the priest and the king seems shallow and
unphilosophical. Bjoernson's fanatical partisanship has evidently carried
him a little too far. For surely he would himself admit that every free
nation is governed about as well as it deserves to be--that its
political institutions are a reflection of its maturity and capacity for
self-government. A certain allowance must, indeed, be made for the _vis
inertiae_ of whatever exists, which makes it exert a stubborn and not
unwholesome resistance to the reformer's zeal. This conservatism (which
may, however, have more laudable motives than mere self-interest)
Bjoernson has happily satirized in the scene before the Noblemen's Club
in the third act. But, I fancy, it looks to him only as a sinister
power, which for its own base purposes has smitten humanity with
blindness to its own welfare. Though not intending to enter into a
discussion, I am also tempted to put a respectful little interrogation
mark after the statement that the republic is so very much cheaper than
the monarchy. If the experience of the two largest republics in the
world counts for anything, I should say that in point of economy there
was not much to choose.

Strange as it may seem, Bjoernson did not intend "The King" as an
argument in favor of the republic. In his preface to the third edition
he distinctly repudiates the idea. The recent development of the
Norwegian people, has, he says, made the republic a remoter possibility
than it was ten years before (1875). But he qualifies this statement
with the significant condition, "If we are not checked by fraud." And I
fancy that he would have a perfect right to justify his present position
by demonstrating the fraud, trickery, if not treason, by which Norway
has during the last decade been thwarted in her aspirations and checked
in her development. That preface, by the way, dated Paris, October,
1885, is one of the most forceful and luminous of his political
pronunciamientos. It rings from beginning to end with conviction and a
manly indignation. His chief purpose, he says, in writing this drama
was, "to extend the boundaries of free discussion." His polemics against
the clergy are not attacks upon Christianity, though he contends that
religion is subject to growth as well as other things. The ultimate form
of government he believes to be the republic, on the journey toward
which all European states are proceeding fast, or slow, and in various
stages of progress. There is something abrupt, gnarled, Carlylese, in
his urgent admonitions and appeals for fair-play. The personal note is
so distinct that I cannot read the play without unconsciously supplying
the very cadence of Bjoernson's voice.

A further attempt to extend the boundaries of free discussion is made in
the two dramas, "Leonarda" (1879) and "A Glove" (1883), which both deal
with interesting phases of the woman question, and both wage war
against conventional notions of right and wrong. The former elucidates
the attitude of society toward the woman who has been compromised
(whether justly or not), and the latter its attitude toward the man. I
confess there is something a trifle hazy in his exposition of the
problem in "Leonarda;" and I am unable to determine whether Leonarda
really has anything to reproach herself with or not. In her conversation
with the bishop in the second act, she appears to admit that she has
much to regret. She begs him "help her atone for her past." She
practically throws herself upon his mercy, reminding him that his
Master, Christ, was the friend of sinners. But in the last act she
appears suddenly with the halo of martyrdom. General Rosen, who has been
the cause of her social ostracism, turns out to be her husband, whom she
has divorced on account of his dissipated habits, and now keeps, in the
hope of saving him, on a sort of probation. She believes that without
her he would go straight to perdition, and from a sense of duty she
tolerates him, not daring to shirk her responsibility for the old
reprobate's soul. Truth to tell, she treats him like a naughty boy,
punishing him, when he has been drunk, with a denial of favors; and when
he has been good, rewarding him with her company. I suppose there are
men who might be saved by such treatment, but I venture to doubt whether
they are worth saving. As for Leonarda, she has apparently no cause for
encouragement. But she perseveres, heedless of obloquy, as long as her
own affections are disengaged. She presently falls in love, however,
with a young man named Hagbart Tallhaug, who has insulted her and is now
engaged to her niece, Agot. Hagbart is the nephew of the bishop of the
diocese, who, after much persuasion is induced to receive Agot, on
condition that her aunt will remove from the district and demand no
recognition from the family. Having been informed of these conditions,
Leonarda calls upon the bishop, uninvited, and vainly remonstrates with
him. The young people are, however, unwilling to accept happiness on the
terms offered by his reverence. At this point a new complication arises.
Hagbart who had loved in Agot a kind of reflection of her aunt's
character and manner, being now thrown into the company of the latter,
discovers his mistake and transfers his affection to Leonarda. Exactly
wherein the newness of Leonarda's type consists we are not fully
informed, but we are led to infer that she represents a purer and truer
humanity than the women bred in the traditions of feudalism, with their
hypocritical arts and conventions. She is not meant to be seductive, but
radiant, ravishing.

There is a candor in her speech, and an almost boyish
straightforwardness, for which she is not indebted to nature but to the
stanch idealism of her creator. She is, however, on that account no less
impressionable, no less ready to respond to the call of love. She
struggles manfully (or ought I not, in deference to the author's
contention, to say "womanfully") against her love for Hagbart, and at
last has no choice but to escape from the cruel dilemma by accepting the
bishop's demand. Though she cannot conquer her affection for the young
man, she believes that he will, in the course of time, return to Agot,
as soon as she is out of his way. The author evidently believes the
same. It is a hard lot to be a man in these later dramas of Bjoernson.

With a slight violation of the chronological sequence I shall discuss "A
Glove" in this connection, because of its organic coherence with
"Leonarda." They are the obverse and reverse of the same subject--the
cruelty of society to the woman of a blemished reputation, and its
leniency to the man.

To those who worship the conventional ideal of womanly innocence "A
Glove" will seem a very shocking book, for it fearlessly discusses, and,
what is more, makes a young girl discuss--the standards of sexual purity
as applied to men and women. The sentiments which she utters are, to be
sure, elevated and of an almost Utopian idealism; and the author
obviously means to raise, not to lower, her in the eyes of the reader by
her passionate frankness.

The problem of the drama is briefly this: Society demands of women an
absolute chastity, and refuses to condone the least lapse, either before
or after marriage. But toward men it is indulgent. It readily overlooks
a plenteous seed of wild oats, and would regard it as the sheerest
Quixotism to judge the bridegroom by the same standard of purity as it
does the bride. It is easy enough, and perhaps also legitimate, to
exclaim with Bjoernson that this is all wrong, and that a man has no
right to ask any more than he gives. As a mere matter of equity a wife
owes her husband no more fidelity than he owes her, and may exact of
him, if she chooses, the same prematrimonial purity that he exacts of
her. But questions of this kind are never settled on the basis of
equity. The sentiments by which they are determined have long and
intricate roots in the prehistoric past; and we are yet very far from
the millennial condition of absolute equality between the sexes.
According to Herbert Spencer there is a hereditary transmission of
qualities which are confined exclusively to the male, and of others
which are confined to the female; and these are the results of the
primitive environments and conditions which were peculiar to each sex.
Even the best of us have a reminiscent sense of proprietorship in our
wives, dating from the time when she was obtained by purchase or capture
and could be disposed of like any other chattel. Wives, whose
prehistoric discipline has disposed them to humility and submission (I
am speaking of the European, not the American species, of course), have
not yet in the same degree acquired this sense of ownership in their
husbands, involving the same strict accountability for affectional
aberrations. And for this there is a very good reason, which is no less
valid now than it was in the hoariest antiquity. A husband's infidelity,
though morally as reprehensible as that of the wife, does not entail
quite such monstrous consequences. For if she deceives him, he may
ignorantly bring up another man's children, toil for them, bestow his
name and affection upon them, and leave them his property. One can
scarcely conceive of a more outrageous wrong than this; and it is in
order to guard against such a possibility that society from remote ages
has watched over the chastity of women far more jealously than over that
of men. It is as a result of this vigilance of centuries that women
have, among civilized nations, a finer sense of modesty than men, and a
higher standard of personal purity. Men are, as yet, as Mr. Howells
remarks, "imperfectly monogamous;" and Bjoernson is, no doubt, in the
main right in the tremendous indictment he frames against them in the
present drama.

It may be expedient to give a brief outline of the action. Svava Riis,
the daughter of prosperous and refined parents, becomes engaged to Alf
Christensen, the son of a great commercial magnate.

Her father and mother are overjoyed at the happy event; she is herself
no less delighted. Her _fiance_ has an excellent reputation, shares her
interest in social questions, and supports her in her efforts to found
kindergartens and to ameliorate the lot of the poor. Each glories in
the exclusive possession of the other's love, and with the retrospective
jealousy of lovers, fancies that he has had no predecessors in the
affection of the beloved. Alf can scarcely endure to have any one touch
Svava, and is almost ill when any one dances with her.

"When I see you among all the others," he exclaims, "and catch, for
instance, a glimpse of your arm, then I think: That arm has been wound
about my neck, and about no one else's in the whole world. She is mine!
She belongs to me, and to no one, no one else!"

Svava finds this feeling perfectly natural, and reciprocates it. She
ardently believes that he brings her as fresh a heart as she brings him;
that his past is as free from contaminating experience as is her own.
When, therefore, she obtains proof to the contrary, in an indignant
revulsion of feeling, she hurls her glove in his face and breaks the
engagement. This act is, I fancy, intended to be half symbolic. The
young girl expresses not only her personal sense of outrage; but she
flings a challenge in the face of the whole community, which by its
indulgence made his transgression easy. She discovers that what in her
would have been a crime is in him a lapse, readily forgiven. Her whole
soul revolts against this inequality of conditions; and in terminating
their relation, which has lost all its beauty, she wishes to cut off all
chance of its future resumption.

In order to determine whether this sentiment of passionate virginity
(which in effect makes the marriage vow of fidelity retroactive) is not,
in the present condition of the world, a trifle overstrained, I have
submitted the question to two refined women for whom I have a high
regard. To my surprise they both declared that Svava, whatever she may
have said to the contrary, did not love her _fiance_; that her sorrow
and even her indignation were just and natural; but that her somewhat
over-conscious purity--her _virginite savante_, as Balzac phrases it in
"Modeste Mignon," and her inability to give due weight to ameliorating
circumstances were unwomanly. I confess I am not without sympathy with
this criticism. Svava, though she is right in her vehement protest
against masculine immorality, is not charming--that is, according to our
present notion of what constitutes womanly charm. It is not unlikely,
however, that like Leonarda she is meant to anticipate a new type of
womanhood, co-ordinate and coequal with man, whose charm shall be of a
wholly different order. The coquetry, the sweet hypocrisy, nay, all the
frivolous arts which exercise such a potent sway over the heart of man
have their roots in the prehistoric capture and thraldom; and from the
point of view of the woman suffragists, are so many reminiscences of
degradation. I fancy that Bjoernson, sharing this view, has with full
deliberation made Svava boldly and inexorably truthful, frank as a boy
and as uncompromisingly honest as a man.

She has sufficient use for this masculine equipment (I am speaking in
accordance with the effete standards) in the battle which is before her.
Dr. Nordan, the family physician, her parents, and those of her
_fiance_, take her to task and endeavor to demonstrate to her the
consequences of her unprecedented demand. She learns in the course of
this prolonged debate that she has been living in a fool's paradise. She
has been purposely (and with the most benevolent intention) deceived in
regard to this question from the very cradle. Her father, whom she has
believed to be a model husband, proves to have been unworthy of her
trust. The elder Christensen has also had a compromising intrigue of the
same kind; and it becomes obvious that each male creature is so
indulgent in this chapter toward every other male creature, because each
knows himself to be equally vulnerable. There is a sort of tacit
freemasonry among them, which takes its revenge upon him who tells tales
out of school. It is a consciousness of this which makes Christensen,
after having declared war to the knife against the Riises, withdraw his
challenge and become doubly cordial toward his enemy. Alf, who in the
second act has expressed the opinion that a man is responsible to his
wife for his future, but not for his past, retracts, and does penance.
Svava, in consideration of his penitence, gives him a vague hope of
future reconciliation.[9]

    [9] In the later acting version of the play, which ends with the
    throwing of the glove, this hope of reconciliation is definitely cut
    off. The author has evidently come to the conclusion that his
    argument is weakened by Svava's conciliatory attitude, and he
    enforces his moral by making the sin appear unpardonable. The acting
    version, which is more dramatically concise, differs in several
    other respects from the version here presented; but the other
    changes seem to be dictated by a stricter regard for the exigencies
    of theatrical representation. The play has been translated into
    English under the title, "A Gauntlet," London, 1894.

It will be observed by every reader of "A Glove" that it is not a drama,
according to our American notion. It has very little dramatic action. It
might be styled a series of brilliant and searching debates concerning a
theme of great moment. The same definition applies, though in a lesser
degree, to "The New System" (1879), a five-act play of great power and
beauty. By power I do not mean noise, but convincing impressiveness and
concentration of interest. One could scarcely imagine anything farther
removed from the ha! and ho! style of melodrama.

"The New System" is primarily social satire. It is a psychological
analysis of the effect of the "small state" upon its citizens. It is an
expansion and exemplification of the proposition (Act I., 1) that "while
the great states cannot subsist without sacrificing their small people
by the thousands, small states cannot subsist without the sacrifice of
many of their great men, nay of the very greatest." The smooth, crafty
man, "who can smile ingratiatingly like a woman," rises to the higher
heights; while the bold, strong, capable man, who is unversed in the
arts of humility and intrigue, struggles hopelessly, and perhaps in the
end goes to the dogs, because he is denied the proper field for his
energy. Never has Bjoernson written anything more convincing,
penetrating, subtly satirical. He cuts deep; every incision draws blood.
A Norwegian who reads the play cannot well rid himself of a startled
sense of exposure that is at first wounding to his patriotism. It is
mortifying to have to admit that things are thus in Norway. And the
worst of it is that there appears to be no remedy. The condition is,
according to Bjoernson, inherent in all small states which cripple the
souls of men, stunt their growth, and contract their horizon.

The first act opens with a conversation between the civil engineers
Kampe and Ravn, and the former's son Hans, who has just returned from a
prolonged sojourn abroad. The keynote is struck in the sarcastic remark
of Ravn, that in a small society only small truths can be tolerated--of
the kind that takes twenty to the inch; but great truths are apt to be
explosive and should therefore be avoided, for they might burst the
whole society. This is _a propos_ of a book which Hans Kampe has
written, exposing the wastefulness and antiquated condition of the
so-called "new system" of railway management introduced, or supposed to
have been introduced, by Kampe's and Ravn's brother-in-law, the
supervisor-general Riis. The way for Hans to make a career, declares the
worldly wise Ravn, is not to oppose the source of promotion and power,
but to be silent and marry the supervisor-general's daughter. Ravn has
learned this lesson by bitter experience, and hopes that his nephew will
profit by it. All talk about duty to the state and society he pretends
to regard as pure moonshine, and he professes not to see the connection
between the elder Kampe's drunkenness and the artificial bottling up to
which he has been subjected, the curbing and jailing of Titanic powers
which once sought outlet in significant action. The same mighty force
which in its repression drives the men to the brandy-bottle makes the
women intoxicate themselves with fictitious narratives of high courage,
daring rescues, and all kinds of melodramatic heroism. Extremely amusing
is the scene in which Karen Riis (who loves Hans and is beloved by him)
goes rowing with her friends Nora and Lisa, taking with her a stock of
high-strung novels, and when a drowning man cries to them for help they
row away posthaste, because the man is naked.

The second act shows us the type of the successful man of compromise,
who takes the world as he finds it, and cleverly utilizes the foibles of
his fellow-men. The supervisor-general is a sort of personification of
public opinion. He is always correct, professes to believe what others
believe, and conforms from prudent calculation to the religious customs
of the community. He demands of his son Frederic that he shall abandon a
young girl whom he loves and has seduced, and he requires of his
daughter Karen that she shall, out of regard for her family, renounce
her lover. He feigns all proper sentiments and emotions, while under
the smooth, agreeable mask lurk malice and cunning. When Hans Kampe's
book reaches him, it never occurs to him to examine it on its merits;
his only thought is to make it harmless by inventing a scandalous
motive. The elder Kampe has just resigned from the railway service; the
supervisor-general (with infamous shrewdness) demands an official
inquiry into the state of his accounts. Then all the world will say that
Hans Kampe has been used as a cat's-paw by his father, who, knowing that
an investigation is inevitable, wishes to throw dust in the eyes of the
public and save his own reputation by attacking that of his superior. It
is needless to say that he has not a shadow of suspicion regarding
Kampe's honesty, but merely chooses for his own defence the weapon which
he knows to be the most effective.

In order to fortify his position and sound the sentiment of the
profession, Riis gives a grand dinner to the engineers of the city, to
which Kampe and his son are also invited. The chairman of the committee
on railways (of the national diet) is present, and when it appears that
Hans Kampe makes a favorable impression upon him, the friends of Riis
concoct a scheme to injure him. They inform his father that he is
suspected of embezzlement, and get him drunk, whereupon the old man
scandalizes the company by a burst of uncomplimentary candor. When Hans
arrives the mischief is done; though the pathetic scene between father
and son convinces the chairman that, whatever their failings, these men
are true and genuine. Simply delicious is the satire in the scene where
the ladies discuss the question at issue between Riis and Kampe. But
this satire is deprived of much of its force by the subsequent
development of the plot. The logical ending would seem to be the triumph
of the supervisor-general's defensive tactics and the discomfiture of
his critics. That would have given point to the criticism of the small
state and invested the victims of progress with an almost tragic
dignity. Bjoernson chooses, however, to let neither the one party nor the
other triumph. In a small state, he says, no one is victorious;
everything ends in compromise. If two parties championed two different
plans of railway construction, the one of which was demonstrated to be
superior in economy and safety to the other, such a demonstration would
not be likely to result in its adoption. No, the two parties would come
together, dicker and compromise, and in the end the diet would agree to
build one road according to the one plan, and one according to the
other. Agreeably to this principle Bjoernson leaves the honors between
the combatants about easy; but Riis, deserted by his children, undergoes
a partial change of heart and is seized with doubt as to the excellence
of his philosophy of life.

That the satire of "The New System" struck home is obvious from the
fierceness and virulence of the criticism with which it was hailed. It
has never become fairly domesticated on the Scandinavian stages, and
probably never will be. In Germany, France, and Holland it has received
respectful attention, and (I am informed) has proved extremely effective
upon the boards.

In the same year as "The New System" (1879) appeared the delightful
novelette "Captain Mansana," dealing with Italian life, and throwing
interesting side-lights upon the War of Liberation. There is an
irresistible charm in the freshness, the vividness, the extreme
modernness of this little tale. The mingled simplicity and
sophistication of the Italian character, the histrionic touch which yet
goes with perfect sincerity, the author has apprehended and presented
with happy realism.

In "Beyond their Strength" (_Over Aevne_) (1883) Bjoernson has invaded
the twilight realm of psycho-pathological phenomena, and refers the
reader for further information to _Lecons sur le systeme nerveux, faites
par J. M. Charcot_, and _Etudes cliniques sur l'hystero-epilepsie ou
grande hysterie, par le Dr. Richer_. As a man is always in danger of
talking nonsense in dealing with a subject concerning which his
knowledge is superficial, I shall not undertake to pronounce upon the
validity of the theory which is here advanced. The play is an inquiry
into the significance and authenticity of miracles. Incidentally the
theme is faith-healing, the hypnotic effect of prayer, and kindred
phenomena.

Pastor Sang, a clergyman in a remote parish of Northern Norway, is famed
far and wide as the miracle-priest, and it is popularly believed that he
can work wonders, as the apostles did of old. He has given away his
large fortune to the poor; in a fervor of faith he plunges into every
danger, and comes out unscathed; he lives constantly in an overstrained
ecstasy, and by his mere presence, and the atmosphere which surrounds
him, forces his wife and children to live in the same state of high
nervous tension and unnatural abstraction from mundane reality and all
its concerns. His wife, Clara, who loves him ardently, is gradually worn
out by this perpetual strain, which involves a daily overdraft upon her
vitality; and finally the break comes, and she is paralyzed. For, like
everyone who comes in contact with Sang, she has had to live "beyond her
strength." She does not fully share her husband's faith, and though she
feels his influence and admires his lofty devotion, there is a
half-suppressed criticism in her mind. She feels the unwholesomeness of
thus "living by inspiration, and not by reason." When he comes to her,
"beaming always with a Sabbath joy," she would fain tune him down, if
she could, into a lower key, "the C-major of every-day life," as
Browning calls it. But in this effort she has had no success, for Sang's
ecstatic elevation above the concerns of earth is not only
temperamental; nature itself, in the extreme North, favors it. As Clara
expresses it:

"Nature here exceeds the limits of the ordinary. We have night nearly
all winter; we have day nearly all summer--and then the sun is above the
horizon, both day and night. Have you seen it in the night? Do you know
that behind the ocean vapors it often looks three or four times as large
as usual? And then the color-effects upon sky, sea, and mountain! From
the deepest glow of red to the finest, tenderest, golden white. And the
colors of the aurora upon the wintry sky!" etc.

It is the most ardent desire of Sang to heal his wife, as he has healed
many others. But the doubt in her mind baffles him, and for a long time
he is unsuccessful. At last, however, he resolves to make a mighty
effort--to besiege the Lord with his prayer, to wrestle with him, as
Jacob did of old, and not to release him, until he has granted his
petition. While he lies thus before the altar calling upon the Lord in
sacred rapture, a tremendous avalanche sweeps down the mountainside, but
divides, leaving the church and parsonage unharmed. The rumor of this
new wonder spreads like fire in withered grass, and among thousands of
others a number of clergymen, with their bishop, on their way to some
convention, stop to convince themselves of the authenticity of the
miracle, and to determine the attitude which they are to assume toward
it. Then follows a long discussion between the bishop and the clergy
regarding the value of miracles, some maintaining that the church has
outgrown the need of them, others that they are indispensable--that
Christianity cannot survive without them. For has not Christ promised
that "even greater things than these shall ye do?" Is not this a case of
the faith which verily can say to the mountain, "Rise up and cast
thyself into the sea?"

The other miracle, scarcely less marvellous than the deflection of the
avalanche, is that Clara, who has slept for the first time in a month,
now rises from her bed and goes forth to meet her husband, and falls
upon his neck amid the ringing of the church-bells and the hallelujahs
of the assembled multitudes. But when he tries to raise her she is dead,
and he himself, overwhelmed by his emotion, falls dead at her side.

This is so obviously a closet-drama that it is difficult to imagine how
it would look under the illumination of the foot-lights. For all that, I
see a recent announcement that the trial is soon to be made at the
_Theatre Libre_ in Paris.[10] No Scandinavian theatre, as far as I know,
has as yet had the courage to risk the experiment. In his next play,
however, "Love and Geography" (1885), Bjoernson reconquered the stage and
repeated his early triumphs. From the scientific seriousness of "Beyond
their Strength" his pendulum swung to the opposite extreme of light
comedy, almost bordering on farce. Not that "Love and Geography" is
without a Bjoernsonian moral, but it is amusingly, jocosely enforced in
scenes of great vivacity and theatrical effect. This time it is himself
the author has chosen to satirize. The unconscious tyranny of a man who
has a mission, a life-work, is delightfully illustrated in the person of
the geographer, Professor Tygesen, to whom Bjoern Bjoernson, the actor,
when he played the part at the Christiania Theatre, had the boldness to
give his father's mask. Professor Tygesen is engaged upon a great
geographical opus, and gradually takes possession of the whole house
with his maps, globes, and books, driving his wife from the parlor floor
and his daughter to boarding-school. So absorbed is he in his work that
he can talk and think of nothing else. He neglects the social forms from
sheer abstraction and becomes almost a boor, because all the world
outside of his book pales into insignificance, and all persons and
events are merely interesting in so far as they can stimulate inquiry or
furnish information bearing upon the immortal opus. The inevitable
consequence follows. The professor alienates all who come in contact
with him. He is on the point of losing the affection of his wife, and
his daughter comes near going astray for want of paternal supervision.
Both these calamities are, however, averted, though in an arbitrary and
highly eccentric manner. The professor's eyes are opened to the error of
his ways, he does penance, and the curtain falls upon a reunited family.

    [10] July, 1894.

The unpretentious little story "Dust" (_Stoev_, 1882) undertakes to
demonstrate the unwholesomeness of the religious ideas regarding the
life to come usually impressed upon children by parents and teachers. By
dust Bjoernson means all obsolete, lifeless matter in the world of
thought which settles upon, and often impairs, the vitality of the
living growth, or even chokes it outright. "When children are taught
that the life here is nothing compared to the life to come--that to be
visible is nothing compared to being invisible--that to be a man is
nothing compared to being an angel--that to be alive is nothing compared
to being dead--then that is not the way to give them the right view of
life; not the way to teach them to love life; not the way to inspire
them with courage, energy, and patriotism."

In his novel "Flags in City and Harbor" (1884), the English translation
of which is entitled "The Heritage of the Kurts," Bjoernson has attacked
a tremendous problem. He has attempted to illustrate the force of
heredity, and the exact extent to which it may be modified by
environment--to what extent an unfavorable heredity may be counteracted
by a favorable environment. The family of Kurt, whose history is here
traced through five generations, inherits a temperament which would have
secured its survival and raised it to distinction in barbaric ages, but
which will as surely, unless powerfully modified, necessitate its
extinction in the present age. For the Kurts are incapable of
assimilating civilization. An excess of physical vigor in the first Kurt
who settled in Norway takes the form of lawlessness and an entire
absence of moral restraint.

Violence of the most atrocious kind goes unpunished because Kurt is
powerful and has friends at court. In his two legitimate sons, Adler and
Max (he has a host of illegitimate ones), the family temperament is
modified, though in Max, who perpetuates the race, the modification is
not radical. Adler is a weakling of enormous vanity, silent and moody,
and addicted to the pleasures of the table. Max, on the other hand, is a
man of inexhaustible vitality, violent like his father, but possessed of
a gift of speech and a tremendous voice which serve to establish his
authority over the simple inhabitants of the little coast town.
Moreover, he is endowed with great shrewdness and practical sense, and
is an expert in ship-building, agriculture, and other pursuits. But he
is the terror of women, and his sensual excesses so undermine his
strength that he becomes insane, and believes that he is continually
pursued by the spirit of his brother, whose death he had caused. Konrad
Kurt, the son of Max, runs away from home because he cannot endure to
see his mother maltreated by his father. He inherits a shattered
constitution and poor nerves; outwardly he is quite a respectable man,
but he has a strong physical need of drink, and every night he goes to
bed intoxicated. It is the author's purpose to show how the sins of his
fathers, by a physiological necessity, predisposed Konrad Kurt to drink.
His son, John Kurt, who is the result of a criminal relation, is the
complete incarnation of the genius of the family. The fresh blood which
he has derived from his English mother has postponed the doom of the
race and enabled him to repeat, in a modified form, the excesses of his
ancestors. He first distinguishes himself as a virtuoso in swearing. The
magnificent redundance and originality of his oaths make him famous in
the army, which he chooses as the first field of his exploits. Later he
roams aimlessly about the world, merely to satisfy a wild need of
adventure. On his return to his native town he signalizes himself by his
vices as a genuine Kurt. The little town, however, cannot find it in its
heart to condemn a man of so distinguished a race, and society, though
it is fully cognizant of his mode of life, not only tolerates but even
pets him. He is entertaining, has been everywhere and seen everything.
He meets a young girl, named Thomasine Rendalen, the daughter of an
educated peasant, who occupies a position as a teacher. She is large,
ruddy, full of health and uncorrupted vigor. John Kurt takes a violent
fancy to her, and moves heaven and earth to induce her to marry him. He
goes even to the length of bribing all her female friends, and they by
degrees begin to sing his praises. At last she yields; a net of subtle
influences surrounds her, and unconsciously she comes to reflect the
view of society. Her moral prudery begins to appear ridiculous to her,
and the so-called common-sense view predominates. The author here, with
great earnestness, emphasizes the responsibility of society in weakening
the moral resistance of the individual rather than strengthening it.
Thomasine Rendalen would not have married John Kurt if society had not
condoned his offences; and society in condoning such offences undermines
its own foundations.

After his marriage Kurt endeavors to hold his exuberant nature in check,
and for a while is moderately successful. But an uneasy suspicion haunts
him that his wife's friends, in a confidential moment, may expose his
delinquencies, and destroy her confidence in him. He watches her like a
lynx, surprises her at all hours and places, and thereby produces the
suspicion which he is endeavoring to avert. The relation develops with
inevitable logic toward an awful crisis. This is brought about by a mere
trifle. John Kurt, failing to humble his wife, strikes her. The baleful
forces that lurk in the depths of the Kurt temperament rise to the
surface; the whole terrible heritage of savagery overwhelms the feeble
civilization which the last scion has acquired. If Thomasine had been
weak, she would have been killed; but she defends herself with fierce
persistency, and though it seems as if she must succumb, her compact
frame, strengthened by generations of healthful toil, possesses an
endurance which in the end must prevail over the paroxysmal rage of John
Kurt. When the combatants part there is not a whole piece of furniture
in the room. John Kurt retires a conquered man. But with cowardly
viciousness he locks the door and leaves his wife for hours despairing,
while he himself goes to a dinner-party. There he is stricken down by
apoplexy.

The terror with which Thomasine contemplates her approaching maternity
is one of the finest points in the book. Has she the right to perpetuate
such a race, which will be a curse to itself and to future generations?
Would she not confer a boon upon mankind if, by destroying herself, she
sweetened the life-blood of humanity? For by self-destruction she would
forever cut off the turbid current of the Kurt blood which had darkened
the vital stream of the race for centuries. The moral exaltation which
manifests itself in this struggle is most vividly portrayed. She clings
to life desperately; she is young and strong, unsentimental, and averse
to ascetic enthusiasm. It finally occurs to her that her own race, too,
will assert itself in this child; that the pure and vigorous strain
which her own blood will infuse may redeem it from the dark destiny of
the Kurts. She finally resolves upon a compromise; if the child is dark,
like the Kurts, both it and its mother shall die. If it is blue-eyed and
light-haired, like the Rendalens, she will devote her life to
obliterating in it, or transforming into useful activities, the
destructive vigor of the paternal character. Thomas, when he is born,
chooses a golden mean between these two extremes, and perversely makes
his appearance as a red-haired, gray-eyed infant, in which both a Kurt
and a Rendalen might have made comforting observations. He is
accordingly permitted to live, and to become the hero of one of the most
remarkable novels which has ever been published in Scandinavia.

He is by no means a good boy, but his mother, by a kind of heroic
conscientiousness and rationality, slowly conquers him and secures his
attachment. She has solemnly abjured her connection with her husband's
family, assumed her maiden name, and has consecrated her life to what
she regards as the highest utility--the work of education. She wishes to
atone to the race for her guilt in having perpetuated the race of the
Kurts. The scene in which she makes a bonfire of all the ancestral
portraits in the Hall of Knights, and the smell of all the burning Kurts
is blown far and wide over city and harbor, would, in the hands of
another novelist, have been made the central scene in the book. But
Bjoernson is so tremendously in earnest that he cannot afford to stop and
note picturesque effect. Therefore he relates the burning of the Kurts
quite incidentally, and proceeds at once to talk of more serious things.

By turning the great, dusky, ancestral mansion into a school, Mrs.
Rendalen believes that she can best settle the account of the Kurts with
humanity. All the latest, improved methods of education are introduced.
The Hall of Knights is turned into a chemical laboratory, and the
daylight is allowed to pour unobscured into all its murky recesses.
Through the dim and lofty passage-ways resounds the laughter of
children; on the scenes of so many hoary crimes the prattle of innocent
girls is heard; a multitude of scientific instruments labor to
demonstrate the laws of nature, and to simplify the problem of existence
which the crimes of the Kurts had tended to complicate. Thomas Rendalen,
profoundly impressed as he is with his responsibility as the last
descendant of such a race, takes up this educational mission with a
lofty humanitarian enthusiasm. He has spent many years abroad in
preparing himself for this work, and possesses, like his
great-grandfather, the gift of lucid exposition. But his perpetual and
conscious struggle with his heritage makes him nervous and ill-balanced.
He conceives the idea, fostered both by observation and by the study of
his own family history, that unchastity is the chief curse of humanity,
and the primal cause of the degeneracy of races. He believes that the
false modesty which leaves young people in ignorance of one of the most
important natural functions is largely responsible for the prevailing
immorality, and he advocates, as a remedy, fearless and searching
physiological study. His inaugural address as superintendent of the
school deals uncompromisingly with this subject, and excites such
universal indignation that it comes near wrecking the promising
enterprise. A great speech in a small town, Bjoernson hints, is always
more or less risky. But we are also given to understand that though
Rendalen obviously speaks out of the author's heart, this very speech
is in itself a subtle manifestation of the Kurt heritage. Rendalen is as
immoderate in virtue as his ancestors have been in vice. The violent
energy which formerly expended itself in lawless acts now expends itself
in an excessive, ascetic enthusiasm for self-conquest and lofty
humanitarian ideals. As a piece of psychology this is admirable.
Prudent, well adapted or adaptable to the civilization in which he
lives, the scion of the Kurts is not yet; but as a promise of the
redemption of the race he represents the first upward step. It is highly
characteristic of Bjoernson's respect for reality that he makes Rendalen
neither agreeable, handsome, nor lovable; nay, he dwells again and again
on the bad relations which temporarily exist between him and his mother,
between him and the teachers, between him and the town. For all that we
are filled with a profound respect for a man who can fight in himself so
great a fight, and win so great a victory. It is the sturdy peasant
blood which he derived from his mother that enables him to wrestle thus
mightily with the Lord, and extort at last the tardy blessing; for we
are assured in the last pages of the book that he makes a marriage,
which is a further step toward health and virtue. We are not assured
that he conquers happiness either for himself or for his wife; and there
is not a syllable to betray that he cherishes for her any romantic
attachment. But the chances are that, in transforming and ennobling the
Kurt heritage, he insures vigor and usefulness to his descendants. He
bequeathes to them a more wholesome mixture of blood than he himself
possesses, and an energy, nay, perhaps a genius, derived from the Kurts,
which, with an upward instead of a downward tendency, may be a redeeming
force in society instead of a corrupting one.

In order not to miss any phase of his problem, Bjoernson also takes up
briefly the illegitimate line of the Kurts, which, being unsupplied with
any favorable environment, sinks deeper and deeper into the mire of
vice. The inevitable result is insanity and ultimate extinction. Mrs.
Rendalen's visit to the slums, and her recognition of the peculiar
scream of her own son in a terrible little ragamuffin, is one of the
most remarkable incidents in this remarkable book.

One thing that especially strikes the reader in this novel is the
author's fierce indignation against all shams, deceits, and social lies.
Therefore he calls a spade a spade, and leaves you to blush if you are
so inclined. The young girls whom he introduces are mostly misses in
their teens, and his portrayal of them is physiological rather than
pictorial. The points which he selects for comment are those which would
particularly be noted by their medical advisers; and the progress of
their histories, as he follows them, is characterized by this same
scientific minuteness of observation. Zola's ideal of scientific realism
(which Bjoernson has repudiated) has nevertheless found its most
brilliant exponent in him. Here the sordid and cruel facts of life are
not dwelt upon by preference; nor are they optimistically glossed over.
I doubt if a great and vital problem has ever been more vigorously,
unflinchingly, and convincingly treated in a work of fiction.

"_Paa Guds Veje_" ("In the Ways of God"), (1889), in which Thomas
Rendalen again figures, though not as hero, is another indictment of
conventional morality. It is a very powerful but scarcely an agreeable
book. The abrupt, laconic style has no flux, no continuity, and gives
the reader the sensation of being pulled up sharply with a curb bit,
whenever he fancies that he has a free rein. Though every page is
crowded with trenchant and often admirable observations, they have not
the coherence of an organic structure, but rather that of a mosaic. The
design is obvious, striking, and impressive. It is neither distorted nor
overdrawn. It is unquestionably thus we treat moral non-conformists,
even though it be in pure self-preservation that they broke the bond
which we are agreed to enforce. The question resolves itself into this:
Has society, in its effort to uphold its moral standards, the right to
exact the sacrifice of life itself and every hope of happiness from the
victims of its own ignorance and injustice? When the young physician,
Edward Kallem, rescues the eighteen-year old Ragni Kule from the
degradation of her marriage to a husband afflicted with a most loathsome
disease, and afterward marries her--does he deserve censure or praise?
Bjoernson's answer is unmistakable. It is exactly the situation, depicted
five years later, by Madame Sarah Grand in the relation of Edith to the
young rake, Sir Moseley Menteith. Only, Bjoernson rescues the victim,
while the author of "The Heavenly Twins" makes her perish. In both
instances it is the pious ignorance of clerical parents which
precipitates the tragedy. Ragni's deliverance is, however, only an
apparent one. Society, which without indignation had witnessed her sale
to the corrupt old libertine, is frightfully shocked by her marriage to
Dr. Kallem, and manifests its disapproval with an emphasis which takes
no account of ameliorating circumstances. The sanguinary ingenuity in
the constant slights and stabs to which she is exposed makes her life a
martyrdom and finally kills her. "Contempt will pierce the armor of a
tortoise," says an oriental proverb; and poor Ragni had no chelonian
armor. When her most harmless remarks are misinterpreted and her most
generous acts become weapons wherewith to slay her, she loses all heart
for resistance, and merely lies down to die. Very subtile and beautiful
is the manner in which Bjoernson indicates the interaction of psychical
and physical conditions. The "soul-frost" which chills the very marrow
of her bones is so vividly conveyed that you shiver sympathetically. The
self-righteous and brutally censorious attitude of the community lowers
the temperature and makes the atmosphere deadly. And the fact that it
is Ragni's unsuspicious innocence, and even her love of her husband,
which expose her to this condemnation is made plain with much delicate
art. Her residence of five years in the United States after her divorce,
and before her second marriage, had, no doubt, accustomed her to a
greater freedom of intercourse between man and woman, and thereby
disposed her to trip rather lightly over the stumbling-blocks of
prudence.

The history of Kallem's sister, Josephine, and her husband, the Reverend
Ole Tuft, which is closely interwoven with the above, furnishes us with
two more characters deeply felt and strongly realized. It is they who
are the chief instruments of Ragni's martyrdom. As the upholders of
social purity, and, as it were, professional guardians of morals, it
would seem that Tuft and his wife had scarcely any choice but to condemn
marriage with a _divorcee_. When, however, after Ragni's death, they
discover whom they have slain--how much purer, nobler, and of more
delicate nature she was than either of them--they are dissolved in shame
and remorse. A tremendous crisis in their spiritual lives is produced by
the mortal peril of their only child, whom Kallem saves by a skilful
operation. Out of the ancient religion of dogmas which judges and damns,
Tuft is by these experiences led into a new religion of love, which
values life above faith, and charity above all. The reconciliation of
brother and sister in the last chapter is profoundly moving. The moral
is emphasized in the phrase with which the story closes: "Wherever good
men walk, there are the ways of God."

The charm of this novel is, to me, that it is strong, virile, instinct
with vital thought. There are blemishes in it, too, which no one will be
likely to overlook. Several chapters read like the reports of a clinic
in a medical journal, so extremely minute and circumstantial are the
accounts of Kallem's operations and hypnotic experiments. An excursion
into botany, _a propos_ of Ragni's walk in the woods, is likewise
overloaded with details and teems with scientific terms. But the
greatest blemish is the outbreak in Kallem (who has the author's fullest
sympathy) of a certain barbaric violence which to civilized people is
well-nigh incomprehensible. Thus, when, after an absence of six years,
he calls upon his brother-in-law, the pastor, he proceeds to turn
handsprings about the latter's study. When, after his marriage, his
sister meets him in the street for the purpose of informing him of the
scandalous rumors concerning his wife, he gives her a box on the ear.

In Bjoernson's last book, "New Tales" (_Nye Fortaellinger_) (1894), this
tendency to vehemence is even more marked. In the masterly story,
"Absalom's Hair" (than which the author has never written anything more
boldly original) old Harold Kaas literally spanks his young wife in the
presence of his servants. And the matter is in nowise minced, but
described with an unblushing zest which makes the impression of
_naivete_. It is obvious that in his delight in the exhibition of a
healthy, primitive wrath, Bjoernson half forgets how such barbarism must
affect his readers. We hear, to be sure, that the servants were filled
with indignation and horror, and that Harold Kaas, having expected
laughter and applause, "went away a defeated and irremediably crushed
man." But for all that the incident is crude, harsh, and needlessly
revolting. In Russia it might have happened; but I am inclined to doubt
if a Norwegian gentleman, even though he were descended from the
untamable Kurts, would have been capable of so outrageous a breach of
decency.

Apart from this incident, "Absalom's Hair" is so interpenetrated with a
sense of reality that we seem to live the story rather than read it. I
verily believe it to be a type of what the fiction of the future will
be, when scientific education shall have been largely substituted for
the classical; and even the novelists will be expected to know something
about the world in which they live and the sublime and inexorable laws
which govern it. At present the majority of them spin irresponsible
yarns, and play Providence _ad libitum_ to their characters. Man's vital
coherence with his environment is but loosely indicated. Chance reigns
supreme. They have observed carefully enough the external phenomena of
life--and chiefly for their picturesque or dramatic interest--but of the
causes which underlie them they rarely give us a glimpse.

It is in this respect that Bjoernson's last tales offer so grateful a
contrast to conventional fiction. Here is a man who has resolutely
aroused himself from the old romantic doze, cleared his eyes of the film
of dreams, and with a sharp, wide-awake intensity focussed them to the
actual aspect of the actual world. He has sat down with his windows wide
open, and allowed the sounds and sights and smells of reality to pour in
upon him. And the magic spectacles are his which enable him to gauge the
significance of the phenomena and divine the causes which lurk behind
them. Therefore his characterizations are often extremely
unconventional, and amid all their picturesque vigor of phrase hint at
the kind of knowledge which could only be possessed by a family
physician. In "Absalom's Hair" we have no mere agglomeration of
half-digested scientific data, but a scientific view of life. The story
moves, from beginning to end, with a beautiful epic calm and a grand
inevitableness which remind one of Tolstoi, and reaches far toward the
high-water mark of modern realism. Take, for instance, the
characterization of Kirsten Ravn (pp. 11-15), and I wonder where in
contemporary fiction so large and deep a comprehension is shown both of
psychic and of physical forces. Emma, the heroine of Flaubert's "Madame
Bovary" is the only parallel I can recall, as regards the kind and
method of portraiture, though there is no resemblance between the
characters. In the development of the character of Rafael Kaas, there
is the same beautiful respect for human nature, the same unshrinking
statement of "shocking" facts, and the same undeviating adherence to the
logic of reality. The hair by which Rafael, as his prototype, the son of
David, is arrested and suspended in the midst of his triumphant race is
sensuality. His life is on the point of being wrecked, and his splendid
powers are dissipated by his inability to restrain his passions. The
tragic fate which hovers over him from the moment of his birth is
admirably hinted at, but not emphasized, in the sketch of his parents.
The carnal overbalance, supplied by the blood of the Kurts, wellnigh
neutralizes the mechanical genius which is hereditary in the blood of
the Ravns.

It is reported that "Absalom's Hair" has aroused great indignation in
Christiania, because it is claimed that the characters are drawn, with
scarcely an attempt at disguise, from well-known persons in the
Norwegian capital.

The remaining stories of the volume, "An Ugly Reminiscence of
Childhood," "Mother's Hands," and "One Day" betray the same contempt for
romantic standards, the same capacity for making acquaintance with life
at first hand. The first-named is an account of a murder and execution,
and extremely painful. The second is a bit of pathological psychology _a
propos_ of intemperance. Tastes imprisoned, genius cramped and
perverted, joy of life (_joie de vivre_) denied, will avenge themselves.
They will break out in drunkenness. The hero of "One Day" is afflicted
with the same vice, and apparently for the same reason. The cruel
disillusion which in consequence overtakes the poor little soul-starved
heroine rises almost to the height of tragedy. It is an every-day tale,
full of "deep and blood-veined humanity," and deriving its interest and
significance from the very fact of its commonness.

What distinguishes the Norsemen above other nations is, generally
speaking, an indestructible self-respect and force of individuality. The
old Norse sagas abound in illustrations of this untamable vigor and
ruthless self-assertion. It was the looseness of the social structure,
resulting from this sense of independence and consequent jealousy and
internecine warfare, which destroyed the Icelandic republic and made
Norway for four centuries a province of Denmark. In all the great men of
Norway we recognize something of the rampant individualism of their
Viking forefathers. Ibsen is the modern apostle _par excellence_ of
philosophic anarchism; and Bjoernson, too, has his full share of the
national aggressiveness and pugnacity. For all that there is a radical
difference between the two. The sense of social obligation which Ibsen
lacks, Bjoernson possesses in a high degree. He fights, not as a daring
guerilla, but as the spokesman and leader of thousands. He is the
chieftain who looms a head above all the people. He wields a heavy
sword, and he deals mighty blows. The wrath that possesses him is,
however, born of love. He fights man in the name of humanity. It is not
for himself, primarily, that he demands larger liberties, securer
rights, more humanizing conditions of life; but it is for his
fellow-men. The many, the small and down-trodden, the dumb millions,
whom Ibsen despises, Bjoernson loves. As Dr. Brandes[11] has so happily
said:

    [11] Det Moderne Gjennembruds Maend, p. 60.

"Ibsen is a judge, stern as the old judges of Israel. Bjoernson is a
prophet, the hopeful herald of a better day. Ibsen is, in the depth of
his mind, a great revolutionist. In 'The Comedy of Love,' 'A Doll's
House,' and 'Ghosts,' he scourges marriage; in 'Brand,' the State
Church; in the 'Pillars of Society,' the dominant bourgeoisie. Whatever
he attacks is shivered into splinters by his profound and superior
criticism. Only the shattered ruins remain, and we are unable to espy
the new social institutions beyond them. Bjoernson is a conciliatory
spirit who wages war without bitterness. April sunshine glints and
gleams through all his works, while those of Ibsen, with their sombre
seriousness, lie in deep shadow. Ibsen loves the idea--the logical and
psychological consistency which drives Brand out of the church and Nora
out of the marital relation. To Ibsen's love of the idea corresponds
Bjoernson's love of man."


BIBLIOGRAPHY.

As Bjoernson's works have been translated not only into English, French,
and German, but also largely into Russian, Italian, Spanish, Bohemian,
and even remoter tongues, a bibliography, including all translations,
would demand a volume by itself. I shall therefore only enumerate the
more important English translations; but would warn my readers not to
judge Bjoernson's style by that of his translators. _Arne_: Translated by
Augusta Plesner and S. R. Powers (Boston, 1872). _The Happy Boy_:
Translated by H. R. G. (Boston, 1872). _The Railroad and the
Churchyard_, _The Eagle's Nest_, and _The Father_ are contained in the
volume to which Goldschmidt's _The Flying Mail_ gives the title (Sever,
Francis & Co., Boston and Cambridge, 1870). The following volumes are
translated by Professor R. B. Anderson, and published in a uniform
edition by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. (Boston, 1881): _Synnoeve Solbakken_,
_Arne_, _A Happy Boy_, _The Fisher Maiden_, _The Bridal March_,
_Magnhild_, _Captain Mansana and other Stories_. _Sigurd Slembe_: A
Dramatic Trilogy: Translated by William Morton Payne (Boston and New
York, 1888). _Arne_ and _The Fisher Lassie_: Translated, with an
Introduction, by W. H. Low (Bohn Library, London). _Pastor Sang (Over
Aevne)_: Translated by Wm. Wilson (London, 1893). _In God's Way_
(Heinemann's International Library, London, 1891). _The Heritage of the
Kurts_, 1892. _A Gauntlet_. A Play. London, 1894. A new translation of
all Bjoernson's novels and tales has just been announced by Messrs.
Macmillan & Co., and the first volume, _Synnoeve Solbakken_ (New York and
London, 1895), has appeared. The translation is rather slipshod.




ALEXANDER KIELLAND


In June, 1867, about a hundred enthusiastic youths were vociferously
celebrating their attainment of the baccalaureate degree at the
University of Norway. The orator on this occasion was a tall, handsome,
distinguished-looking young man named Alexander Kielland, from the
little coast town of Stavanger. There was none of the crudity of a
provincial either in his manners or his appearance. He spoke with a
quiet self-possession and a pithy incisiveness which were altogether
phenomenal.

"That young man will be heard from one of these days," was the unanimous
verdict of those who listened to his clear-cut and finished sentences,
and noted the maturity of his opinions.

But ten years passed, and outside of Stavanger no one ever heard of
Alexander Kielland. His friends were aware that he had studied law,
spent some winters in France, married, and settled himself as a
dignitary in his native town. It was understood that he had bought a
large brick and tile factory, and that as a manufacturer of these useful
articles he bid fair to become a provincial magnate, as his fathers had
been before him. People had almost forgotten that great things had been
expected of him, and some fancied perhaps that he had been spoiled by
prosperity. Remembering him, as I did, as the most brilliant and notable
personality among my university friends, I began to apply to him
Mallock's epigrammatic damnation of the man of whom it was said at
twenty that he would do great things, at thirty that he might do great
things, and at forty that he might have done great things.

This was the frame of mind of those who remembered Alexander Kielland
(and he was an extremely difficult man to forget), when in the year 1879
a modest volume of "Novelettes" appeared, bearing his name. It was, to
all appearances, a light performance, but it revealed a sense of style
which made it, nevertheless, notable. No man had ever written the
Norwegian language as this man wrote it. There was a lightness of touch,
a perspicacity, an epigrammatic sparkle, and occasional flashes of wit
which seemed altogether un-Norwegian. It was obvious that this author
was familiar with the best French writers, and had acquired through them
that clear and crisp incisiveness of utterance which was supposed,
hitherto, to be untransferable to any other tongue.

As regards the themes of these "Novelettes," it was remarked at the time
of their first appearance that they hinted at a more serious purpose
than their style seemed to imply. Who can read, for instance, "Pharaoh"
(which in the original is entitled "A Ball Mood") without detecting the
revolutionary note that trembles quite audibly through the calm and
unimpassioned language? There is, by the way, a little touch of
melodrama in this tale which is very unusual with Kielland. "Romance and
Reality," too, is glaringly at variance with conventional romanticism in
its satirical contrasting of the prematrimonial and the postmatrimonial
view of love and marriage. The same persistent tendency to present the
wrong side as well as the right side--and not, as literary good manners
are supposed to prescribe, ignore the former--is obvious in the charming
tale, "At the Fair," where a little spice of wholesome truth spoils the
thoughtlessly festive mood; and the squalor, the want, the envy, hate,
and greed which prudence and a regard for business compel the performers
to disguise to the public, become the more cruelly visible to the
visitors of the little alley-way at the rear of the tents. In "A Good
Conscience" the satirical note has a still more serious ring; but the
same admirable self-restraint which, next to the power of thought and
expression, is the happiest gift an author's fairy godmother can bestow
upon him, saves Kielland from saying too much--from enforcing his lesson
by marginal comments, _a la_ George Eliot. But he must be obtuse indeed
to whom this reticence is not more eloquent and effective than a page of
philosophical moralizing.

"Hope's Clad in April Green" and "The Battle of Waterloo" (the first
and the last tale in the Norwegian edition) are more untinged with a
moral tendency than any of the foregoing. The former is a mere _jeu
d'esprit_, full of good-natured satire on the calf-love of very young
people, and the amusing over-estimate of our importance to which we are
all, at that age, peculiarly liable.

As an organist with vaguely melodious hints foreshadows in his prelude
the musical _motifs_ which he means to vary and elaborate in his fugue,
so Kielland lightly touched in these "Novelettes" the themes which in
his later works he has struck with a fuller volume and power. What he
gave in this little book was a light sketch of his mental physiognomy,
from which, perhaps, his horoscope might be cast and his literary future
predicted.

Though a patrician by birth and training, he revealed a strong sympathy
with the toiling masses. But it was a democracy of the brain, I should
fancy, rather than of the heart. As I read the book, sixteen years ago,
its tendency puzzled me considerably, remembering, as I did, with the
greatest vividness, the fastidious and _distingue_ personality of the
author. I found it difficult to believe that he was in earnest. The book
seemed to me to betray the whimsical _sans-culottism_ of a man of
pleasure who, when the ball is at an end, sits down with his gloves on,
and philosophizes on the artificiality of civilization and the
wholesomeness of honest toil. An indigestion makes him a temporary
communist; but a bottle of seltzer presently reconciles him to his lot,
and restores the equilibrium of the universe. He loves the people at a
distance, can talk prettily about the sturdy son of the soil, who is the
core and marrow of the nation, etc.; but he avoids contact with him,
and, if chance brings them into contact, he loves him with his
handkerchief to his nose.

I may be pardoned for having identified Alexander Kielland with this
type, with which I am very familiar; and he convinced me presently that
I had done him injustice. In his next book, the admirable novel "Garman
and Worse," he showed that his democratic proclivities were something
more than a mood. He showed that he took himself seriously, and he
compelled the public to take him seriously. The tendency which had only
flashed forth here and there in the "Novelettes" now revealed its whole
countenance. The author's theme was the life of the prosperous
_bourgeoisie_ in the western coast towns; and he drew their types with a
hand that gave evidence of intimate knowledge. He had himself sprung
from one of these rich ship-owning, patrician families, had been given
every opportunity to study life both at home and abroad, and had
accumulated a fund of knowledge of the world, which he had allowed
quietly to grow before making literary draughts upon it. The same Gallic
perspicacity of style which had charmed in his first book was here in a
heightened degree; and there was, besides, the same underlying sympathy
with progress and what is called the ideas of the age. What mastery of
description, what rich and vigorous colors, Kielland had at his disposal
was demonstrated in such scenes as the funeral of Consul Garman and the
burning of the ship. There was, moreover, a delightful autobiographical
note in the book, particularly in the boyish experiences of Gabriel
Garman. Such things no man invents, however clever; such material no
imagination supplies, however fertile. Except Fritz Reuter's
Stavenhagen, I know no small town in fiction which is so vividly and
completely individualized, and populated with such living and credible
characters. Take, for instance, the two clergymen, Archdeacon Sparre and
the Rev. Mr. Martens, and it is not necessary to have lived in Norway in
order to recognize and enjoy the faithfulness and the artistic subtlety
of these portraits. If they have a dash of satire (which I will not
undertake to deny), it is such delicate and well-bred satire that no
one, except the originals, would think of taking offence. People are
willing, for the sake of the entertainment which it affords, to forgive
a little quiet malice at their neighbors' expense. The members of the
provincial bureaucracy are drawn with the same firm but delicate touch,
and everything has that beautiful air of reality which proves the world
akin.

It was by no means a departure from his previous style and tendency
which Kielland signalized in his next novel, "Laboring People" (1881).
He only emphasizes, as it were, the heavy, serious bass chords in the
composite theme which expresses his complex personality, and allows the
lighter treble notes to be momentarily drowned. His theme is the
corrupting influence of the upper upon the lower class. He has in this
book made some appalling, soul-searching studies in the pathology as
well as the psychology of vice.

Kielland's third novel, "Skipper Worse," marked a distinct step in his
development. It was less of a social satire and more of a social study.
It was not merely a series of brilliant, exquisitely finished scenes,
loosely strung together on a slender thread of narrative, but was a
concise and well-constructed story, full of beautiful scenes and
admirable portraits. The theme is akin to that of Daudet's
"L'Evangeliste;" but Kielland, as it appears to me, has in this instance
outdone his French _confrere_, as regards insight into the peculiar
character and poetry of the pietistic movement. He has dealt with it as
a psychological and not primarily as a pathological phenomenon. A
comparison with Daudet suggests itself constantly in reading Kielland.
Their methods of workmanship and their attitude toward life have many
points in common. The charm of style, the delicacy of touch, and
felicity of phrase, are in both cases pre-eminent. Daudet has, however,
the advantage (or, as he himself asserts, the disadvantage) of working
in a flexible and highly finished language, which bears the impress of
the labors of a hundred masters; while Kielland has to produce his
effects of style in a poorer and less pliable language, which often
pants and groans in its efforts to render a subtle thought. To have
polished this tongue and sharpened its capacity for refined and incisive
utterance, is one--and not the least--of his merits.

Though he has by nature no more sympathy with the pietistic movement
than Daudet, Kielland yet manages to get psychologically closer to his
problem. His pietists are more humanly interesting than those of Daudet,
and the little drama which they set in motion is more genuinely
pathetic. Two superb figures--the lay preacher Hans Nilsen and Skipper
Worse--surpass all that the author had hitherto produced in depth of
conception and brilliancy of execution. The marriage of that delightful,
profane old sea-dog Jacob Worse with the pious Sara Torvestad, and the
attempts of his mother-in-law to convert him, are described not with the
merely superficial drollery to which the subject invites, but with a
sweet and delicate humor which trembles on the verge of pathos. In the
Christmas tale, "Elsie," Kielland has produced a little classic of
almost flawless perfection. With what exquisite art he paints the life
of a small Norwegian coast-town in all its vivid details! While
Bjoernson, in "The Heritage of the Kurts," primarily emphasizes the
responsibility of the individual to society, Kielland chooses to
emphasize the responsibility of society to the individual. The former
selects a hero with vicious inherited tendencies, redeemed by wise
education and favorable environment; the latter portrays a heroine with
no corrupt predisposition, destroyed by a corrupting environment. Elsie
could not be good, because the world was once so constituted that girls
of her kind were not expected to be good. Temptations, perpetually
thronging in her way, broke down the moral bulwarks of her nature;
resistance seemed in vain. In the end, there is scarcely one who, having
read the book, will have the heart to condemn her.

Incomparably clever is the satire on the benevolent societies which
exist to furnish a kind of officious sense of virtue to their
aristocratic members. "The Society for the Redemption of the Abandoned
Women of St. Peter's Parish" is presided over by a gentleman who is
responsible for the abandoned condition of a goodly number of them.
However, it turns out that those miserable creatures who need to be
redeemed belong to another parish, and accordingly cannot be reached by
St. Peter's. St. Peter's parish is aristocratic, exclusive, and keeps
its wickedness discreetly veiled. The horror of the secretary of the
society, when she hears that "the abandoned woman" who calls upon her
for aid, has a child without being married, is both comic and pathetic.
In fact, there is not a scene in the book which is not instinct with
life and admirably characteristic.

Besides being the author of some minor comedies and a full-grown drama
("The Professor"), Kielland has published several novels, the more
recent being "Poison" (1883), "Fortuna" (1884), "Snow" (1886), and "St.
John's Eve" (1887).

The note of promise and suspense with which "Snow" ends is meant to be
symbolic. From Kielland's point of view, Norway is yet wrapped in the
wintry winding-sheet of a tyrannical orthodoxy, and all he dares assert
is that the chains of frost and snow seem to be loosening. There is a
spring feeling in the air.

This spring feeling is scarcely perceptible in his last book, "Jacob"
(1890), which is written in anything but a hopeful mood. It is rather a
protest against that optimism which in fiction we call poetic justice.
The harsh and unsentimental logic of reality is emphasized with a
ruthless disregard of rose-colored traditions.

From the pedagogic point of view, I have no doubt that "Jacob" would be
classed as an immoral book. But the question of its morality is of less
consequence than the question of its truth. The most modern literature,
which is interpenetrated with the spirit of the age, has a way of asking
dangerous questions--questions before which the reader, when he
perceives their full scope, stands aghast. Our old idyllic faith in the
goodness and wisdom of all mundane arrangements has undoubtedly received
a shock. Our attitude toward the universe is changing with the change of
its attitude toward us. What the thinking part of humanity is now
largely engaged in doing is readjusting itself toward the world and the
world toward it. Success is but adaptation to environment, and success
is the supreme aim of the modern man. The authors who, by their fearless
thinking and speaking, help us toward this readjustment should, in my
opinion, whether we choose to accept their conclusions or not, be hailed
as benefactors. It is in the ranks of these that Alexander Kielland has
taken his place, and occupies a conspicuous position.




JONAS LIE


The last Norwegian novelist who is in the Parisian sense _arrive_ is
Jonas Lie.[12] The _Figaro_ has occupied itself with him of late; and
before long, I venture to predict, London and New York will also have
discovered him. English versions of a few of his earlier novels
appeared, to be sure, twenty years ago--in very bad translations--and
accordingly attracted no great attention. "The Visionary," which has
recently been published in London, has had better luck, having been
accorded a flattering reception. Of its popular success it is yet too
early to speak. But even if Jonas Lie were not about to knock at our
gates, I venture to say that I shall earn the gratitude of many a reader
by making him acquainted with this rare, complex, and exceedingly modern
spirit. For Jonas Lie is not (like so many of his brethren of the quill)
a mere inoffensive gentleman who spins yarns for a living, but he is a
forceful personality of bright perceptions and keen sensations, which
has chosen to express itself through the medium of the novel. He dwells
in a many-windowed house, with a large outlook upon the world and its
manifold concerns. In a score of novels of varying degrees of excellence
he has given us vividly realized bits of the views which his windows
command. But what lends their chief charm to these uncompromising
specimens of modern realism is a certain richness of temperament on the
author's part, which suffuses even the harshest narrative with a rosy
glow of hope. Though, generally speaking, there is no very close kinship
between him and the French realists, I am tempted to apply to him Zola's
beautiful characterization of Daudet: "Benevolent Nature placed him at
that exquisite point where reality ends and poetry begins." Before he
had yet written a single book, except a volume of flamboyant verse,
Bjoernson said of him in a public speech: "His friends know that he only
has to plunge his landing-net down into himself in order to bring it up
full."

    [12] Pronounced _Lee_.

The man who, in anticipation of his achievements, impressed Bjoernson so
deeply with his genius, was, however, by others, who felt themselves to
be no less entitled to an opinion, regarded as an "original," not to say
a fool. That he was decidedly queer, his biography by Arne Garborg amply
testifies.

    "Two souls, alas, abide within my breast,
    The one forever strives against the other,"

says Faust; and Jonas Lie's life and literary activity are apparently,
in a very real sense, the result of a similar warfare. There was,
indeed, a good ancestral reason for the duality of his nature. His
father, a judge of sterling ability and uprightness, was descended, but
a few generations back, from sturdy, blond, Norwegian peasants; while
his mother was of Finnish, or possibly Gypsy, descent. I remember well
this black-eyed, eccentric little lady, with her queer ways,
extraordinary costumes, and still more extraordinary conversation. It is
from her Jonas Lie has inherited the fantastic strain in his blood, the
strange, superstitious terrors, and the luxuriant wealth of color which
he lavished upon his poems and his first novel, "The Visionary." From
his paternal ancestors, who were for three generations judges and
judicial functionaries, he has derived his good sense, his intense
appreciation of detail, and his strong grip on reality. His career
represents at its two poles a progression from the adventurous
romanticism of his maternal heritage to the severe, wide-awake realism
of the paternal--the emancipation of the Norseman from the Finn.

"Jonas Lie has a good memory," writes his biographer. "Thus he
remembers--even though it be as through a haze--that he was once in the
world as the son of a laborer, a carpenter, or something in that line,
and that he went with food in a tin-pail to his father, when he was at
work. During this incarnation he must have behaved rather shabbily; for
in the next he found himself degraded to a fox--a silver fox--and in
this capacity he was shot one moonlight night on the snow. After that
he emerged, according to his recollection, as Jonas Lauritz Idemil, son
of the lawyer Mons Lie, at Hougsund, in Eker. This took place November
6, 1833."

When he was but a few years old his father removed, in various official
capacities, to Mandal, Soendhordland, and, finally, to the city of
Tromsoe, in Nordland. It was here, in the extreme north, that Jonas
spent the years of his boyhood, and it was this wild, enchanted region
which put the deepest impress upon his spirit.

"In Nordland," he says in "The Visionary," the hero of which is
essentially the Finnish half of himself, "all natural phenomena are
intense, and appear in colossal contrasts. There is an endless,
stony-gray desert as in primeval times, before men dwelt there; but in
the midst of this are also endless natural riches. There is sun and
glory of summer, the day of which is not only twelve hours, but lasts
continuously, day and night, for three months--a warm, bright,
fragrance-laden summer, with an infinite wealth of color and changing
beauty. Distances of seventy to eighty miles across the mirror of the
sea approach, as it were, within earshot. The mountains clothe
themselves up to the very top with greenish-brown grass, and in the
glens and ravines the little birches join hands for play, like white,
sixteen-year-old girls; while the fragrance of the strawberry and
raspberry fills the air as nowhere else; and the day is so hot that you
feel a need to bathe yourself in the sun-steeped, plashing sea, so
wondrously clear to the very bottom.... Myriads of birds are surging
through the air, like white breakers about the cliffs, and like a
screaming snow-storm about their brooding-places...."

But "as a contrast there is a night of darkness and terror which lasts
nine months."

In this arctic gloom, during which the yellow candle-light struggled all
day long through the frost-covered window-panes, the Finn grew big in
Jonas Lie, and the Norseman shrank and was almost dwarfed. The air was
teeming with superstitions which he could not help imbibing. His fancy
fed eagerly on stories of Draugen, the terrible sea-bogie who yells
heartrendingly in the storm, and the sight of whom means death; on
blood-curdling tales of Finnish sorcery and all sorts of uncanny
mysteries; on folk-legends of trolds, nixies, and foul-weather sprites.
He had his full share of that craving for horrors which is common to
boyhood; and he had also the most exceptional facilities for satisfying
it. Truth to tell, if it had not been for the Norse Jekyll in his nature
the Finnish Hyde might have run away with him altogether. They were
mighty queer things which often invaded his brain, taking possession of
his thought, paralyzing his will, and refusing to budge, no matter how
earnestly he pleaded. There were times when he grew afraid of himself;
when his imagination got the upper hand, blowing him hither and thither
like a weather-cock. Then the Norse Jekyll came to his rescue and routed
his uncomfortable yoke-fellow. Hence that very curious phenomenon that
the same man who has given us sternly and soberly realistic novels like
"The Family at Gilje" and "The Commodore's Daughters," is also the
author of the collection of tales called "Trold," in which his fancy
runs riot in a phantasmagoria of the grotesquest imaginings. The same
Jonas Lie who comports himself so properly in the parlor is quite
capable, it appears, of joining nocturnally the witches' dance at the
Brocken and cutting up the wildest antics under the pale glimpses of the
moon.

Throughout his boyhood he struggled rather ineffectually against his
Hyde, who made him kill roosters, buy cakes on credit, go on forbidden
expeditions by land and sea, and shamefully neglect his lessons.
Accordingly, he made an early acquaintance with the rod, and was
regarded as well-nigh incorrigible. He accepted with boyish stoicism the
castigations which fell pretty regularly to his lot, bore no one any
grudge for them, but rarely thought of mending his ways, in order to
avoid them. They were somehow part of the established order of things
which it was useless to criticise. In his reminiscences from his early
years, which he published some years ago, he is so delightfully boy,
that no one who has any recollection of that barbaric period in his own
life can withhold his sympathy. The following, for instance, seems to me
charming:

"I can still feel how she (Kvaen Marja, the maid) pulled us, cowering
and reluctant, out of our warm beds, where we lay snug like birds in
their nests, between the reindeer skin and the sheepskin covering. I
remember how I stood asleep and tottering on the floor, until I got a
shower of cold water from the bathing-sponge over my back and became
wide awake. Then to jump into our clothes! And now for the lessons! It
was a problem how to get a peep at them during the scant quarter hour,
while the breakfast was being devoured down in the dining-room with
mother, who sat and poured out tea before the big astral lamp, while
darkness and snow-drift lay black upon the window-panes. Then up and
away!...

"There (in the school) I sat and perspired in the sultry heat of the
stove, and with a studiously unconcerned face watched with strained
anxiety every expression and gesture of the teacher. Was he in
good-humor to-day? Would that I might escape reciting! He began at the
top.... That was a perfect millstone lifted from my breast, though, as
yet, nothing could be sure. Now for a surreptitious peep at the end of
the lesson."

It was Jonas Lie's ambition at that time to become a gunsmith. He had a
profound respect for the ingenuity and skill required for such a curious
bit of mechanism. But his father, who could not afford to have a member
of his family descend into the rank of artisans, promptly strangled
that ambition. Then the sea, which has been "the Norseman's path to
praise and power," no less than the Dane's, lured the adventurous lad;
and his parent, who had no exalted expectations regarding him, gave his
consent to his entering the Naval Academy at Fredericksvaern. But here
he was rejected on account of near-sightedness. Nothing remained, then,
but to resume the odious books and prepare to enter the University. But
to a boy whose heroes were the two master-thieves, Ola Hoeiland and Gjest
Baardsen, that must have been a terribly arduous necessity. However, he
submitted with bad grace, and was enrolled as a pupil at the gymnasium
in Bergen. Here his Finnish Hyde promptly got him into trouble. Having
by sheer ill luck been cheated of his chances of a heroic career, he
began to imagine in detail the potentialities of greatness for the loss
of which Fate owed him reparation. And so absorbed did he become in this
game of fancy, and so enamored was he of his own imaginary deeds, that
he lost sight of the fact that they were of the stuff that dreams are
made of. With frank and innocent trustfulness he told them to his
friends, both young and old, and soon earned a reputation as a most
unblushing liar. But if any one dared call him that to his face, he had
to reckon with an awe-inspiring pair of fists which were wielded with
equal precision and force. The youth, being at variance with the world,
lived in a state of intermittent warfare, and he gave and received
valiant blows, upon which he yet looks back with satisfaction.

In spite of his distaste for books Jonas Lie managed, when he was
eighteen years old, to pass the entrance examination to the University.
Among his schoolmates during his last year of preparation at Heltberg's
Gymnasium, in Christiania, were Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson and Henrik Ibsen.
The former took a great interest in the odd, _naive_, near-sighted
Nordlander who walked his own ways, thought his own thoughts, and
accepted ridicule with crushing indifference.

"I was going about there in Christiania," he says in a published letter
to Bjoernson, "as a young student, undeveloped, dim, and unclear--a kind
of poetic visionary, a Nordland twilight nature--which after a fashion
espied what was abroad in the age, but indistinctly in the dusk, as
through a water telescope--when I met a young, clear, full-born force,
pregnant with the nation's new day, the blue steel-flash of
determination in his eyes and the happily found national
form--pugnacious to the very point of his pen. I gazed and stared,
fascinated, and took this new thing aboard along the whole gunwale.
Here, I felt, were definite forms, no mere dusk and fantastic
haze--something to fashion into poetry.... From the first hour you knew
how to look straight into this strange twilight of mine, and you espied
flashes of the aurora there when no one else did, like the true and
faithful friend you are. You helped and guided and found grains of
gold, where others saw mostly nonsense, and perhaps half a screw loose.
While I was straying in search of the spiritual tinsel, with which the
_esprits forts_ of the age were glittering, you taught me, and impressed
upon me, again and again, that I had to seek in myself for whatever I
might possess of sentiment and simplicity--and that it was out of this I
would have to build my fiction."

This bit of confession is extremely significant. The Finnish Hyde was
evidently yet uppermost. Bjoernson taught Lie to distrust the tinsel
glitter of mere rhetoric, and the fantastic exuberance of invention in
which the young Nordlander believed that he had his _forte_. But the
matter had even a more serious phase than this. It was about this time
that Lie disappeared for a period of three months from his friends, and
even his parents, and when again he emerged into the daylight, he could
give no account of himself. He had simply sauntered about, moping and
dreaming. He had been Hyde. The cold shudders which lurked in his blood
from the long, legend-haunted arctic night could break into open terror
on unforeseen occasions. Grown man though he was, he was afraid of being
alone in the dark--a peculiarity which once got him into a comical
predicament.

It was his habit when travelling to place his big top-boots at night
within easy reach, so that he might use them as weapons against any
ghost or suspicious-looking object that might be stirring in the gloom.
One evening when he had gone to bed at a country inn, he was aroused
from his sleep and saw indistinctly a white phenomenon fluttering to and
fro along the opposite wall. Instantly he grabs a boot and hurls it with
ferocious force at the goblin. A roar was heard followed by a salvo of
blue profanity. It was a fellow-traveller--a lumber-dealer--who was to
occupy the other bed in the room. He had undressed and was disporting
himself in nocturnal attire before reposing, when Jonas Lie's well-aimed
missile hit him in the stomach and doubled him up with pain.

A skeleton in the den of a medical friend caused Lie many a shiver, for
he could never quite rid himself of the idea that it moved. All that lay
beyond the range of the senses drew him with an irresistible,
half-shuddering attraction; and he resented all attempts to explain it
by ordinary mundane laws. As his first novel abundantly proves, he
possesses in a marked degree the "sixth sense" that gropes eagerly and
with a half-terrified fascination in the dusk that lies beyond the
daylight of the other five.

The verses which Jonas Lie began about this time to produce are mostly
written for patriotic and other festive occasions, and therefore arouse
no creepy sensations. But they are so overladen with confusing imagery
that they have to be read twice to be understood. In the poem "Solveig"
(1855) he makes the heart "in its prison envy the free-born thoughts
which fly to the beloved one's breast." His versification is gnarled
and twisted, and a perpetual strain upon the ear. As Mr. Nordahl Rolfsen
has remarked, one need not be a princess in order to be troubled by the
peas in his verse.[13] Browning himself could scarcely have perpetrated
more unmelodious lines than Jonas Lie is capable of. Nevertheless there
is often in his patriotic songs a most inspiriting bugle-note, which is
found nowhere in Browning, unless it be in the "Cavalier Tunes." The
curiosities of his prosody are (according to his biographer)
attributable to the Nordland accent in his speech. They would sound all
right, he says, to a Nordland ear.

    [13] Nordahl Rolfsen: Norske Digtere, p. 527.

At the risk of violating chronology I may as well speak here of his two
collections of "Poems" (1867 and 1889) (the latter being an expurgated
but enlarged edition of the earlier), to which the present criticisms
particularly apply. Both editions contain notable things amid occasional
bits of what scarcely rises above doggerel. The sailor songs, though
rough, are true in tone and have a catching nautical swing; but of far
deeper ring and more intensely felt are the poems which deal with the
nocturnal sides of nature. These have at times a strange, shivering
resonance, like an old violin whose notes ripple down your spine. I
refer especially to such untranslatable poems as "Draugen," "Finn-Shot,"
"The Mermaid," and "Nightmare." The mood of these is heavy and uncanny,
like that of the "Ancient Mariner." But they are indubitably poetry. It
is by no means sure that the world has not lost a poet in Jonas Lie; but
probably a lesser one than the novelist that it gained.

As Jonas had been voted by his kin the family dullard, it was decided to
make a clergyman of him. But to this the young man objected, chiefly,
according to his own story, because the clerical gown looks too much
like a petticoat. At all events, after having equipped himself with a
set of theological tomes, and peeped cursorily into them, he grew so
discouraged that he went to the bookseller and exchanged them for a set
of law-books. Not that the law had any peculiar attraction for him; he
rather accepted it as a _pis aller_; for, of course, he had to study
something. In due time he was graduated, but with such poor standing
that he concluded to put in another year and try again. And this time he
managed to acquit himself creditably. He then began (1859) the practice
of the law in the little town of Kongsvinger, the centre of the richest
lumber districts in Norway. But in the meanwhile he had had an
experience of another kind which is worth recounting.

From his boyhood he had been a worshipper of the fair sex. Marriages (of
other people) had been among the most tragic events in his life; and he
rarely failed to shed tears at the thought that now this lovely charmer,
too, was removed from the number of his possible selections. If things
went on in this way he would have no choice but to be a bachelor.
However, one fine day a most attractive-looking craft, bearing the name
Thomasine Lie, appeared upon his horizon, sailed within speaking
distance, and presently a great deal nearer. In fact, though they were
cousins, it took a remarkably short time for the two young people to
discover that they loved each other; and when that discovery was made,
they acted upon it with laudable promptitude. They became engaged; and
were subsequently married. And from that day the Finnish Hyde in Jonas
was downed and reduced to permanent subjection. He never raised his head
again. The more sober-minded, industrious, and sensible Norse Jekyll
took command and steered with a steady hand, in fair weather and foul,
and often through dangerous waters, the barque Jonas Lie, which came to
carry more and more passengers the longer it proceeded on its voyage.

Truth to tell, I know among contemporary men of letters no more
complete, happy, and altogether beautiful marriage than that of Jonas
and Thomasine Lie. The nearest parallel to it that I can think of is
that of John Stuart Mill and Mrs. Taylor, who later became Mrs. Mill.

Lie's friends accuse him of carrying his admiration of his wife to the
verge of idolatry. He will leave himself but little merit, but with an
air of candid conviction he attributes even his authorship to his
Thomasine. "Her name ought to stand next to mine on the title-pages of
my books," he has repeatedly declared. And again, "If I have written
anything that is good, then my wife deserves as much credit for it as
myself ... Without her nothing would have come of it except nonsense."

Even though that may be an exaggeration, pure delusion it is not. For
Mrs. Lie is, in a certain way, the complement to her husband. She
possesses what he has not; and he possesses what she, in her modest
self-extinction, would never dream of laying claim to. The spirit of
order, adjustment, and lucidity is strong in her; while he, in his
fanciful exuberance, is often overwhelmed by his material, and is unable
to get it into shape. Then she quietly steps in and separates the dry
land from the water in his seething and struggling chaos. She is one of
those rare women who, while apparently only listening, can give you back
your own thoughts clarified. Mr. Garborg relates most charmingly how she
straightens out the tangles in her husband's plots, and unobtrusively
draws him back, when, as frequently happens, he has switched himself off
on a side-line and is unable to recover his bearings. And this occurs as
often in his conversation as in his manuscripts, which he never
despatches to the publisher without her revision. She helps him
condense. She knows just what to omit. Yet she does not pretend to be in
the least literary. Her proper department, in which she is also a
shining success, is the care of her children and the superintendence of
her household. She understands to perfection the art of economy and has
a keen practical sense, which makes her admirably competent in all the
more difficult situations in life. And he, feeling her competence and
his own deficiency, frankly leans on her. Hence a certain motherliness
on her part (most beautiful to behold) has tinged their relation; and on
his an admiring and affectionate dependence. Each prizes in the other
what he himself lacks; and the husband's genius loses none of its
brightness to the wife, because it is herself who trims the wick and
adjusts the reflectors which send its light abroad.

I have again anticipated, because the subsequent career of Jonas Lie
could not be properly understood without a full appreciation of the new
factor which from this time enters into it. He developed signal ability
as a lawyer during the years of his practice at Kongsvinger; became
prosperous and influential, bought a considerable estate (called
Sigridnaes) and began to dabble in politics. He still wrote occasional
poems, and was the soul of all conviviality in the town. He entertained
celebrities, wrote political leaders in the papers, earned a great deal
of money, lived high, and unfolded a restless and widely ramified
activity. Then came the great financial crisis of 1867-68, which swept
away so many great fortunes in Norway. Lie became involved (chiefly by
endorsement of commercial paper) to the extent of several hundred
thousand dollars. He gave up everything he had, and moved to
Christiania, resolved to pay the enormous debt, for which he had
incurred legal responsibility, to the last farthing. Quixotic as it may
seem, it was his intention to accomplish this by novel-writing. And to
his honor be it said that for a long series of years he kept sending
every penny he could spare, above the barest necessities, to his
creditors, refusing to avail himself of the bankruptcy law and accept a
compromise. But it was a bottomless pit into which he was throwing his
hard-earned pennies, and in the end he had to yield to the persuasions
of his family and abandon the hopeless enterprise.

In Christiania he spent some hard and penurious years, trying to make a
livelihood as a journalist and man of letters. Some of his friends
suspected that the Lie family were subsisting on very short rations; but
they were proud, and there was no way to help them. The ex-lawyer
developed ultra-democratic sympathies, and time and again his Thomasine
led the dance at the balls of the Laborers' Union with Mr. Eilert
Sundt.[14] A position as teacher of Norwegian in Heltberg's Gymnasium he
lost because he only made orations to his pupils, but taught them no
rhetoric. His volume of "Poems" (1867) had attracted no particular
attention; but his political articles were much read and discussed.
However, it was not in politics that he was to win his laurels.

    [14] A well-known Norwegian philanthropist, whose work on the
    Gypsies is highly regarded.

A little before Christmas, 1870, there appeared from Gyldendal's
publishing-house in Copenhagen a novel, entitled "The Visionary" (_Den
Fremsynte_), by Jonas Lie. To analyze the impression which this strange
book makes at the first reading is difficult. I thought, as I sat
rejoicing in its vivid light and color, twenty-four years ago: "This
Jonas Lie is a sort of century-plant, and 'The Visionary' is his one
blossom. It is the one good novel which almost every life is said to
contain. Only this is so strikingly good that it is a pity it will have
no successors."

It was evidently himself, or rather the Finnish part of himself, the
author was exploring; it was in the mine of his own experience he was
delving; it was his own heart he was coining. That may, in a sense, be
true of every book of any consequence; but it was most emphatically true
of "The Visionary." It is not to the use of the first person that this
autobiographical note is primarily due; but to a certain beautiful
intimacy in the narrative, and a _naive_ confidence which charms the
reader and takes him captive. With a lavish hand Lie has drawn upon the
memories of his boyhood in the arctic North; and it was the newness of
the nature which he revealed, no less than the picturesque force of his
language, which contributed in no small degree to the success of his
book. But, above all, it was the sweetness and pathos of the exquisite
love story. Susanna, though as to talents not much above the
commonplace, is ravishing. To have breathed the breath of such warm and
living life into a character of fiction is no small achievement. It is
the loveliness of love, the sweetness of womanhood, the glorious ferment
of the blood in the human springtide which are celebrated in "The
Visionary." The thing is beautifully done. I do not know where young
love has been more touchingly portrayed, unless it be in some of the
Russian tales of Tourgueneff.[15] The second-sight with which the hero,
David Holst, is afflicted, introduces an undertone of sadness--a pensive
minor key--and seems to necessitate the tragic _denouement_.

    [15] Spring Floods, Liza, Faust.

The immediate success of "The Visionary" changed Jonas Lie's situation
and prospects. He was first sent with a public stipend to Nordland for
the purpose of studying the character, manners, and economic condition
of the dwellers within the polar zone; and, like the conscientious man
he is, he made an exhaustive report to the proper department, detailing
with touching minuteness the results of his observations. The Norwegian
government has always taken a strong (and usually very intelligent)
interest in rising artists, musicians, and men of letters, and has
endeavored by stipends and salaries to compensate them for the smallness
of the public which the country affords. Jonas Lie was now a
sufficiently conspicuous man to come into consideration in the
distribution of the official _panem et circenses_. The state awarded
him a largess of $400 for one year (twice renewed), in order to enable
him to go to Italy and "educate himself for a poet;" and he was also
made a beneficiary of the well-known Schafer legacy for the training of
artists. In the autumn of 1871 he started with his wife and four
children for Rome. It was in a solemnly festal frame of mind that he now
resolved to devote the rest of his life to his real vocation, which at
last he had found. This was what they had all meant--his gropings,
trials, and failures. They had all fitted him for the life-work which
was now to be his. The world lay before him as in the shining calm after
storm.

He took his artistic training, as everything else, with extreme
seriousness. With the utmost conscientiousness he started out with his
Thomasine, morning after morning, to study the Vatican and the
Capitoline collections. "Happy is the man," says Goethe, "who learns
early in life what art means." But Jonas Lie was thirty-eight years old;
and, as far as I can judge from his writings, I should venture to say
that the secret of classical art has never been unlocked to him. It lies
probably rather remote from the sphere of his sensations. His genius is
so profoundly Germanic that only an ill-wisher would covet for him that
expansion of vision which would enable him to perceive with any degree
of artistic realization and intimacy the glorious serenity of the Juno
Ludovisi and the divine distinction of the Apollo Belvedere.

The two books which were the first-fruits of the Roman sojourn were a
disappointment to his friends, though in the case of the unpretentious
collection called "Tales and Sketches from Nordland" (1872) there is no
reason why it should have been. The public found that it was not on a
level with "The Visionary," and by "The Visionary" Jonas Lie was bound
to be judged, whether he liked it or not. That is the penalty of having
produced a masterpiece, that one is never permitted to follow the
example of _bonus Homerus_, who, as every one knows, sometimes nods.
Jonas Lie was far from nodding in "The Barque Future" (1872). There was
an abundance of interest in the material, and a delightful picturesque
vigor in the descriptions of nature. But of romantic interest of the
kind which the ordinary novel-reader craves, there was very little. _A
propos_ of "The Barque Future" let me quote a bit of general
characterization which applies to nearly all the subsequent works of
Jonas Lie.

"It is in this particular that Jonas Lie most distinctly diverges from
all romanticism and romance-writing: His interest in practical affairs,
his ability to see poetry in that which is contemporary. The sawdust in
the rivers has never offended him, nor the Briton's black cloud of
coal-smoke. The busy toil of office and shop is not prose to him. He
penetrates to the bottom of its meaning--its significance to
civilization."[16]

    [16] Arne Garborg: Jonas Lie, p. 172.

"The Barque Future" is, as regards its problem, Gustav Freytag's _Soll
und Haben_ ("Debit and Credit") transferred to Nordland. Instead of the
noble house of Rothsattel we have the ancient and highly esteemed
commercial firm of Heggelund, whose chief falls into the toils of the
scoundrel, Stuwitz, very much as Baron Rothsattel was dragged to ruin by
the Jew Veitel Itzig. But no more than Freytag can find it in his heart
to award the victory to the Hebrew usurer, can Lie violate the
proprieties of fiction by permitting Stuwitz to fatten on his spoil. He
could not, like the German novelist, conjure up a noble gentleman of
democratic sympathies and practical ability (like von Finck) and make
him emerge in the nick of time as the heir of the ancient gentry,
justifying the dignities which he enjoys in the state by the uses which
he fulfils. In Norway there is no nobility; and Lie, therefore, had to
make his able and industrious plebeian, Morten Jonsen (the equivalent of
Anton Wohlfahrt in _Soll und Haben_) the inheritor of the future. He
accordingly awards to him the hand of Miss Edele Heggelund; but not
until he has put Jacob to shame by the amount and character of the work
by which he earns his Rachel.

The reception of "The Barque Future" was far from satisfactory to its
author. He grew apprehensive about himself. He could not afford another
failure; nay, not even a _succes d'estime_. Accordingly he waited two
years, and published in 1874 "The Pilot and his Wife," which made its
mark. It is an every-day story in the best sense of the word, the
history of a marriage among common folk. And yet so true is it, so
permeated with a warm and rich humanity, that it holds the reader's
attention from beginning to end. Then, to add to its interest, it has
some bearing upon the woman question. Lie maintains that no true
marriage can exist where the wife sacrifices her personality, and
submits without a protest to neglect and ill-treatment. Happily we are
not particularly in need of that admonition on our side of the ocean.
The wife of the pilot, Salve Christensen, had once broken her engagement
with him, having become enamored of the handsome naval lieutenant, Beck;
but she recovers her senses and marries Christensen, whom she really
loves. After her marriage she tries to do penance for the wrong she has
done him by being, as she fancies, a model wife. But by submission and
self-extinction, so alien to her character, she arouses his suspicion
that she has something on her conscience; and, in his feeling of
outrage, he begins to neglect and abuse her. When, at last, his
maltreatment reaches a climax, she arises in all the dignity of her
womanhood, and asserts her true self. Then comes reconciliation,
followed by a united life of true equality and loving comradeship.

Such a mere skeleton of a plot can, of course, give no conception of the
wealth of vivid details with which the book abounds. There is, however,
a certain air of effort about it, of a strenuous seriousness, which is,
I fancy, the temperamental note of this author.

"The Pilot and his Wife" besides reviving Lie's popularity also served
to define his position in Norwegian literature. He had at first been
assigned a definite corner as the "poet of Nordland," but his ambition
was not satisfied with so narrow a province. In all his tales, so far,
he has surpassed all predecessors in his descriptions of the sea; and
the critics, when favorably disposed, fell into the habit of referring
to him as "the novelist of the sea," "the poet of the ocean," etc. The
Norwegian sailor, whom he may be said to have revealed in "The Pilot,"
came to be considered more and more as his property; and no one can read
such tales as "Press On" (_Gaa Paa_) and "Rutland" without agreeing that
the title is well merited. I know of no English novelist since Smollett,
who produces so deep a sense of reality in his descriptions of maritime
life. Mr. Clark Russell, who knows his ship from masthead to keel as
thoroughly as Jonas Lie, and writes fully as clever a story, seems to me
to have a lower aim, in so far as the novel of adventure, _caeteris
paribus_, belongs on a lower level than the novel of character.

In the year 1874 the Norwegian Storthing conferred upon Jonas Lie an
annual "poet's salary" of about six hundred dollars. This is supposed to
supply a warranty deed to a lot on Parnassus. It removes any possible
flaw in the title to immortality. Lie was now lifted into the
illustrious triumvirate in which Bjoernson and Ibsen were his
predecessors. Great expectations were entertained of his literary
future. But, oddly enough, this official recognition did not have a
favorable effect upon Lie. He felt himself almost oppressed by a sense
of obligation to yield full returns for what he consumed of the public
revenues. In 1875 he published a versified tale, "Faustina Strozzi,"
dealing with the struggle for Italian liberty. In spite of many
excellences it fell rather flat, and was roughly handled by the critics.
Even a worse fate befell its successor, "Thomas Ross" (1878), a novel of
contemporary life in the Norwegian capital. It is a pale, and rather
labored story, in which a young girl, of the Rosamond Vincy type, is
held up to scorn, and the atrocity of flirtation is demonstrated by the
most tragic consequences. There is likewise an air of triviality about
"Adam Schrader" (1879); and Lie became seriously alarmed about himself
when he had to register a third failure. Like its predecessor, this book
is full of keen observations, and the sketches of the social futilities
and the typical characters at a summer watering-place are surely good
enough to pass muster. But, somehow, the material fails to combine into
a sufficiently coherent and impressive picture; and the total effect
remains rather feeble. In a drama, "Grabow's Cat" (1880), he suffered
shipwreck once more, though he saved something from the waves. The play
was performed in Christiania and Stockholm, and aroused interest, but
not enough to keep it afloat.

It has been said of Browning that he succeeded by a series of failures,
which meant, in his case, that his books failed to command instant
attention, but were gradually discovered by the thoughtful few who by
their appreciation spread the poet's fame among the thoughtless many. It
was not in this way that Jonas Lie's failures conduced to his final
success. "Thomas Ross," "Adam Schrader," and "Grabow's Cat" have not
grown perceptibly in the estimation either of the critics or of the
public since their first appearance. But they supplied their author a
hard but needed discipline. They warned him against over-confidence and
routine work. He had passed through a soul-trying experience, in its
effect not unlike the one which Keats describes _a propos_ of
"Endymion:"

"In 'Endymion' I leaped headlong into the sea and thereby have become
better acquainted with the soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks than
if I had stayed upon the green shore, took tea and comfortable advice. I
was never afraid of failure--would rather fail than not be among the
greatest."

Jonas Lie reconquered at one stroke all that he had lost, by the
delightful sea-novel "Rutland" (1881), and reinstated himself still more
securely in the hearts of an admiring public by the breezy tale, "Press
On" (1882). But after so protracted a sea-voyage he began to long for
the shore, where, up to date he had suffered all his reverses. It could
not be that he who had lived all his life on _terra firma_, and was so
profoundly interested in the problems of modern society, should be
banished forever, like "The Man Without a Country," to the briny deep,
and be debarred from describing the things which he had most at heart.
One more attempt he was bound to make, even at the risk of another
failure. Accordingly in 1883 appeared "The Life Prisoner"
(_Livsslaven_), which deserved a better fate than befell it. The critics
found it depressing, compared it to Zola, and at the same time scolded
the author because he lacked indignation and neglected to denounce the
terrible conditions which he described. He replied to their arraignments
in an angry but very effective letter. But that did not save the book.
Truth to tell, "The Life Prisoner" is a dismal tale. It was, in fact,
the irruption of modern naturalism into Norwegian literature. It reminds
one in its tone more of Dostoyevski's "Crime and Punishment" than of
"L'Assommoir." For to my mind Dostoyevski is a greater exponent of
naturalism than Zola, whom Lemaitre not inaptly styles "an epic poet."
The pleasing and well-bred truths or lies, to the expounding of which
_belles lettres_ had hitherto been confined, were here discarded or
ignored. The author had taken a plunge into the great dumb deep of the
nethermost social strata, which he has explored with admirable
conscientiousness and artistic perception. Few men of letters would
object to being the father of so creditable a failure. Lie, being
convinced that his book was a good one, no matter what the wielders of
critical tomahawks might say to the contrary, resolved to persevere in
the line he had chosen and to pluck victory from the heels of defeat.
And the victory came even the same year (1883), when he published what,
to my mind, is the most charming of all his novels, "The Family at
Gilje." That is a book which is taken, warm and quivering, out of the
very heart of Norway. The humor which had been cropping out tentatively
in Lie's earlier tales comes here to its full right, and his shy,
beautiful pathos gleams like hidden tears behind his genial smile. It is
close wrought cloth of gold. No loosely woven spots--no shoddy woof of
cheaper material. Captain Jaeger and his wife, Inger-Johanna, Joergen,
Grip, nay, the whole company of sober, everyday mortals that come
trooping through its chapters are so delightfully human that you feel
the blood pulse under their skin at the first touch. It is a triumph
indeed, to have written a book like "The Family at Gilje."

From this time forth Jonas Lie's career presents an unbroken series of
successes. "A Maelstrom" (1884), "Eight Stories," "Married Life" (_Et
Samliv_), (1887), "Maisa Jons" (1888), "The Commodore's Daughters" and
"Evil Powers" (1890), which deal with interesting phases of contemporary
life, are all extremely modern in feeling and show the same effort to
discard all tinsel and sham and get at the very heart of reality.

He had by this series of novels established his reputation as a
relentless realist, when, in 1892, he surprised his admirers by the
publication of two volumes of the most wildly fantastic tales, entitled
"Trold." It was as if a volcano, with writhing torrents of flame and
smoke, had burst forth from under a sidewalk in Broadway. It was the
suppressed Finn who, for once, was going to have his fling, even though
he were doomed henceforth to silence. It was the "queer thoughts" (which
had accumulated in the author and which he had scrupulously imprisoned)
returning to take vengeance upon him unless he released them. The most
grotesque, weird, and uncanny imaginings (such as Stevenson would
delight in) are crowded together in these tales, some of which are
derived from folk-lore and legends, while others are free fantasies.

Before taking leave of Jonas Lie, a word about his style is in order.
Style, as such, counts for very little with him. Yet he has a distinctly
individual and vigorous manner of utterance, though a trifle rough,
perhaps, abrupt, elliptic, and conversational. Mere decorative
adjectives and clever felicities of phrase he scorns. All scientific and
social phenomena--all that we include under the term modern
progress--command his most intense and absorbed attention. Having since
1882 been a resident of Paris (except during his annual summer
excursions to Norway or the mountains of Bavaria) he has had the
advantage of seeing the society which he describes at that distance
which, if it does not lend enchantment, at all events unifies the
scattered impressions, and furnishes a convenient critical outpost. He
does not permit himself, however, like so many foreigners in the French
capital, to lapse into that supercilious cosmopolitanism which deprives
a man of his own country without giving him any other in exchange. No;
Jonas Lie is and remains a Norseman--a fact which he demonstrated (to
the gratification of his countrymen) on a recent occasion. At the
funeral of the late Professor O. J. Broch--a famous Norwegian who died
in Paris--the chaplain of the Swedish legation made an oration in which
he praised the departed statesman and scientist, referring to him
constantly as "our countryman." When he had finished, Jonas Lie, without
anybody's invitation, stepped quietly up to the coffin and in the name
of Norway bade _his_ countryman a last farewell. "The spirit came over
Lie," says his biographer, "and he spoke with ravishing eloquence."

But why did he do such an uncalled-for thing, you will ask? Because
there is a systematic effort on the part of Sweden to suppress the very
name of Norway, and to give the impression, throughout the world, that
there is no such nationality as the Norwegian. Therefore every Norseman
(unless he chooses to be a party to this suppression) is obliged to
assert his nationality in season and out of season. But Jonas Lie has,
indeed, in a far more effective way borne aloft the banner of his
country. His books have been translated into French, German, English,
Dutch, Swedish, Finnish, Italian, Russian, and Bohemian; and throughout
Europe the literary journals and magazines are beginning to discuss him
as one of the foremost representatives of modern realism.




HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN[17]

    [17] A portion of this essay appeared originally in "The Dial" of
    Chicago.


Hans Christian Andersen was a unique figure in Danish literature, and a
solitary phenomenon in the literature of the world. Superficial critics
have compared him with the Brothers Grimm; they might with equal
propriety have compared him with Voltaire or with the man in the moon.
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm were scientific collectors of folk-lore, and
rendered as faithfully as possible the simple language of the peasants
from whose lips they gathered their stories. It was the ethnological and
philological value of the fairy-tale which stimulated their zeal; its
poetic value was of quite secondary significance. With Andersen the case
was exactly the reverse. He was as innocent of scientific intention as
the hen who finds a diamond on a dunghill is of mineralogy. It was the
poetic phase alone of the fairy-tale which attracted him; and what is
more, he saw poetic possibilities where no one before him had ever
discovered them. By the alchemy of genius (which seems so perfectly
simple until you try it yourself) he transformed the common neglected
nonsense of the nursery into rare poetic treasure. Boots, who kills the
ogre and marries the princess--the typical lover in fiction from the
remotest Aryan antiquity down to the present time--appears in Andersen
in a hundred disguises, not with the rudimentary features of the old
story, but modernized, individualized, and carrying on his shield an
unobtrusive little moral. In "Jack the Dullard" he comes nearest to his
primitive prototype, and no visible effort is made to refine him. In
"The Most Extraordinary Thing" he is the vehicle of a piece of social
satire, and narrowly escapes the lot which the Fates seem especially to
have prepared for inventors, viz., to make the fortune of some
unscrupulous clown while they themselves die in poverty. In "The
Porter's Son" he is an aspiring artist, full of the fire of genius, and
he wins his princess by conquering that many-headed ogre with which
every self-made man has to battle--the world's envy, and malice, and
contempt for a lowly origin. It is easy to multiply examples, but these
may suffice.

In another species of fairy-tale, which Andersen may be said to have
invented, incident seems to be secondary to the moral purpose, which is
yet so artfully hidden that it requires a certain maturity of intellect
to detect it. In this field Andersen has done his noblest work and
earned his immortality. Who can read that marvellous little tale, "The
Ugly Duckling," without perceiving that it is a subtle, most exquisite
revenge the poet is taking upon the humdrum Philistine world, which
despised and humiliated him, before he lifted his wings and flew away
with the swans, who knew him as their brother? And yet, as a child, I
remember reading this tale with ever fresh delight, though I never for a
moment suspected its moral. The hens and the ducks and the geese were
all so vividly individualized, and the incidents were so familiar to my
own experience, that I demanded nothing more for my entertainment.
Likewise in "The Goloshes of Fortune" there is a wealth of amusing
adventures, all within the reach of a child's comprehension, which more
than suffices to fascinate the reader who fails to penetrate beneath the
surface. The delightful satire, which is especially applicable to Danish
society, is undoubtedly lost to nine out of ten of the author's foreign
readers, but so prodigal is he both of humorous and pathetic meaning,
that every one is charmed with what he finds, without suspecting how
much he has missed. "The Little Mermaid" belongs to the same order of
stories, though the pathos here predominates, and the resemblance to De
la Motte Fouque's "Undine" is rather too striking. But the gem of the
whole collection, I am inclined to think, is "The Emperor's New
Clothes," which in subtlety of intention and universality of application
rises above age and nationality. Respect for the world's opinion and the
tyranny of fashion have never been satirized with more exquisite humor
than in the figure of the emperor who walks through the streets of his
capital in _robe de nuit_, followed by a procession of courtiers, who
all go into ecstasies over the splendor of his attire.

It was not only in the choice of his theme that Andersen was original.
He also created his style, though he borrowed much of it from the
nursery. "It was perfectly wonderful," "You would scarcely have believed
it," "One would have supposed that there was something the matter in the
poultry-yard, but there was nothing at all the matter"--such beginnings
are not what we expect to meet in dignified literature. They lack the
conventional style and deportment. No one but Andersen has ever dared to
employ them. As Dr. Brandes has said in his charming essay on Andersen,
no one has ever attempted, before him, to transfer the vivid mimicry and
gesticulation which accompany a nursery tale to the printed page. If you
tell a child about a horse, you don't say that it neighed, but you
imitate the sound; and the child's laughter or fascinated attention
compensates you for your loss of dignity. The more successfully you
crow, roar, grunt, and mew, the more vividly you call up the image and
demeanor of the animal you wish to represent, and the more impressed is
your juvenile audience. Now, Andersen does all these things in print: a
truly wonderful feat. Every variation in the pitch of the voice--I am
almost tempted to say every change of expression in the story-teller's
features--is contained in the text. He does not write his story, he
tells it; and all the children of the whole wide world sit about him
and listen with, eager, wide-eyed wonder to his marvellous
improvisations.[18]

    [18] Brandes: Kritiker og Portraiter, p. 303.

In reading Andersen's collected works one is particularly impressed with
the fact that what he did outside of his chosen field is of inferior
quality--inferior, I mean, judged by his own high standard, though in
itself often highly valuable and interesting. "The Improvisatore," upon
which, next to "The Wonder-Tales," his fame rests, is a kind of
disguised autobiography which exhibits the author's morbid sensibility
and what I should call the unmasculine character of his mind,[19] To
appeal to the reader's pity in your hero's behalf is a daring
experiment, and it cannot, except in brief scenes, be successful. A
prolonged strain of compassion soon becomes wearisome, and not the
worthiest object in the world can keep one's charity interested through
four hundred pages. Antonio, in "The Improvisatore," is a milksop whom
the author, with a lavish expenditure of sympathy, parades as a hero. He
is positively ludicrous in his pitiful softness, vanity, and humility.
That the book nevertheless remains unfailingly popular, and is even yet
found in the satchel of every Roman tourist, is chiefly due to the
poetic intensity with which the author absorbed and portrayed every
Roman sight and sound. Italy throbs and glows in the pages of "The
Improvisatore"--the old vagabond Italy of pre-Garibaldian days, when
priests and bandits and pretty women divided the power of Church and
State. Story's "Roba di Roma," Augustus Hare's "Walks in Rome," and all
the other descriptions of the Eternal City, are but disguised
guide-books, feeble and pale performances, when compared with Andersen's
beautiful romance.

    [19] R. L. Stevenson in speaking of the "Character of Dogs" makes
    the following cruel observation: "Hans Christian Andersen, as we
    behold him in his startling memoirs, thrilling from top to toe with
    an excruciating vanity and scouting even along the streets for the
    shadows of offence--here was the talking dog."--Memories and
    Portraits, p. 196.

The same feminine sentimentality which, in spite of its picturesqueness,
makes "The Improvisatore" unpalatable to many readers, is still more
glaringly exhibited in "O. T." and "The Two Baronesses." In "The Story
of My Life" the same quality asserts itself on every page in the most
unpleasant manner. The author makes no effort to excite the reader's
admiration, but he makes constant appeals to his sympathy. Nevertheless
this autobiography rivals in historic and poetic worth Rousseau's
"Confessions" and Benvenuto Cellini's "Life." The absolute candor with
which Andersen lays bare his soul, the complete intentional or
unintentional self-revelation, gives a psychological value to the book
which no mere literary graces could bestow. I confess, until I had the
pleasure of making Andersen's acquaintance, "The Fairy Tale of My Life"
impressed me unpleasantly. After I had by personal intercourse possessed
myself of the clew to the man's character, I judged differently.
Andersen remained, until the day of his death, a child. His innocence
was more than virginal; his unworldliness simply inconceivable. He
carried his heart on his sleeve, and invited you to observe what a soft,
tender, and sensitive heart it was. He had the harmless vanity of a
child who has a new frock on. He was fidgety and unhappy if anybody but
himself was the centre of attraction; and guilelessly happy when he
could talk and be admired and sympathized with. His conversation was
nearly always about himself, or about the kings and princes and lofty
personages who had graciously deigned to take notice of him. He was a
tuft-hunter of a rare and curious sort; not because he valued the glory
reflected upon himself by royal acquaintances, but because the pomp and
splendor of a court satisfied his thirst for the marvellous. A king
seemed to him, as to the boy who reads his fairy-tales, something grand
and remote; and in invading this charmed sphere he seemed to have
invaded his own fairy-tales, and to live actually in the fabulous region
of wonders in which his fancy revelled. He conceived of his life as a
fairy-tale, and delighted in living up to his own ideal of living. The
very title of his autobiography in Danish (_Mit Livs Eventyr_) shows
this conclusively; and it ought to have been rendered in English "The
Fairy-Tale of My Life." "The Story of My Life," as Mr. Scudder has
translated it, would have been in the original "Mit Livs Historie," a
very common title, by the way, for an autobiography, while _Mit Livs
Eventyr_ is entirely unique.

The feeling of the marvellous pervades the book from beginning to end.
The prose facts of life had but a remote and indistinct existence to the
poet, and he blundered along miserably in his youth, supported and
upheld by a dim but unquenchable aspiration. He commiserated himself,
and yet felt that there was something great in store for him because of
his exceptional endowment. Every incident in his career he treated as if
it were a miracle, which required the suspension of the laws of the
universe for its performance. God was a benevolent old man with a long
beard (just as he was depicted in old Dr. Luther's Catechism) who sat up
in the skies and spent his time chiefly in managing the affairs of Hans
Christian Andersen as pleasantly as possible; and Hans Christian was
duly grateful, and cried on every third or fourth page at the thought of
the goodness of God and man. Sometimes, for a change, he cried at the
wickedness of the latter, and marvelled, with the _naivete_ of a spoiled
child, that there should be such dreadful people in the world, who
should persist in misunderstanding and misrepresenting him. Those who
were good to him he exalted and lauded to the skies, no matter how they
conducted themselves toward the rest of humanity. Some of the most
mediocre princes, who had paid him compliments, he embalmed in prose and
verse. Frederick VII. of Denmark, whose immorality was notorious, was,
according to Andersen, "a good, amiable king," "sent by God to Danish
land and folk," than whom "no truer man the Danish language spoke." And
this case was by no means exceptional. The same uncritical partiality
toward the great and mighty is perceptible in every chapter of "The
Fairy-Tale of My Life." It was not, however, toward the great and mighty
alone that he assumed this attitude; he was uncritical by nature, and
had too soft a heart to find fault with anybody--except those who did
not like his books. Heine's jocose description of heaven as a place
where he could eat cakes and sweets, and drink punch _ad libitum_, and
where the angels sat around raving about his poetry, was probably not so
very remote from Andersen's actual conception. His world was the child's
world, in which there is but one grand division into good and bad, and
the innumerable host that occupies the middle-ground between these poles
is ignored. Those who praised what he wrote were good people; those who
ridiculed him were a malignant and black-hearted lot whom he was very
sorry for and would include in his prayers, in the hope that God might
make them better.

We may smile at this simple system; but we all remember the time when we
were addicted to a similar classification. That it is a sign of
immaturity of intellect is undeniable; and in Andersen's case it is one
of the many indications that intellectually he never outgrew his
childhood. He never possessed the power of judgment that we expect in a
grown-up man. His opinions on social and political questions were
_naive_ and quite worthless. And yet, in spite of all these limitations,
he was a poet of rare power; nay, I may say in consequence of them. The
vitality which in other authors goes toward intellectual development,
produced in him strength and intensity of imagination. Everything which
his fancy touched it invested with life and beauty. It divined the
secret soul of bird and beast and inanimate things. His hens and ducks
and donkeys speak as hens and ducks and donkeys would speak if they
could speak. Their temperaments and characters are scrupulously
respected. Even shirt-collars, gingerbread men, darning-needles,
flowers, and sunbeams, he endowed with physiognomies and speech, fairly
consistent with their ruling characteristics. This personification,
especially of inanimate objects, may at first appear arbitrary; but it
is part of the beautiful consistency of Andersen's genius that it never
stoops to mere amusing and fantastic trickery. The character of the
darning-needle is the character which a child would naturally attribute
to a darning-needle, and the whole multitude of vivid personifications
which fills his tales is governed by the same consistent but dimly
apprehended instinct. Of course, I do not pretend that he was conscious
of any such consistency; creative processes rarely are conscious. But
he needed no reflection in order to discover the child's view of its own
world. He never ceased to regard the world from the child's point of
view, and his personification of an old clothes-press or a
darning-needle was therefore as natural as that of a child who beats the
chair against which it bumped its head. In the works of more ambitious
scope, where this code of conduct would be out of place, Andersen was
never wholly at his ease. As lovers, his heroes usually cut a sorry
figure; their milk-and-water passion is described, but it is never felt.
They make themselves a trifle ridiculous by their innocence, and are
amusing when they themselves least suspect it. Likewise, in his
autobiography, he is continually exposing himself to ridicule by his
_naive_ candor, and his inability to adapt himself to the etiquette
which prevails among grown-up people. Take as an instance his visit to
the Brothers Grimm, when he asked the servant girl which of the brothers
was the more learned, and when she answered "Jacob," he said, "Then take
me to Jacob." The little love affair, too, which he confides seems to
have been of the kind which one is apt to experience during the pinafore
period; a little more serious, perhaps, but yet of the same kind. It is
in this vague and impersonal style that princes and princesses love each
other in the fairy-tales; everything winds up smoothly, and there are
never any marital disagreements to darken the honeymoon. It is in this
happy, passionless realm that Andersen dwells, and here he reigns
supreme. For many years to come the fair creatures of his fancy will
continue to brighten the childhood of new generations. No rival has ever
entered this realm; and even critics are excluded. Nevertheless,
Andersen need have no fear of the latter; for even if they had the wish,
they would not have the power, to rob him of his laurels.

Hans Christian Andersen was born in the little town of Odense, on the
island Fuenen, April 2, 1805. His father was a poor shoemaker, with some
erratic ambitions, or, if his son's word may be trusted, a man of a
richly gifted and truly poetic mind. His wife was a few years older and
a good deal more ignorant than himself; and when they set up
housekeeping together, in a little back room, they rejoiced in being
able to nail together a bridal bed out of the scaffolding which had
recently supported a dead nobleman's coffin. The black mourning drapery
which yet clung to the wood gave them quite a sense of magnificence.
Their first child, Hans Christian, grew up amid these mean surroundings,
constantly worried by the street boys, who made a butt of him, and
tortured him in the thousand ingenious ways known to their species. He
had no schooling to speak of; but, for all that, was haunted, like
Joseph, by dreams foreshadowing his future greatness. Guided by this
premonition he started, at the age of fourteen, for Copenhagen, a tall,
ugly, and ungainly lad, but resolved, somehow or other, to conquer fame
and honor. He tried himself as a dancer, singer, actor, and failed
lamentably in all his _debuts_. He could not himself estimate the extent
of his own ignorance, nor could he dream what a figure he was cutting.
Undismayed by all rebuffs, though suffering agony from his wounded
vanity, he wrote poems, comedies, and tragedies, in which he
plagiarized, more or less unconsciously, the elder Danish poets. Mr.
Jonas Collins, one of the directors of the Royal Theatre, became
interested in the youth, whose unusual ambition meant either madness or
genius. In order to determine which it might be, Mr. Collins induced
King Frederic VI. to pay for his education, and after half a dozen years
at school Hans Christian passed the entrance examination to the
University. Mr. Collins continued to assist him with counsel and deed;
and his hospitable house in Bredgade became a second home to Andersen.
There he met, for the first time, people of refinement and culture on
equal terms; and his morbid self-introspection was in a measure cured by
kindly association, tempered by wholesome fun and friendly criticism. He
now resolved to abandon his University studies and devote his life to
literature.

I have no doubt it would have alarmed the gentle poet very much, if he
had been told that he belonged to the Romantic School. To be classified
in literature and be bracketed with a lot of men with whom you are not
even on speaking terms, and whom, more than likely, you don't admire,
would have seemed to him an unpleasant prospect. That he drew much of
his inspiration from the German Romanticists, notably Heine and
Hoffmann, he would perhaps have admitted; but he would have thought it
unkind of you to comment upon his indebtedness. In his first book, "A
Pedestrian Tour from Holmen Canal to the Eastern Extremity of Amager"
(1829), he assumed by turns the _blase_ mask of the former and the
fantastically eccentric one of the latter; both of which ill became his
good-natured, plebeian, Danish countenance. For all that, the book was a
success in its day; and no less an authority than the aesthetic Grand
Mogul, J. L. Heiberg, hailed it as a work of no mean merit. It strikes
us to-day as an exhibition of that mocking smartness of youth which
often hides a childish heart. It was because he was so excessively
sentimental and feared to betray his real physiognomy that he cut these
excruciating capers. His other alternative would have been mawkishness.
His vaudeville, "Love on the Nicholas Tower," which satirizes the drama
of chivalry, is in the same vein and made a similar hit. A volume of
"Poems" was also well received. But in 1831 he met with his first
literary reverse. A second collection of verses, entitled "Phantasies
and Sketches," was pitilessly ridiculed by Henrik Hertz, in his "Letters
from the Dead." Andersen's lack of style and violations of syntax were
rather maliciously commented upon. If Gabriel's trump had sounded from
the top of the Round Tower, it would not have startled Andersen more.
He was in despair. Like the great child he was, he went about craving
sympathy, and weeping when he failed to find it.

"I could say nothing," he writes in "the Fairy-Tale of My Life," "I
could only let the big, heavy waves roll over me; and it was the common
opinion that I was to be totally washed away. I felt deeply the wound of
the sharp knife; and was on the point of giving myself up, as I was
already given up by others."

This is one of the numerous exhibitions of that over-sensitiveness to
criticism which caused him such long and continued suffering. His mind
was like a bared nerve, quivering with delight or contracting with
violent pain. Utterly devoid, as he was, of self-criticism, he regarded
his authorship as something miraculous, and held God (who apparently
supervised each chapter) responsible for the fate of his books. "If the
Lord," he writes in solemn earnest to a friend, "will take as good care
of the remainder as he has of the first chapters, you will like it."[20]
There was to him no difference between his best and his worst. It was
all part of himself, and he could scarcely conceive of any motive for
finding fault with it, except personal malice, envy, animosity.[21] This
did not, however, always prevent him from associating with the
malevolent critic, as for instance in the case of Hertz, with whom he
presently established pleasant relations.

    [20] P. Hansen: Illustreret Dansk Litteratur Historic, vol. ii., p.
    477.

    [21] I derive this impression not only from the Autobiography, but
    from many conversations. An account of My Acquaintance with Hans
    Christian Andersen will be found in The Century Magazine, March,
    1892.

In 1831 Andersen made his first trip abroad. "By industry and
frugality," he says, "I had saved up a little sum of money, so I
resolved to spend a couple of weeks in North Germany."

The result of this journey was the book "Shadow Pictures," which was
followed in 1833 by "Vignettes on Danish Poets," and a chaplet of verse
entitled "The Twelve Months of the Year." It is quite true, as he
affirms, that in his "Vignettes," he "only spoke of that which was good
in them" [the poets]; but in consequence there is a great lack of Attic
salt in the book. In 1833 he went abroad once more, visited Germany,
France, Switzerland, and Italy, and sent home the dramatic poem "Agnete
and the Merman," the comparative failure of which was a fresh grief to
him. After his return from Rome (1835) he published his "Improvisatore,"
which slowly won its way. It was the reputation this novel gained abroad
which changed public opinion in Denmark in its favor. A second novel,
"Only a Fiddler" (1837), is a fresh variation of his autobiography, and
the lachrymose and a trifle chaotic story, "O. T." (being the brand of
the Odense penitentiary) scarcely deserved any better reception than was
accorded it.

It is a curious thing that misconception and adversity never hardened
Andersen or toughened the fibre of his personality. The same lamentable
lack of robustness--not to say manliness--which marked his youth
remained his prevailing characteristic to the end of his life. And I
fancy, if he had ever reached intellectual maturity, both he himself and
the world would have been losers. For it is his unique distinction to
have expressed a simplicity of soul which is usually dumb--which has, at
all events, nowhere else recorded itself in literature. We all have a
dim recollection of how the world looked from the nursery window; but no
book has preserved so vivid and accurate a negative of that marvellous
panorama as Andersen's "Wonder Tales for Children," the first collection
of which appeared in 1835. All the jumbled, distorted proportions of
things (like the reflection of a landscape in a crystal ball) is
capitally reproduced. The fantastically personifying fancy of childhood,
where does it have more delightful play? The radiance of an enchanted
fairy realm that bursts like an iridescent soap-bubble at the touch of
the finger of reason, where does it linger in more alluring beauty than
in "Ole Lukoeie" ("The Sandman"), "The Little Mermaid," or "The
Ice-Maiden"? There is a bloom, an indefinable, dewy freshness about the
grass, the flowers, the very light, and the children's sweet faces. And
so vivid--so marvellously vivid--as it all is. Listen to this from "Five
in a Pea-Pod:"

     "There were five peas in one pod. They were green, and the pod was
     green; and so they thought that the whole world was green. And that
     was just as it should be. The pod grew and the peas grew; they
     accommodated themselves to circumstances, sitting all in a row."

Or take this from "Little Tuk:"

     "Yes, that was Little Tuk. His name wasn't really Tuk, but when he
     couldn't speak plain, he used to call himself so. It was meant for
     Charley; and it does very well, when one only knows it."

Or this incomparable bit of drollery from Hjalmar's dream in "The
Sandman:"

     "There came a terrible wail from the table-drawer where Hjalmar's
     school books lay. 'Whatever can that be?' said the Sandman. And he
     went to the table and opened the drawer. It was the slate which was
     in convulsions because a wrong number had got into the sum, so that
     it was fairly falling to pieces. The slate-pencil tugged and jumped
     at the end of its string, as if it had been a little dog that
     wanted to help the sum. But he could not. There was a great
     lamentation in Hjalmar's copy-book, too; it was quite terrible to
     hear. On each page the large letters stood in a row, one underneath
     the other, and each with a little one at its side. That was the
     copy. And next to these were a few more letters, which thought they
     looked just like the others. These were the ones Hjalmar had
     written. But they lay down as if they had tumbled pell-mell over
     the pencil lines upon which they were to stand.

     "'Look, this is the way you should hold yourselves,' said the copy,
     'sloping this way with a bold swing.' 'Oh, we should be very glad
     to do that,' answered Hjalmar's letters, 'but we can't. We are so
     weakly.' 'Then you must take medicine,' said the Sandman. 'Oh, no,
     no,' cried they, and straightway they stood up so gracefully that
     it was a pleasure to look at them."

This strikes me as having the very movement and all the delicious
whimsicality of a school-boy's troubled dream. It has the delectable
absurdity of the dream's inverted logic. You feel with what beautiful
zest it was written; how childishly the author himself relished it. The
illusion is therefore perfect. The big child who played with his puppet
theatre until after he was grown up is quite visible in every line. He
is as much absorbed in the story as any of his hearers. He is all in the
game with the intense engrossment of a lad I knew, who, while playing
Robinson Crusoe, ate snails with relish for oysters.

Throughout the first series of "Wonder Tales" there is a capital air of
make-believe, which imposes upon you most delightfully, and makes you
accept the most incredible doings, as you accept them in a dream, as the
most natural thing in the world. In the later series, where the didactic
tale becomes more frequent ("The Pine Tree," "The Wind's Tale," "The
Buckwheat"), there is an occasional forced note. The story-teller
becomes a benevolent, moralizing uncle, who takes the child upon his
knee, in order to instruct while entertaining it. But he is no more in
the game. A cloying sweetness of tone, such as sentimental people often
adopt toward children, spoils more than one of the fables; and when
occasionally he ventures upon a love-story ("The Rose-Elf," "The Old
Bachelor's Nightcap," "The Porter's Son"), he is apt to be as
unintentionally amusing as he is in telling his own love episode in "The
Fairy-Tale of My Life." However, no man can unite the advantages of
adult age and childhood, and we all feel that there is something
incongruous in a child's talking of love.

It is a curious fact that his world-wide fame as the poet of childhood
never quite satisfied Andersen.[22] He never accepted it without a
protest. It neither pleased nor sufficed him. He was especially eager to
win laurels as a dramatist; and in 1839 celebrated his first dramatic
success by a farcical vaudeville entitled "The Invisible at Sprogoee."
Then followed the romantic drama "The Mulatto" (1840), which charmed the
public and disgusted the critics; and "The Moorish Maiden," which
disgusted both. These plays are slipshod in construction, but
emotionally effective. The characters are loose-fibred and vague, and
have no more backbone than their author himself. J. L. Heiberg thought
it high time to chastise the half-cultured shoemaker's son for his
audacity, and in the third act of "A Soul after Death," held him up to
ridicule. Andersen, stabbed again to the heart, hastened away from home,
"suffering and disconcerted." But before leaving he published "A
Picture-Book without Pictures", (1840), which is attached to the
American edition of his "Stories and Tales," and deserves its place. The
moon's pathetic and humorous observations on the world she looks down
upon every evening of her thirty nights' circuit have already become
classic in half-a-dozen languages. The little girl who came to kiss the
hen and beg her pardon; the ragged street gamin who died upon the throne
of France; the Hindoo maiden who burned her lamp upon the banks of the
Ganges in order to see if her lover was alive; the little maid who was
penitent because she laughed at the lame duckling with a red rag around
its leg--who does not know the whole inimitable gallery from beginning
to end? The tenderest, the softest, the most virginal spirit breathes
through all these sketches. They are sentimental, no doubt, and a trifle
too sweet. But then they belong to a period of our lives when a little
excess in that direction does not trouble us.

    [22] For verification of this statement I may refer to his indignant
    letter _a propos_ of the statue that was to be raised to him in
    Copenhagen, in which he was represented surrounded by listening
    children: "None of the sculptors," he wrote, "have known me; none of
    their sketches indicate that they have seen what is characteristic
    in me. Never could I read aloud when anybody was sitting behind me
    or close up to me; far less if I had children on my lap or on my
    back, or young Copenhageners lying all over me. It is a _facon de
    parler_ to call me 'the children's poet.' My aim has been to be the
    poet of all ages; children could not represent me."

In 1842 Andersen gave to the world "A Poets' Bazaar," a chronicle of his
travels through nearly all the countries of Europe. In 1844 the drama
"The King is Dreaming," and in 1845 the fairy comedy "The Flower of
Fortune." But his highest dramatic triumph he celebrated in the
anonymous comedy "The New Lying-in Room," which in a measure proved his
contention that it was personal hostility and not critical scruples
which made so large a portion of the Copenhagen literati persecute him.
For the very men who would have been the first to hold his play up to
scorn were the heartiest in their applause, as long as they did not know
that Andersen was its author. Less pronounced was the success of the
lyrical drama "Little Kirsten" (1846); and the somewhat ambitious epic
"Ahasverus" comes very near being a failure. The next ventures of the
versatile and indefatigable poet were the novel "The Two Baronesses"
(1849), and the fairy comedies "More than Pearls and Gold" (1849),
adapted from a German original, "The Sandman"[23] (1850), and "The Elder
Tree Mother" (1851). The comedies "He was not Born" (1864), "On
Langebro" and "When the Spaniards were Here" (1869), complete the cycle
of his dramatic labors. But the most amusing thing he did, showing how
incapable he was of taking the measure of his faculties, was to write a
novel, "To Be or Not to Be" (1857), in which he proposed once and
forever to down the giant Unbelief, prove the immortality of the soul,
and produce "peace and reconciliation between Nature and the Bible." It
was nothing less than the evidences of Christianity in novelistic form
with which he designed to favor an expectant world. "If[24] I can solve
this problem," he naively wrote to a friend, "then the monster
materialism, devouring everything divine, will die." But rarely was a
bigger Gulliver tackled by a tinier Liliputian. The book not only fell
flat, but it was only the world-wide renown and the good intention of
its author which saved it from derision.

    [23] Danish, Ole Lukoeie.

    [24] Hansen: Illustreret Dansk Litteratur Historie, ii. p. 560.

Though Andersen never attained in Copenhagen an uncontested recognition
of his talent, honors both from at home and abroad were showered upon
him. The fame which undeniably was his commanded respect, but scarcely
approval. Heiberg made merry at his obscurity in the country of his
birth and his celebrity beyond its boundaries, and represented him as
reading "The Mulatto" to the Sultan's wives and the "Moorish Maiden" to
those who were to be strangled, kneeling in rapture, while the Grand
Eunuch, crowned his head with laurels. But in spite of obloquy and
ridicule, Andersen continued his triumphant progress through all the
lands of the civilized world, and even beyond it. In 1875 his tale, "The
Story of a Mother," was published simultaneously in fifteen languages,
in honor of his seventieth birthday. A few months later (August 4th) he
died at the villa Rolighed, near Copenhagen. His life was indeed as
marvellous as any of his tales. A gleam of light from the wonderland in
which he dwelt seems to have fallen upon his cradle and to have
illuminated his whole career. It was certainly in this illumination
that he himself saw it, as the opening sentence of his autobiography
proves: "My life is a lovely fairy-tale, happy and full of incidents."

The softness, the sweetness, the juvenile innocence of Danish
romanticism found their happiest expression in him; but also the
superficiality, the lack of steel in the will, the lyrical vagueness and
irresponsibility. If he did not invent a new literary form he at all
events enriched and dignified an old one, and revealed in it a world of
unsuspected beauty. He was great in little things, and little in great
things. He had a heart of gold, a silver tongue, and the spine of a
mollusk. Like a flaw in a diamond, a curious plebeian streak cut
straight across his nature. With all his virtues he lacked that higher
self-esteem which we call nobility.




CONTEMPORARY DANISH LITERATURE


The late Romantic authors of Denmark who lived on the traditions of
Oehlenschlaeger's time and the aesthetical doctrines of J. L. Heiberg,
have gradually been passing away; and a new generation has grown up,
which, though it knows Joseph, has repudiated his doctrine. A period of
stagnation followed the disappearance of the Romanticists. The
Sleswick-Holstein war of 1866, and the consequent hostility to Germany,
cut off the intellectual intercourse between the two countries which in
the first half of the century had been lively and intimate; and as, for
a while, no new ties were formed, a respectable dulness settled upon the
little island kingdom. People lived for the concerns of the day, earned
their bread and butter, amused themselves to the best of their ability,
but troubled themselves very little about the battles of thought which
were being fought upon the great arena of the world. The literary
activity which now and then flared up spasmodically, like flames over a
smouldering ash-heap, flickered and half-expired for want of fresh
sustenance. A direfully conventional romanticist, H. F. Ewald
(1821-1892), wrote voluminous modern and historical novels, the heroines
of which were usually models of all the copy-book virtues, and the
heroes as bloodless as their brave and loyal prototypes in "Ivanhoe" and
"Waverley." Instead of individualizing his _dramatis personae_ this
feeble successor of Ingemann and Walter Scott gave them a certificate of
character, vouching for their goodness or badness, and trusting the
reader to take his word for it in either case. Like many another popular
novelist, he varnished them with the particular tint of excellence or
depravity that might suit his purpose, stuffed their heads with bran and
their bellies with sawdust, but troubled himself little about what lay
beneath the epidermis. There was something _naive_ and juvenile in his
view of life which appealed to the large mass of half-educated people;
and the very absence of any subtle literary art tended further to
increase his public. Many of his books, notably "The Youth of Valdemar
Krone" (_Valdemar Krone's Ungdomshistorie_), "The Swedes at Kronborg"
(_Svenskerne paa Kronborg_), have achieved an extraordinary success. The
former deals with contemporary life, while the latter expurgates and
embellishes history after the manner of Walter Scott. Two subsequent
novels, "The Family Nordby" and "Johannes Falk," are, like all of
Ewald's writings, pervaded by a robust optimism and a warm Danish
sentiment, which in a large measure account for their popularity with
the public of the circulating libraries.

A lesser share of the same kind of popularity has fallen to the lot of
an author of a much higher order--Wilhelm Bergsoee (born 1835). His
voluminous novel "Fra Piazza del Popolo" (1860) made a sensation in its
day, and "From the Old Factory" (1869), which constructively is a
maturer book, is likewise full of fascination. The description of the
doings of the artistic guild in Rome, which occupies a considerable
portion of the former work, is delightful, though intermingled with a
deal of superfluous mysticism and romantic entanglements which were then
held to be absolutely indispensable. "In the Sabine Mountains" (1871),
the scene of which is laid in Genazzano during the struggle for Italian
independence, is a trifle too prolix; and its effect is lessened by the
old-fashioned epistolary form. Signor Carnevale, the revolutionary
apothecary, is, however, a very amusing figure, and would be still
better if he were not caricatured. The tendency to screw the characters
up above the normal--to tune them up to concert pitch as it
were--interferes seriously with the pleasure which the book otherwise
might yield.

The conception of art as something wholly distinct from and above nature
animates all Bergsoee's productions. The theory of fiction which R. L.
Stevenson has so eloquently propounded has found an able practitioner in
him. For all that, I am indebted to Bergsoee's two Italian romances for
a great deal of enjoyment, the afterglow of which still warms my memory.
But that was long ago. A young man is apt to enjoy in a book quite as
much what he himself supplies as that which the author has deposited
therein. Each word is a key which unlocks a store of imprisoned
emotions. The very word Italy has a magic which imparts to it a charm
even in the geography. And Bergsoee, though he works, without suspicion
of its decrepitude, the ancient machinery of Italian romance, is
unaffectedly eloquent and unsophistically entertaining. The historic
whisperings which he catches from the names, the ruins, the facial
types, and the very trees and grass of Genazzano invest his letters from
that picturesque neighborhood with a certain beautiful glow of color and
a dusky richness of decay. The autobiographical form imposes, to be
sure, an increasing strain on the reader's credulity, as the plot
thickens, and we find ourselves, half-unexpectedly, involved in a lurid
tale of monks, priests, disguised revolutionists, cruel, mercenary
fathers, etc., and the Danish author playing his favorite _role_ of
_deus ex machina_. Still more incredible is the part of benevolent
Providence which he assigns to himself in "The Bride of Roervig," where
he saves the heroine's life by restoring to her a ring given to her
lover, and thus assuring her that he is alive when she believes him
dead. The autobiographical story (especially when the writer is a mere
convenient supernumerary, designed, like the uncle from America in the
old-fashioned melodrama, to straighten out the tangled skein), is apt to
involve other difficulties than the mere embarrassment of having to
distrust the author's assertion, or censure his indiscretions. The
illusion is utterly spoiled by that haunting _arriere pensee_ that this
or that writer, whom you know perhaps at first or second-hand, or whose
features, at all events, are familiar to you from pictures, never could
or would have played the more or less heroic _role_ with which he here
delights to impose upon you.

Altogether the best book which Bergsoee has written is the
autobiographical romance "From the Old Factory," the scene of which is
laid in Denmark. This book evidently contains a great deal of genuine
reminiscence, and is therefore devoid of that air of laborious
contrivance and artificial intrigue which brings the foregoing novels
into such unpleasant relationship with Wilkie Collins and his _genre_.
The incidents of the hero's boyhood in the old porcelain factory, and
his uncle's agitating experiments for the rediscovery of a lost process
of glazing are saner and soberer and lie closer to the soil of common
experience than the exploits of monks and pirates and revolutionists.

Among the notable men of the expiring Danish romanticism Meyer Aaron
Goldschmidt (1819-1886) holds a leading position. A comic paper,
_Corsaren_, which he edited (1840-1846) made a tremendous stir in its
day; and its scathing wit and satire were not without influence upon
current events. His two novels, _En Joede_ (1845), _Hjemloes_ (1857), and
a large number of clever novelettes (_Ravnen_, _Arvingen Flyveposten_,
etc.), are full of psychological subtleties, and often charmingly told.
_Flyveposten_ ("The Flying Mail") was translated into English (Boston
and Cambridge, 1870) but attracted no particular attention. For all
that, Goldschmidt, in spite of occasional prolixity, stands the test of
time remarkably well. His Jewish stories, notably _Maser, Aron og
Esther_, and _En Joede_, contain a higher order of work, though less
dramatically effective, than that of Sacher-Masoch, and Emil Franzos,
and the later Ghetto romancers. Goldschmidt's double nationality, as a
Danish-born Jew, indicates his position and the source from which he
drew his weakness and his strength. As a Jew he saw and judged the
Danish character, and as a Dane he saw and judged the Jewish character
with a liberality and insight of which no autochthon would have been
capable. For all that his tales aroused anything but friendly feelings
among his own people. They felt it to be a profanation thus to expose
the secluded domestic and religious life of the children of Israel. It
is to this sentiment that Dr. Brandes has given utterance in his protest
against "perpetually serving up one's grandmother with sauce piquante."

An author who is born into an age of transition, when old faiths are
passing away and new ones are struggling for recognition, is placed in
a serious dilemma. Where he makes his choice by mere temperamental bias,
he is apt to miss that element of growth which is involved in every
spiritual struggle. But if, as is so frequently the case, he finds his
choice in a measure made for him, his education, kinships, and worldly
advantage identifying him with the established order, it takes a
tremendous amount of courage and character to break away from old
moorings and steer, without other compass than a sensitive conscience,
toward the rosy dawn of the unknown. There was a desperate need of such
men in Denmark in the seventies, when the little kingdom was sinking
deeply and more deeply into a bog of patriotic delusion and spiritual
stagnation. An infusion of new blood was needed--a re-establishment of
that circulation of thought which keeps the whole civilized world in
vital connection and makes it akin. No country can cut itself off from
this universal world-life without withering like a diseased limb. The
man who undertook to bring Denmark again into _rapport_ with Europe was
Dr. Georg Brandes, whom I have characterized at length in another essay.
It was his admirable book, "The Men of the Modern Transition"
(translated into German under the title _Moderne Geister_) which
impelled me, some years ago, to make the acquaintance of the three
authors who represent whatever there is of promise in contemporary
Danish literature, viz., Sophus Schandorph, Holger Drachmann, and J. P.
Jacobsen. The last named, who died (1884) in the flower of his young
manhood, is, perhaps, not in the strictest sense contemporary. But he is
indispensable to the characterization of the group.

Widely different as these three men are in almost everything, they have
this in common, that they have deeply breathed the air of the nineteenth
century; and they all show more or less the influence of Brandes. That
this influence has been direct and personal seems probable from the
relation which they have sustained to the revolutionary critics. Of this
I am, however, by no means sure. Mr. Jacobsen, who was by profession a
botanist, and translated Darwin into Danish, no doubt came by his
"advanced views" at first hand. In the case of Schandorph it is more
difficult to judge. He is an excellent linguist, and may have had access
to the same sources from which Brandes drew his strength. Drachmann is
so vacillating in his tendencies that he refuses to be permanently
classified in any school of art or thought. Of the three, Schandorph
seems altogether the maturest mind and furnishes the most finished and
satisfactory work. In his novel "Without a Centre" (_Uden Midtpunkt_)
the reader feels himself at once face to face with an interesting and
considerable personality. He has that sense of surprise and delighted
expectation which only the masters of fiction are apt to evoke. It is a
story of a Danish national type--the conversational artist. In no
country in the world is there such a conversational fury as in Denmark.
A people has, of course, to do something with its surplus energy; and as
political opposition is sure to prove futile, there is nothing left to
do but to talk--not only politics, but art, poetry, religion, in fact,
everything under the sun. At the time, however, when Albrecht, the hero
of "Without a Centre," plied his nimble tongue, the country had a more
liberal Government, and criticism of the Ministry was not yet high
treason. But centuries of repression and the practical exclusion of the
bourgeoisie from public life were undoubtedly the fundamental causes of
this abnormal conversational activity. There is something soft and
emotional in the character of the Danes, which distinguishes them from
their Norwegian and Swedish kinsmen--an easily flowing lyrical vein,
which imparts a winning warmth and cordiality to their demeanor.
Socially they are the most charming people in the world. Also in this
respect Albrecht is typical, and the songs in which he gives vent to his
lyrical moods have such a rapturous melody that they keep humming in the
brain long after the reader has closed the book. It almost follows as a
psychological necessity that a man so richly endowed with the gift of
speech is feeble and halting in action. Like Tourgueneff's "Rudin," who
suffered from the same malady, he gains by the brilliancy and novelty of
his speech the love of a noble young girl, who, taking his phrases at
their face value, believes his heart to be as heroic as his tongue.
Like him, too, he fails in the critical moment; nay, restrained by petty
scruples, he even stays away from the rendezvous, and by his cowardice
loses what by his eloquence he had won.

A second novel, "Common People," which deals with low life in its most
varied phases, shows the same admirable truthfulness and exactness in
the character drawing, the same refreshing humor and universal sympathy
and comprehension. "The Story of Thomas Friis" undertakes to show, in
the career of a Danish youth who is meant to be typical, the futility of
the vainglorious imaginings with which the little nation has inflated
itself to a size out of proportion to its actual historic _role_. In
"The Old Pharmacy" the necessity of facing the changed reality of the
modern world, instead of desperately hugging an expiring past, is
enforced in a series of vivid and vigorous pictures of provincial life.
"The Forester's Children," which is one of the latest of this author's
novels, suffers by comparison with its predecessors, but is yet full of
cleverness and smacks of the soil.

Schandorph's naturalism is not pathological; not in the nature of an
autopsy or a diagnosis of disease. It is full-blooded and vigorous--not
particularly squeamish--but always fresh and wholesome. His shorter
tales and sketches ("From the Province," "Five Stories," "Novelettes")
are of more unequal merit, but are all more or less strongly
characterized by the qualities which fascinate in his novels. Of his
poems "_Samlede Digte_," (1882) I have not the space to speak, and can
only regret that they are written in a language in which they will
remain as hidden from the world as if they had been imprinted in
cuneiform inscriptions upon Assyrian bricks. They are largely occasional
and polemical; and more remarkable for vigor of thought than sweetness
of melody.

J. P. Jacobsen, the second in the group to which I have referred, was a
colorist of a very eminent type, both in prose and verse; but his talent
lacked that free-flowing, spontaneous abundance--that charming air of
improvisation--with which Schandorph captivates his reader, takes him
into his confidence, and overwhelms him with entertainment. Jacobsen
painted faces better than he did souls; or, rather, he did not seem to
think the latter worth painting, unless they exhibited some abnormal
mood or trait. There is something forced and morbid in his people--a
lack of free movement and natural impulse. His principal work, "Mistress
Marie Grubbe," is a series of anxiously finished pictures, carefully
executed in the minutest details, but failing somehow to make a complete
impression. Each scene is so bewilderingly surcharged with color that,
as in the case of a Gobelin tapestry, one has to be at a distance before
one discovers the design. There is something almost wearisome in the
far-fetched words with which he piles up picturesque effects, returning
every now and then to put in an extra touch--to tip a feather with
light, to brighten the sheen of his satins, to polish the steely lustre
of swords and armors. Yet, if one takes the time to linger over these
unusual words and combinations of words, one is likely to find that they
are strong and appropriate. All conventional shop-work he disdained; the
traditional phrases for eyes, lips, brow, and hair were discarded, not
necessarily because they were bad, but because by much use they have
lost their freshness. They have come to be mere sounds, and no longer
call up vivid conceptions. An author who has the skill and the courage
to undertake this repolishing and resharpening of the tools of language
is, indeed, a public benefactor; but it requires the finest linguistic
taste and discrimination to do it with success. Most authors are
satisfied if they succeed in giving currency to one happy phrase
involving a novel use of the language, or to an extremely limited
number; I know of no one who has undertaken the renovation of his
mother-tongue on so extensive a scale as Jacobsen. To say that he has in
most cases done it well is, therefore, high praise. "Mistress Marie
Grubbe" is not, however, easy reading; and the author's novelettes,
entitled "Mogens and Other Stories," seem to be written, primarily, for
literary connoisseurs, as their interest as mere stories is scarcely
worth considering. They are, rather, essays in the art of saying things
unusually and yet well. They do not seem to me, even in this respect, a
success. There are single phrases that seem almost an inspiration; there
are bits of description, particularly of flowers and moods of nature,
which are masterly; but the studious avoidance of the commonplace
imparts to the reader something of the strain under which the author has
labored. He begins to feel the sympathetic weariness which often
overcomes one while watching acrobatic feats.

In Jacobsen's third book, "Niels Lyhne," we have again the story of a
Danish Rudin--a nature with a multitude of scattered aspirations,
squandering itself in brilliant talk and fantastic yearnings. It is the
same coquetting with the "advanced" ideas of the age, the same lack of
mental stamina, the same wretched surrender and failure. It is the
complexion of a period which the author is here attempting to give, and
he takes pains to emphasize its typical character. One is almost tempted
to believe that Shakespeare, by a gift of happy divination, made his
Prince of Denmark conform to this national type, though in his day it
could not have been half as pronounced as it is now. Whether the Dane of
the sixteenth century was yet the eloquent mollusk which we are
perpetually encountering in modern Danish fiction is a question which,
at this distance, it is hard to decide. The type, of course, is
universal, and is to be found in all countries. Only in the English
race, on both sides of the Atlantic, it is comparatively rare. That a
vigorous race like the Danish, confined, as it is in modern times,
within a narrow arena of action (and forbidden to do anything on that),
should have developed it to a rare perfection seems, as I have already
remarked, almost a psychological necessity.

Holger Drachmann, in his capacity of lyrist, has also a strain of the
Hamlet nature; although, in the case of a poet, whose verses are in
themselves deeds, the assertion contains no reproach. I am not even sure
that the Protean quality of Drachmann's verse--its frequent voicing of
naturally conflicting tendencies--need be a matter of reproach. A poet
has the right to sing in any key in which he can sing well; and
Drachmann sings, as a rule, exceedingly well. But, like most people with
a fine voice, he is tempted to sing too much; and it thus happens that
verses of slipshod and hasty workmanship are to be found in his volumes.
In his first book of "Poems" he was a free oppositional lance, who
carried on a melodious warfare against antiquated institutions and
opinions, and gave a thrust here and a thrust there in behalf of
socialists, communists, and all sorts of irregular characters. Since
that time his radical, revolutionary sympathies have had time to cool,
and in each succeeding volume he has appeared more sedate, conservative,
_bourgeois_.[25] In a later volume of poems this transformation is half
symbolically indicated in the title, "Tempered Melodies." Nor is it to
be denied that his melodies have gained in beauty by this process of
tempering. There is a wider range of feeling, greater charm of
expression, and a deeper resonance. Half a dozen volumes of verse which
he has published since ("Songs of the Ocean," "Venezia," "Vines and
Roses," "Youth in Verse and Song," "Peder Tordenskjold," "Deep Chords")
are of very unequal worth, but establish beyond question their author's
right to be named among the few genuine poets of the latter half of the
nineteenth century; nay, more than that, he belongs in the foremost rank
of those who are yet surviving. His prose, on the other hand, seems
aimless and chaotic, and is not stamped with any eminent
characteristics. A volume of short stories, entitled "Wild and Tame,"
partakes very much more of the latter adjective than of the former. The
first of the tales, "Inclined Planes," is a discursive family chronicle,
showing the decadence of a fishing village under the influence of city
boarders. The second, "Love and Despatches," inculcates a double moral,
the usefulness of economy and the uselessness of mothers-in-law; and the
third, "The Cutter Wild Duck," is a shudderingly insipid composition
about a village lion who got drunk on his birthday, fell overboard, and
committed no end of follies. A later volume of "Little Tales" is,
indeed, so little as scarcely to have any excuse for being. The stories
have all more or less of a marine flavor; but the only one of them that
has a sufficient _motif_, rationally developed, is one entitled "How the
Pilot Got his Music-box." The novel, "A Supernumerary," is also a rather
weak performance, badly constructed, and overloaded with chaotic
incidents.

    [25] Since this was written Drachmann has undergone a fresh
    transformation, and is said to have returned to the radical camp.

_Voelund Smed_ (1895) is a cycle of spirited poems dealing with the
tragic fate of Weland the Smith, who took such a savage vengeance upon
the King for having maimed and crippled him. The legend is invested with
an obvious symbolic significance, and seems to have been intended as a
poetic declaration of independence--a revolutionary manifesto
signalizing the Drachmann's re-espousal of the radical opinions of his
youth, in his allegiance to which he had, perhaps, out of regard for
worldly advantages been inclined to waver.




GEORG BRANDES


It is a greater achievement in a critic to gain an international fame
than in a poet or a writer of fiction. The world is always more ready to
be amused than to be instructed, and the literary purveyor of amusement
has opportunities for fame ten times greater than those which fall to
the lot of the literary instructor. The epic delight--the delight in
fable and story--to which the former appeals, is a fundamental trait in
human nature; it appears full grown in the child, and has small need of
cultivation. But the faculty of generalization to which the critic
appeals is indicative of a stage of intellectual development to which
only a small minority even of our so-called cultivated public attains.
It is therefore a minority of a minority which he addresses, the
intellectual _elite_ which does the world's thinking. To impress these
is far more difficult than to impress the multitude; for they are
already surfeited with good writing, and are apt to reject with a
shoulder-shrug whatever does not coincide with their own tenor of
thought.

What I mean by a critic in this connection is not a witty and agreeable
_causeur_, like the late Jules Janin, who, taking a book for his text,
discoursed entertainingly about everything under the sun; but an
interpreter of a civilization and a representative of a school of
thought who sheds new light upon old phenomena--men like Lessing,
Matthew Arnold, and Taine. The latest candidate for admission to this
company, whose title, I think, no one who has read him will dispute, is
the Dane, Georg Brandes.

Dr. Brandes was born in Copenhagen in 1842, and is accordingly
fifty-three years of age (1895). At the age of seventeen he entered the
University of his native city, devoting himself first to jurisprudence,
and occupying himself later with philosophical and aesthetical studies.
In 1862 he gained the gold medal of the University by an essay on
"Fatalism among the Ancients," which showed a surprising brilliancy of
expression and maturity of thought; and soon after he passed his
examination for the doctorate of philosophy with the highest
distinction. It is told that the old poet Hauch, who was then Professor
of AEsthetics at the University, was so much impressed by the young
doctor's ability that he hoped to make him his successor. And toward
this end Dr. Brandes began to bend his energies. During the next five or
six years he travelled on the Continent, spending the winter of 1865 in
Stockholm, that of 1866-67 in Paris, and sojourning, moreover, for
longer or shorter periods in the principal cities of Germany. He became
a most accomplished linguist, speaking French and German almost as
fluently as his mother-tongue; and, being an acute observer as well as
an earnest student, he acquired an equipment for the position to which
he aspired which distanced all competitors. But in Denmark, as
elsewhere, cosmopolitan culture does not constitute the strongest claim
to a professorship. In his book, "The Dualism in Our Most Recent
Philosophy" (1866), Brandes took up the dangerous question of the
relation of science to religion, and treated it in a spirit which
aroused antagonism on the part of the conservative and orthodox party.

This able treatise, though it may not be positivism pure and simple,
shows a preponderating influence of Comte and his school, and its
attitude toward religion is approximately that of Herbert Spencer and
Stuart Mill. The constellation under which Brandes was born into the
world of thought was made up of the stars Darwin, Comte, Taine, and
Mill. These men put their stamp upon his spirit; and to the tendency
which they represent he was for many years faithful. Mill's book on "The
Subjection of Women" he has translated into Danish (1869), and he has
written besides a charmingly sympathetic essay, containing personal
reminiscences, of that grave and conscientious thinker, whose
"Autobiography" is perhaps the saddest book in the English language.

The three next books of Brandes, which all deal with aesthetical subjects
("AEsthetic Studies," 1868, "Criticisms and Portraits," 1870, and "French
AEsthetics at the Present Day"), are full of pith and winged felicities
of phrase. It is a delight to read them. The passage of Scripture often
occurs to me when I take up these earlier works of Brandes: "He
rejoiceth like a strong man to run a race." He handles language with the
zest and vigor of conscious mastery. There is no shade of meaning which
is so subtle as to elude his grip. Things which I should have said, _a
priori_, were impossible to express in Danish he expresses with scarcely
a sign of effort; and however new and surprising his phrase is, it is
never awkward, never cumbrous, never apparently conscious of its
brilliancy.

I do not mean to say that these linguistic excellences are
characteristic only of Dr. Brandes's earlier works; but, either because
he has accustomed us to expect much of him in this respect, or because
he has come to regard such brilliancy as of minor consequence, it is a
fact that two of his latest hooks ("Impressions of Poland" and
"Impressions of Russia") contain fewer memorable phrases, fewer winged
words, fewer _mots_ with a flavor of Gallic wit. Intellectually these
"Impressions" are no less weighty; nay, they are more weighty than
anything from the same pen that has preceded them. They show a faculty
to enter sympathetically into an alien civilization, to seize upon its
characteristic phases, to steal into its confidence, as it were, and
coax from it its intimate secrets; and they exhibit, moreover, an
acuteness of observation and an appreciation of significant trifles (or
what to a superficial observer might appear trifles) which no previous
work on the Slavonic nations had displayed. It is obvious that Dr.
Brandes here shuns the linguistic pyrotechnics in which, for instance,
De Amicis indulges in his pictures of Holland and the Orient. It is the
matter, rather than the manner, which he has at heart; and he apparently
takes a curb bit between his teeth in the presence of the Kremlin of
Moscow and the palaces of St. Petersburg, in order to restrain mere
pictorial expression.

Having violated chronology in speaking of these two works out of their
order, I shall have to leap back over a score of years and contemplate
once more the young doctor of philosophy who returned to Copenhagen in
1872 and began a course of trial lectures at the University on modern
literature. The lecturer here flies his agnostic colors from beginning
to end. He treats "The Romantic School in Germany" as Voltaire treated
Rousseau--with sovereign wit, superior intelligence, but scant sympathy.
At the same time he penetrates to the fountains of life which infused
strength into the movement. He accounts for romanticism as the chairman
of a committee _de lunatico inquirendo_ might account for a case of
religious mania.

The second and third courses of lectures (printed, like the first, and
translated into German by Strodtmann) dealt with "The Literature of the
French Emigres" and "The Reaction in France." Here the critic is less
unsympathetic, not because he regards the mental attitude of the
fugitives from the Revolution with approbation, but because he has an
intellectual bias in favor of everything French. Besides having a
certain constitutional sympathy with the clearness and vigor of style
and thought which distinguish the French, Dr. Brandes is so largely
indebted to French science, philosophy, and art that it would be strange
if he did not betray an occasional _soupcon_ of partisanship. His
treatment of Chateaubriand, Benjamin Constant, Madame de Stael, Oberman,
Madame de Kruedener, and all the queer saints and scribbling sinners of
that period is as entertaining as it is instructive. It gives one the
spiritual complexion of the period in clear lines and vivid colors,
which can never be forgotten. Nearly all that makes France France is to
be found in these volumes--its wit, its frivolity, its bright daylight
sense, contrasting so strikingly with the moonshiny mysticism of German
romanticism. And yet France has its romanticism too, which finds vent in
a supercredulous religiosity, in a pictorial sentimentalized
Christianity, such as we encounter in Chateaubriand's "Genie du
Christianisme" and "Les Martyrs." It is with literary phenomena of this
order that "The Reaction in France" particularly deals.

The fourth course of lectures, entitled "Byron and his Group," though no
less entertaining than the rest, appears to me less satisfactory. It is
a clever presentation of Byron's case against the British public; but
the case of the British against Byron is inadequately presented. It is
the pleading of an able advocate, not the charge of an impartial judge.
Dr. Brandes has so profound an admiration for the man who dares to rebel
that he fails to do justice to the motives of society in protecting
itself against him. It is not to be denied that the iconoclast may be in
the right and society in the wrong; but it is by no means a foregone
conclusion that such is the case. If society did not, with the fierce
instinct of self-preservation, guard its traditional morality against
such assailants as Byron and Shelley, civilization would suffer. The
conservative bias of the Philistine (though not so outwardly attractive)
is no less valuable as a factor in civilization than the iconoclastic
zeal of the reformer. If the centrifugal force had full sway in human
society, without being counteracted by a centripetal tendency, anarchy
would soon prevail. I cannot (as Dr. Brandes appears to do) discover any
startling merit in outraging the moral sense of the community in which
one lives; and though I may admit that a man who was capable of doing
this was a great poet, I cannot concede that the fact of his being a
great poet justified the outrage. Nor am I sure that Dr. Brandes means
to imply so much; but in all of his writings there is manifested a deep
sympathy with the law-breaker whose Titanic soul refuses to be bound by
the obligations of morality which limit the freedom of ordinary mortals.
Only petty and pusillanimous souls, according to him, submit to these
restraints; the heroic soul breaks them, as did Byron and Shelley,
because he has outgrown them, or because he is too great to recognize
the right of any power to limit his freedom of action or restrain him in
the free assertion of his individuality. This is the undertone in
everything Dr. Brandes has written; but nowhere does it ring out more
boldly than in his treatment of Byron and Shelley, unless it be in the
fifth course of his "Main Currents" dealing with "Young Germany."

These four courses of lectures have been published under the collective
title "The Main Literary Currents in the Nineteenth Century"
(_Hovedstroemningerne i det Nittende Aarhundredes Litteratur_). The
German translation is entitled _Hauptstroemungen in der Litteratur des
Neunzehnten Jahrhunderts_. Barring the strictures which I have made, I
know no work of contemporary criticism which is more luminous in its
statements, more striking in its judgments, and more replete with
interesting information. It reminds one in its style of Taine's
"Lectures on Art" and the "History of English Literature." The
intellectual bias is kindred, if not the same; as is also the pictorial
vigor of the language, the subtle deductions of psychical from physical
facts, and a certain lusty realism, which lays hold of external nature
with a firm grip.

In Dr. Brandes's "Impressions of Poland" I found an observation which
illustrates his extraordinary power of characterization. The
temperament of the Polish people, he says, is not rational but
fantastically heroic. When I recall the personalities of the various
Poles I have known (and I have known a great many), I cannot conceive of
a phrase more exquisitely descriptive. It makes all your haphazard
knowledge about Poland significant and valuable by supplying you with a
key to its interpretation. It is this faculty Dr. Brandes has displayed
in an eminent degree in his many biographical and critical essays which
have appeared in German and Danish periodicals; as also in his more
elaborate biographies of Benjamin Disraeli (1878), Esaias Tegner (1878),
Soeren Kierkegaard (1877), Ferdinand Lassalle (1882), and Ludwig Holberg.
The first of these was translated into English, and was also published
in the United States. A second volume, entitled "Eminent Writers of the
Nineteenth Century," was translated some years ago by Professor R. B.
Anderson. The greater number of these highly finished essays were
selected from the Danish volumes "The Men of the New Transition" (1884)
and "Men and Works in Recent European Literature" (1883), and one or two
from "Danish Poets" (1877). They give in every instance the keynote to
the personality with which they deal; they are not so much studies of
books as studies of the men who are revealed in the books. Take, for
instance, the essay on Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson, which I regard as one of
the finest and most vital pieces of critical writing in recent times.
What can be more subtly descriptive of the very innermost soul of this
poet than the picture of him as the clansman, the Norse chieftain, who
feels with the many and speaks for the many; and what more beautifully
indicative of his external position than this phrase: "To mention his
name is like running up the flag of Norway"?

It seems peculiarly appropriate to follow up this essay with one on
Ibsen, who is as complete an antithesis to his great and popular rival
as could well be conceived. There is no bugle-call in the name Henrik
Ibsen. It is thin in sound, and can be spoken almost with closed lips.
You have no broad vowels and large consonants to fill your mouth as when
you say Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson. This difference in sound seems symbolic.
Ibsen is the solitary man, a scathing critic of society, a delver in the
depths of human nature, sceptical of all that men believe in and admire.
He has not, like Bjoernson, any faith in majorities; nay, he believes
that the indorsement of the majority is an argument against the wisdom
of a course of action or the truth of a proposition. The summary of this
poet's work and personality in Dr. Brandes's book is a masterpiece of
analytical criticism. It enriches and expands the territory of one's
thought. It is no less witty, no less epigrammatic, than Sainte-Beuve at
his best; and it has flashes of deeper insight than I have ever found in
Sainte-Beuve.

The last book of Dr. Brandes's that has been presented to the American
public is his "Impressions of Russia." The motto of this work (which in
the Danish edition is printed on the back of the title-page) is "Black
Earth," the significance of which is thus explained in the concluding
paragraph:

"Black earth, fertile soil, new soil, wheat soil ... the wide, rich,
warm nature ... the infinite expanses, which fill the soul with
melancholy and with hope ... the impenetrable, duskily mysterious ...
the mother-womb of new realities and new mysticism ... Russia, the
future."

The prophetic vagueness of this paragraph, big with dim possibilities,
conveys the very impression to which all observations and experiences in
Russia finally reduce themselves. It is the enduring residue which
remains when all evanescent impressions have lapsed into the background.
It expresses, too, the typical mental attitude of every Russian, be he
ever so Frenchified and denationalized. The word "Virgin Soil" was a
favorite phrase with Tourgueneff when speaking of his country, and he
used it as the title of his last novel. It seemed to him to explain
everything in Russian conditions that to the rest of the world appeared
enigmatical. The whole of Dr. Brandes's book is interpenetrated with
this consciousness of the vast possibilities hidden in the virgin bosom
of the new earth, even though they may be too deeply hidden to sprout up
into the daylight for centuries to come. The Russian literature, which
is at present enchaining the attention of the civilized world, is a
brilliant variation of this theme, an imaginative commentary on this
text. The second half of Dr. Brandes's "Impressions" is devoted to the
consideration of Puschkin, Gogol, Lermontoff, Dostojevski, Tourgueneff,
and Tolstoi; of each of whom he gives, as it appears to me, a better
account than M. de Voguee in his book "Le Roman Russe," which gave him a
seat among the Forty Immortals.

The significance of Dr. Brandes's literary activity, which has now
extended over a quarter of a century, can hardly be estimated from our
side of the Atlantic. The Danish horizon was, twenty years ago, hedged
in on all sides by a patriotic prejudice which allowed few foreign ideas
to enter. As previously stated, the people had, before the two
Sleswick-Holstein wars, been in lively communication with Germany, and
the intellectual currents of the Fatherland had found their way up to
the Belts, and had pulsated there, though with some loss of vigor. But
the disastrous defeat in the last war aroused such hostility to Germany
that the intellectual intercourse almost ceased. German ideas became
scarcely less obnoxious than German bayonets. Spiritual stagnation was
the result. For no nation can with impunity cut itself off from the
great life of the world. New connections might, perhaps, have been
formed with France or England; but the obstacles in the way of such
connections appeared too great to be readily overcome. Racial
differences and consequent alienism in habits of thought made a
_rapprochement_ seem hopeless. It seemed, for awhile, as if the war had
cut down the intellectual territory of the Danes even more than it had
curtailed their material area. They cultivated their little domestic
virtues, talked enthusiastic nonsense on festive occasions, indulged in
vain hopes of recovering their lost provinces, but rarely allowed their
political reverses to interfere with their amusements. They let the
world roar on past their gates, without troubling themselves much as to
what interested or agitated it. A feeble, moonshiny late-romanticism was
predominant in their literature; and in art, philosophy, and politics
that sluggish conservatism which betokens a low vitality, incident upon
intellectual isolation.

What was needed at such a time was a man who could re-attach the broken
connection--a mediator and interpreter of foreign thought in such a form
as to appeal to the Danish temperament and be capable of assimilation by
the Danish intellect. Such a man was Georg Brandes. He undertook to put
his people _en rapport_ with the nineteenth century, to open new avenues
for the influx of modern thought, to take the place of those which had
been closed. We have seen that he interpreted to his countrymen the
significance of the literary and social movements both in England and in
France. But a self-satisfied and virtuous little nation which regards
its remoteness from the great world as a matter of congratulation is not
apt to receive with favor such a champion of alien ideas. The more the
Danes became absorbed in their national hallucinations, the more
provincial, nay parochial, they became in their interests, the less did
they feel the need of any intellectual stimulus from abroad; and when
Dr. Brandes introduced them to modern realism, agnosticism, and
positivism they thanked God that none of these dreadful isms were
indigenous with them; and were disposed to take Dr. Brandes to task for
disturbing their idyllic, orthodox peace by the promulgation of such
dangerous heresies. When the time came to fill the professorship for
which he was a candidate, he was passed by, and a safer but inferior man
was appointed. A formal crusade was opened against him, and he was made
the object of savage and bitter attacks. I am not positive, but am
disposed to believe, that it was this crusade, not against his opinions
only, but against the man himself, which drove Dr. Brandes from
Copenhagen, and induced him, in October, 1877, to settle in Berlin. Here
he continued his literary activity with unabated zeal, became a valued
contributor to the most authoritative German periodicals, and gained a
conspicuous position among German men of letters. But while he was
sojourning abroad, the seed of ideas which he had left at home began to
sprout, and in 1882 his friends in Copenhagen felt themselves strong
enough to brave the antagonism which his aesthetical and religious
heresies had aroused. At their invitation he returned to Denmark, having
been guaranteed an income of four thousand crowns ($1,000) for ten
years, with the single stipulation that he should deliver an annual
course of public lectures in Copenhagen. Since then his reputation has
spread rapidly throughout the civilized world; his books have been
translated into many languages, and he would have won his way to a
recognition, as the foremost of contemporary critics, if he had not in
his later publications discredited himself by his open sympathy with
anarchism.

In order to substantiate this it is only necessary to call attention to
the fifth volume of his lectures entitled "Young Germany" (_Det unge
Tydskland_, 1890), which betrays extraordinary intellectual acumen but
also a singular confusion of moral values. All revolt is lauded, all
conformity derided. The former is noble, daring, Titanic; the latter is
pusillanimous and weak. Conjugal irregularities are treated not with
tolerance but with obvious approval. Those authors who dared be a law
unto themselves are, by implication at least, praised for flinging down
their gauntlets to the dull, moral Philistines who have shackled
themselves with their own stupid traditions. That is the tone of
Brandes's comment upon such relations as that of Immermann to Eliza von
Luetzow.

But nowhere has he unmasked so Mephistophelian a countenance as in his
essays on Luther and on an obscure German iconoclast named Friedrich
Nietschke (_Essays: Fremmede Personligheder_, pp. 151-244). It is
difficult to understand how a man of well-balanced brain and a logical
equipment second to none, can take _au serieux_ a mere philosophical
savage who dances a war-dance amid what he conceives to be the ruins of
civilization, swings a reckless tomahawk and knocks down everybody and
everything that comes in his way. There must lie a long history of
disappointment and bitterness behind that endorsement of anarchy pure
and simple. And it is the sadder to contemplate because it casts a
sinister light upon Dr. Brandes's earlier activity and compels many an
admirer of his literary art to revise his previous opinion of him. Can a
man ever have been a sound thinker who at fifty practically hoists the
standard of anarchy? A ship is scarcely to be trusted that flies such
compromising colors.

That all development, in order to be rational, must have its roots in
the past--must be in the nature of a slow organic growth--is certainly a
fundamental proposition of the Spencerian sociology. It is the more to
be wondered at that an evolutionist like Dr. Brandes, in his impatience
at the tardiness of social progress, should lose his philosophic temper
and make common cause with a crack-brained visionary. The kind of
explosive radicalism which Nietschke betrays in his cynical questions
and explanations is no evidence of profundity or sagacity, but is the
equivalent of the dynamiter's activity, transferred to the world of
thought. His pretended re-investigation of the foundations of the moral
sentiments reminds one of the mud geysers of the Yellowstone, which
break out periodically and envelop everything within reach in an
indeterminate shower of mud. To me there is more of vanity than of
philosophic acumen in his onslaught on well-nigh all human institutions.
He would, like Ibsen, no doubt,

    "Place 'neath the ark the torpedo most cheerfully;"

but torpedoes of his making would scarcely do the ark much harm. They
have not the explosive power of Ibsen's. There are in every age men who,
unable to achieve the fame of Dinocrates, who built the temple of the
Ephesian Diana, aspire to that of Herostratos, who destroyed it. To
admire these men is as compromising as to be admired by them.

In the essay on "Martin Luther on Celibacy and Marriage" Dr. Brandes
derides with a satyr-like leer all traditional ideas of chastity,
conjugal fidelity, and marital honor.

Though he pretends to fight behind Luther's shield the deftest thrusts
are not the reformer's, but the essayist's own. Fundamentally, I fancy,
this is an outbreak of that artistic paganism which is so prevalent
among the so-called "advanced" Hebrews. The idea that obedience to law
is degrading; that conformity to traditional morals is soul-crippling
and unworthy of a free spirit; that only by giving sway to passion will
the individual attain that joy which is his right, and that
self-development which should be his highest aim, has found one of its
ablest and most dangerous advocates in Georg Brandes.




ESAIAS TEGNER


The genius of the Scandinavian north has never found a more complete and
brilliant incarnation than the Swedish poet Esaias Tegner. Strong,
cheerful, thoroughly wholesome, with a boyish delight in prowess,
adventure, and daring deeds, he presents a most agreeable contrast to
the moonshine singers and graveyard bards of the phosphoristic school,
who were his contemporaries. To Tegner, in his prime, life was a brisk
and exhilarating sail, with a fresh breeze, over sunny waters; and he
had no patience with those who described it as a painful and troublous
groping through the valley of the shadow of death. There was, in other
words, a certain charming juvenility in his attitude toward existence,
which presented to him no riddles that a man with a strong arm and an
honest heart might not solve with comparative ease. All problems were to
him soluble with the sword; and Alexander, when he cut the Gordian knot,
must have appeared to him wiser, as he was surely more admirable, than
either Plato or Socrates. This scorn of all metaphysical subtleties, and
reliance upon strength and Swedish manhood, are, perhaps (from an
advanced European point of view), indicative of a little intellectual
immaturity; but they are thoroughly characteristic of the Scandinavian
nationalities. The love of brave words and brave deeds, the exaltation
of the man of action above the man of thought, the pleasure in reckless
gallantry and foolhardy adventure, are, however, not confined to Swedes
and Norwegians, but are characteristic of the boyhood of every nation.
In the Scotchman, Robert Louis Stevenson, this jaunty juvenility, this
rich enjoyment of bloody buccaneers and profane sea-dogs, is carried to
far greater lengths, and the great juvenile public of England and
America, both young and old, rises up and calls him blessed.

There is, however, a vast difference between Tegner's youthfulness and
that of Stevenson. The latter (in spite of the charm of his style, which
is irresistible) strikes me as a sort of mediaeval survival--a boyish
feudal sixteenth-century spirit astray in the nineteenth. I am by no
means insensible to the fascination of his capricious confidences, his
beautiful insight, and his exquisite humor; but for all that, he always
leaves me with a vague regret at his whimsicality and a certain lack of
robustness in his intellectual equipment. In Tegner, on the other hand,
it is primarily the man who is impressive; and the author is interesting
as the revelation of the man. He has no literary airs and graces, but
speaks with a splendid authority, _e plena pectore_, from the fulness of
his manly conviction. He seems a very personification of the national
genius--fair, vigorous, and beautiful--with the glow of health in his
cheeks and the light of courage in his eye. His vision of the world is
bright and vivid, and he swims with a joyous ease in the high-tide of
the moment, like a beautiful fish in the luminous summer sea.

As a specimen of magnificent manhood Tegner had few equals in his day.
Tall, robust, and finely proportioned as he was, with a profile of
almost classic purity, he was equally irresistible to men and women.
There was a breezy, out-of-door air about him, and a genial
straightforwardness and affability in his manner which took all hearts
captive. His was not only the beauty of perfect health, but a certain
splendid virility in his demeanor and appearance heightened the charm of
his personality.

It is a matter of wonder that a man in whom the race-type had reached
such perfection was but two generations removed from the soil. Tegner's
grandfathers on both sides were peasants; and his father, Esaias
Lucasson, was a peasant lad who by industry and ambition had obtained an
education and become a clergyman. He owed his aristocratic name to the
custom, prevalent in those days, to Latinize all vulgar appellations.
Esaias Lucasson, of Tegnaby (the little Smaland village where he was
born), became, in the Latin school, Esaias Tegnerus. He married in the
course of time a clergyman's daughter, Sara Maria Seidelius, who bore
him a large family of sons and daughters. The fifth son, named Esaias
after his father, first saw the light of day in the parsonage of
Kyrkerud, in Wermland, November 13, 1782. When he was nine years old his
father died, leaving behind him poverty and sorrow. Happily a friend of
the family, the Assessor Branting, took a fancy to the handsome and
clever boy and offered him a home in his house. Esaias wrote a very
clear, good hand, and soon got a desk and a high three-legged stool in
the assessor's office. So far from rebelling against this tedious
discipline, he applied himself with zeal to his task, and became, in a
short time, an excellent clerk. And a clerk he might have remained if
his patron had not had the wit to discover that very unusual talents
slumbered in the lad. Being fond of his society, Mr. Branting got into
the habit of taking him along on his official journeys; and from the
back seat of his chaise Esaias made the acquaintance of the beautiful
rivers, heights, and valleys of Wermland. The unconscious impressions
which a boy absorbs at this period of his life are apt to play a
decisive part in fashioning his future. Nature, however picturesque,
never yet made a poet of a dullard; but many a time has she aroused to
poetic consciousness a soul which without this stimulating influence
might never have discovered its calling, might never have felt that
strange, tremulous exaltation which demands utterance in song.

Esaias Tegner stored his mind during these journeys with that wealth of
imagery, drawn from the scenery of his native land, which constitutes
the most national element in his verse. He also contracted, during his
residence in Branting's house, an inordinate love of books. Once during
the harvest-time he was placed on guard at an open gate, so as to
prevent the cattle from breaking into the adjoining field. To the great
chagrin of his patron, however, the cows made their way unhindered and
unnoticed into the forbidden territory, while their watchman was lying
on his belly in the grass, deeply absorbed in a book. Wherever he
happened to be, his idea of happiness was to hide himself away with a
cherished volume. Sometimes he was found sitting on the top rung of a
ladder, sometimes on the roof of a turf-thatched cottage, oblivious of
the world about him, plunged up to his ears in some historic or
mythological tale. He was voracious, nay, omnivorous, in his reading. A
book was a book to him; no matter what was its subject, whether it were
poetry, history, heraldry, or horticulture, he was always likely to find
something in it to interest him. But his favorite reading was the old
Norse sagas, with their tremendous recitals of war and song and fabulous
prowess.

It was not, however, his delight in books which made the change in his
destiny. Professor C. W. Boettiger, Tegner's son-in-law, quotes, in his
life of the poet, the following incident in the latter's own words:

"One evening, as I was travelling homeward with Assessor Branting, from
Carlstad to Hoegvalta, the stars were bright and my religious
foster-father seized this opportunity to talk with me about God's
omnipotence, and its visible traces throughout nature. I had just been
reading Bastholm's 'Philosophy for Laymen,' and I began to give an
account of what I had there learned concerning the movements of the
heavenly bodies. This made an impression upon the old man, who, a few
days later, informed me that he had determined to give me a scholarly
education. This had long been my secret desire, though I had never dared
to express it. 'You can learn nothing more with me,' he said, 'and I
believe you were born for something better. If that is the case,' he
added, 'do not forget to thank the Giver of all good things.'"

The boy, who was now fourteen years old, was sent to the house of a
neighbor, where his elder brother, Lars Gustaf, was tutor, and was
initiated by him into the classical languages. He also taught himself
English by reading McPherson's "Ossian," which kept ringing in his
memory for many years to come. It was during his first enthusiasm for
"Ossian" that, in order to rid himself of the line "the spear of Connell
is keen," he cut it into his chamber-door, where probably it is yet to
be seen. At the end of fifteen months the elder brother accepted a more
profitable position as tutor in the family of the great
iron-manufacturer Myhrman, at Raemen, and stipulated that Esaias should
be permitted to accompany him.

Very charming is the description of this hospitable, patriarchal
household, in Boettiger's biography; and doubly interesting it becomes
when we recognize on every page scenes and incidents which were later
woven into "Frithjof's Saga." There was a large library on the estate,
consisting of French, Latin, and Greek classics. With great zest Esaias
attacked this storehouse of delight; and scarcely would he grant himself
the needed sleep, because every hour seemed to him lost which had been
robbed from his beloved authors. The instruction in Latin and Greek
which his brother imparted to the young Myhrmans was to him far too
slow. In his eagerness to plunge into Homer's enchanted world, he
rapidly finished his grammar, and began to read ahead, book after book,
so as to get the connection, even though understanding but half the
words. Without knowing it, he had adopted a modern and really most
excellent method of acquiring the language. For Homer became literature
to him instead of a mere text for excruciating grammatical gymnastics.

It was Tegner's good fortune that his playfellows, the seven young
Myhrmans, were not so fond of Greek as he was. Often, when he was
revelling in a glorious Homeric passage, these lusty barbarians would
come storming into his room and carry him off bodily, compelling him to
share in their sports; for Esaias was a capital hand at inventing new
games, and they willingly accepted his leadership and acted upon his
suggestions. Particularly his Homeric games were greatly enjoyed. They
divided their troop into Greeks and Trojans and captured Troy. Esaias
was always Hector, and the other boys became the raging Ajax, the
swift-footed Achilles, the wily Ulysses, etc. The youngest daughter of
the house, Anna Myhrman, must, I should fancy, have played somewhat more
of a part in Tegner's boyhood than his biographer allows, for the
descriptions of Frithjof's and Ingeborg's childhood in Hilding's house
are obviously personal reminiscences:

    "No bird's nest found so high a spot
    That he for her could find it not;
    The eagle's nest from clouds he sundered,
    And eggs and young he deftly plundered.

    "However swift, there ran no brook,
    But o'er it Ingeborg he took;
    How sweet, when roaring torrents frighten,
    To feel her soft arms round him tighten.

    "The first spring flowers by sunshine fed,
    The earliest strawberries turning red,
    The first of autumn's golden treasure
    He proffered her with eager pleasure."[26]

    [26] Translation of Thomas A. E. and Martha A. L. Holcomb, Chicago,
    1877. I have taken the liberty to substitute "strawberries," which
    is the correct translation of "Smultron," for berries.

At the age of seventeen Tegner entered the University of Lund,
accompanied by three young Myhrmans, whose father had generously
promised to share with Assessor Branting the expenses of his academic
education. His playmate, familiarly called Achilles, had to share his
room, and thus it came to pass that Hector and his deadly foe became
bedfellows. In fact the bed in question, being intended for but one,
afforded the scantiest possible accommodations for two, and often
threatened to collapse under their united weight. Aching in every joint
from the discomfort of their cramped position, they would then get up
and spend the remainder of the night in playing chess.

At the University Tegner soon made his mark, and two years later took
his degree of _Magister Artium_ with great distinction, being, according
to the extraordinary custom of the country, laurel-crowned in the
cathedral as the first of twenty-four candidates. The Swede loves pomp
and ceremonious display, and rarely misses an opportunity for a fine
stage effect. I do not mean to insinuate, of course, that Esaias Tegner
was unworthy of the honor which was conferred upon him; but it seems a
terrible cheapening of the laurel to place it annually upon the brows of
a herd of deedless striplings, standing upon the threshold of their
careers. Tegner was but nineteen years of age when the Muse, contrary to
her habit, gave him the crown without the dust, generously rewarding him
in advance of performance. But he came very near forfeiting the fruits
of all his fair fame by participating in a hostile demonstration in
front of the house of the University's rector, who was justly unpopular.
His manly bearing, however, and the friendship of several of the
professors saved him from the _consilium abeundi cum infamia_, with
which he was threatened. Instead of that he was appointed _docent_ in
aesthetics, Secretary to the Faculty of Philosophy, and Assistant
University Librarian. His summer vacations he spent at Raemen with the
Myhrmans. His playmate, Miss Anna, was now sixteen years of age, and had
undergone that miraculous transformation, which never loses its
delightful mystery, from childhood into young womanhood. He went away
one day and bade good-by to an awkward kangaroo-like girl in short
skirts, and returned in a few months to greet a lovely, blushingly
dignified young lady, who probably avowed no more her fondness for him
with the same frank heedlessness as of old. But she would have been more
than woman if she could have resisted the wooing of the beautiful youth
upon whom nature had showered so many rare gifts. A stone has been found
up in the woods above Raemen which yet shows under its coating of moss
the initials of E. T. and A. M. It requires but little imagination to
fill out the story of the brief and happy courtship; and two cantos in
"Frithjof's Saga" ("Frithof's Wooing" and "Frithjof's Happiness") supply
an abundance of hints which have a charmingly autobiographical tinge:

    "He sat by her side and pressed her soft hand,
    And he felt a fond pressure, responsive and bland,
    Whilst his love-dreaming gaze
    Was returned as the sun's in the moon's placid rays.

    "They spoke of days bygone, so gladsome and gay,
    When the dew was yet fresh on life's new-trodden way;
    For on memory's page
    Youth traces its roses; its briers old age.

    "She brought him a greeting from dale and from wood,
    From the bark-graven runes and the brook's silver flood;
    From the dome-crowned cave
    Where oaks bravely stream o'er a warrior's grave."[27]

    [27] Strong's translation.

But here, happily, Tegner's life ceased to supply material for that of
his hero. For Anna Myhrman, instead of pledging her troth to a
high-born, elderly gentleman, like King Ring, married the young
University instructor, Esaias Tegner; and when her bridal wreath of
myrtle failed to arrive from the city, she twined a wreath of wild
heather instead; and very lovely she looked on her wedding-day with the
modest heather blossoms peeping forth from under her dark locks.

His insecure position in life, as one dependent upon the bounty of
friends, had hitherto oppressed Tegner, and at times made him moody and
despondent. He had felt impelled, in justice to himself and to satisfy
the expectations of his patrons, to apply himself to his studies with a
perseverance and industry which came near undermining his health. He
looked during his student days overworked, and if nature had endowed
him with a less magnificent physique he would, no doubt, have succumbed
to the strain of this perpetual over-exertion. But after his marriage a
happy change came over him. The joyous substratum of his nature (what he
himself called his pagan self) broke through its sombre integuments and
asserted itself. No sooner had he taken his place among the teachers of
the University than his clear and weighty personality commanded
admiration and respect. In social intercourse his ready wit and cheerful
conviviality made him a general favorite. His talk, without being in the
least forced, was full of surprises; and there was a charm, in the
redundant vigor and virility that seemed to radiate from him. But it may
as well be admitted that he began at this time to show what may
euphemistically be styled his paganism, in the relish which he evinced
for jests of doubtful propriety. He was indeed as far as possible from
being a prude; many years later, when he was a bishop and a great
ecclesiastical dignitary, he wrote to his friend the poet Franzen:

     "I thank God that I can yet, at times, be merry and give vent to my
     mirth in prose and verse. I don't scruple to make a good joke even
     though its subject be the bridal bed. All prudery--and frequently
     the clerical dignity is, in social intercourse, nothing else--I
     detest and despise."

His inability to restrain his wit in this particular direction has done
some injury to his memory. Not that his fancy had any taint of
uncleanness. It was open and cheerful as the sunlight; and as the
sunlight played brightly over all things without fastidious
discrimination. There was a rich, and healthy humanity about him which
manifested itself in an impartial, all-embracing delight in the glow and
color of mere sensuous existence. There has scarcely ever been a great
poet (Dante perhaps excepted) who has not had his share of this pagan
joy in nudity. Goethe's "Roman Elegies" are undisguisedly Anacreontic,
and the most spiritual of modern poets, Robert Browning, is as deep and
varied and bountiful in the expression he gives to life in its sensuous
phases as in its highest ascetic transports.

Do not imagine, then, that I am apologizing for Tegner, I am merely
trying to account for him. From his Homer, whom he loved above all other
poets, he had in a measure derived that artistic paganism which
perceptibly colored his personality. There was nothing of the scholarly
prig or pedant about him. In his lectures he gave himself, his own view
of life, and his own interpretation of his authors. And it was because
of the greatness of the man, the unhackneyed vigor of his speech, and
the power of his intellect that the students flocked to his lecture-hall
and listened with enthusiasm to his teaching.

I am not by any means sure, however, that much of his popularity was
also due to what, at this stage of his career, may without disrespect
be called his immaturity. That wholesome robustness in his acceptance
of life which finds utterance in his early songs must have established a
quick bond of sympathy between him and his youthful hearers. The
instincts of the predatory man were yet strong in him. The tribal
feeling which we call patriotism, the juvenile defiance which carries a
chip on its shoulder as a challenge to the world, the boastful
self-assertion which is always ridiculous in every nation but our
own--impart a splendid martial resonance to his first notable poem,
"War-Song for the Scanian Reserves" (1808). There was a charming, frank
ferocity in this patriotic bugle-blast which found an echo in every
Swedish heart. The rapid dactylic metres, with the captivating rhymes,
alternating with the more contemplative trochees, were admirably adapted
for conveying the ebullient indignation and wrath which hurls its
gauntlet into the face of fate itself,[28] checked, as it were, and
cooled by soberer reflection and retrospective regret. It is the sorrow
for the yet recent loss of Finland which inspires the elegiac tones in
Tegner's war-song; and it is his own ardent, youthful spirit, his own
deep and sincere love of country, which awakes the martial melody with
the throbbing of the drum and the rousing alarum of trumpets. What can
be more delightfully--shall I say juvenile--than this reference to the
numerical superiority of the Muscovites:

    "Many, are they? Well, then, of the many
       Sweden shall drink the red blood and be free!
    Many? We count not the warriors' numbers
       Only the fallen shall numbered be."

    [28]

    "Vi Kaste var handske
                      Mot oedet sjelf."



It is with no desire to disparage Tegner that I say that this strain,
which is that of all his early war-songs, is extremely becoming to him.
It is not a question of the legitimacy of the sentiment, but of the
fulness and felicity of its expression. As long as we have wars we must
have martial bards, and with the exception of the German, Theodor
Koerner, I know none who can bear comparison with Tegner. English
literature can certainly boast no war-poem which would not be drowned in
the mighty music of Tegner's "Svea," "The Scanian Reserves," and that
magnificent, dithyrambic declamation, "King Charles, the Young Hero."
Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade" is technically a finer poem
than anything Tegner has written, but it lacks the deep virile bass, the
tremendous volume of breath and voice, and the captivating martial lilt
which makes the heart beat willy nilly to the rhythm of the verse.

The popularity which Tegner gained by "The Scanian Reserves" was the
immediate cause of his appointment to a professorship at the University
of Lund, and his next notable poem, "Svea," which won him the great
prize of the Swedish Academy, raised him to a height of fame which
naturally led to further promotion. According to the curious custom of
Sweden, a professor may, even though he has never studied theology, take
orders and accept the charge of a parish. He is regarded as being, by
dint of his learning, in the regular line of clerical promotion; and the
elevation from a professorship (though it be not a theological one) into
a bishopric is no infrequent occurrence. There was therefore nothing
anomalous in Tegner's appointment (February, 1812) as pastor of Staefvie
and Lackalaenge, and his subsequent promotion (February, 1824) to the
bishopric of Wexioe. His pastorate he was permitted to combine with his
professorship of Greek, to which he was simultaneously transferred from
that of aesthetics, and the office was chiefly valuable to him on account
of the addition which it procured him to his income. The nearness of his
parish to Lund enabled him to preach in the country on Sundays as
regularly as he lectured in the city on week-days. His other pastoral
duties he could not very well discharge _in absentia_, and they probably
remained in a measure undischarged. He had not sought the parish; it was
the parish which had sought him; and he exerted himself to the utmost to
fill the less congenial office as conscientiously as he did his academic
chair. The peasants of Staefvie and Lackalaenge were always welcome at his
hospitable board; he gave them freely his advice, and in order to recall
and emphasize his own kinship with them, he invited a peasant woman to
become the godmother of his youngest son, and selected all the sponsors
from the same class.

This was not the only occasion on which Tegner demonstrated his
superiority to all snobbish pretensions. He was not only not ashamed of
his peasant descent, but he was proud of it. Once (1811) during a visit
to Raemen, he took it into his head that he desired to know, from actual
experience, the kind of lives which his ancestors must have lived; and
to that end he dressed himself in wadmal, loaded a dray with pig-iron,
greased its axles, harnessed his team, and drove it to the nearest city,
a distance of ten to twelve miles. He induced three of his
brothers-in-law, two of whom were army officers and one a government
clerk, to follow his example. Up hill and down hill they trudged, and
arrived late in the afternoon, footsore and with blistered hands, in the
town, where they reported at the office of a commission merchant, sold
their iron and obtained their receipts. That of Tegner was made out to
Esaias Esaiasson, which would have been his name, if his father had
never risen from the soil. The four sham peasants now bought seed-corn
with the money they had obtained for their iron, loaded again their
wagons, and started for home. But they had forgotten to take into
account the robustness of the rustic appetite, and before they had
proceeded far their bag of provisions was empty. To add to their
discomfort the rain began to pour down, but they would not seek
shelter. After midnight they arrived at Raemen, hungry and drenched, not
having slept for two nights, but happy and proud of their feat of
endurance.

It was in 1811 that Tegner's poem "Svea" received the prize of the
Swedish Academy; and the fact that it recalled (in single passages at
least) Oehlenschlaeger's "The Golden Horns," does not seem to have
weighed in the verdict. It is not in any sense an imitation; but there
is an audible reminiscence which is unmistakable in the metre and
cadence of the short-lined verses, descriptive of the vision. Never, I
fancy, had the Swedish language been made to soar with so strong a
wing-beat, never before had it been made to sing so bold a melody. To
me, I admit, "Svea" is too rhetorical to make any deep impression. It
has a certain stately academic form, which, as it were, impedes its
respiration and freedom of movement. When, for all that, I speak of
wing-beat and melody, it must be borne in mind that Sweden had produced
no really great poet[29] before Tegner; and that thus, relatively
considered, the statement is true. But Tegner seems himself to have
been conscious of the strait-jacket in which the old academic rules
confined him, for in the middle of the poem he suddenly discards the
stilted Alexandrines with which he had commenced and breaks into a
rapturous old-Norse chant, the abrupt metres of which recall the
_fornyrdhalag_ of the Elder Edda. Soon after "Svea" followed, in 1812,
"The Priestly Consecration," the occasion of which was the poet's own
ordination. Here the oratorical note and a certain clerical rotundity of
utterance come very near spoiling the melody. "At the Jubilee in Lund"
(1817) is very much in the same strain, and begins with the statement so
characteristic of Tegner:

    "Thou who didst the brave twin stars enkindle,
      Reason and Religion, guard the twain!
    Each shines by other; else they fade and dwindle.[30]
      Fill with clearness every human brain:
      Faith and hope in every bosom reign!"

    [29] Carl Michael Bellman, the Swedish Beranger (1740-1795), whose
    wanton music resounded through the latter half of the eighteenth
    century, would, no doubt, by many be called a great poet. But his
    Bacchanalian strain, though at times exquisite and captivating,
    lacks the universality of sentiment and that depth of resonance of
    which greatness can alone be predicated. Both his wild mirth and his
    sombre melancholy exhale the aroma of ardent spirits.

    [30] This line reads literally: "Guard them both; they are willingly
    reconciled."

He was, in fact, never very orthodox; and if he had belonged to the
American branch of his denomination would surely have been tried for
heresy. Rarely has a deadlier foe of priestly obscurantism and mediaeval
mysteries worn the episcopal robes. With doctrinal subtleties and
ingenious hair-splitting he had no patience; conduct was with him the
main, if not the only, thing to be considered. The Christian Church, as
he conceived it, was primarily a civilizer, and the expression of the
highest ethical sentiment of the age.

"The Church," he writes, "can surely not be re-established in its former
religious significance, for the system upon which it rests has slept
away three centuries of history; and it is of no use that this man or
that man yet pretends to believe in the somnambulist. But the church has
also a civic significance as an integral part of the social order of
humanity. If you abandon that to the spirit of laxity and drowsiness, I
can see no reason why the clergy and the whole religious apparatus
should not be, and ought not to be, abolished and their costs covered
into the treasury."

These are not highly episcopal sentiments; but they are in keeping with
Tegner's whole personality and his conception of his duty. His first
concern was to purge his diocese of drunken clergymen, a task in which
he encountered many unforeseen difficulties.

"It is nowadays less difficult," he says, "to get rid of a king than a
drunken clergyman."

He was, indeed, very moderate in his demands, stipulating only that no
shepherd of souls should show himself drunk in public. But the bibulous
parsons frequently had influential relatives, who exerted themselves
with the government to thwart the bishop's reformatory schemes. If
Tegner had not been the masterful, tireless, energetic prelate that he
was, his ardor would have cooled; and he would have contented himself
with drawing the revenues of his office, and left with the lukewarm
government the responsibility for frustrating his purposes. But this was
contrary to his nature. He could not calmly contemplate abuses which it
was his duty to remedy; and no discouragement ever sufficed to dampen
his noble zeal. The marked and fanatical pietism which then was much
diffused among the Smaland peasantry he fought with his cheerful gospel
of reason and sanity. Just as poetry to him meant the highest bloom of
life, and his radiant lyre resounded with noble music like the statue of
Memnon, when touched by the rays of the dawn; so religion was, in its
essence, perfect sanity of soul, a beautiful equilibrium of mind, and
complete self-mastery. His Christ was not primarily the bleeding, the
scourged, the crucified, but rather a benigner and lovelier Phoebus
Apollo, the bringer of clearness and light, the dispeller of the
unwholesome mists and barbaric gloom that yet brood over the human soul.
Like Goethe, he cherished a veritable abhorrence of the mystic symbolism
of the mediaeval church; and was rather inclined to minimize the
significance of Christ's death and passion. He had undeniably imparted
into his Christianity a great deal of sunny Hellenic paganism--a fact
which in his familiar correspondence with Franzen he scarcely cares to
disguise.

Having this conception of the episcopal office, he could not escape
emphasizing his function as the supervisor of the schools of his
diocese. If he was to be a civilizer on any great scale, the chance
which was here afforded him to impress his ideals upon the rising
generation was not one to be neglected. And, as a matter of fact, Tegner
was indefatigable in his labors as an educator. His many speeches at
school celebrations preached, as ever, a gospel derived from Greece
rather than Judaea; and half-improvised though some of them appear to be,
they contain passages of lofty eloquence.

It was inevitable that a bishop of such commanding personality, who
wielded his authority at times somewhat ruthlessly, should make enemies.
But, on the other hand, the beautiful beneficence and sincere humanity
of the man often obliterated the ill-feeling which his official severity
had aroused. To the widows of deceased clergymen in his diocese he was a
veritable guardian, to their children a father, to his peasantry a
friend, adviser, and monitor. He was an expert at detecting errors in
ecclesiastical balance-sheets; and woe to the cleric who dared present
to him inaccurate accounts of income and expenditures. By sheer dint of
his personal superiority and that quality of soul which George Eliot
calls dynamic, he impressed himself strongly upon all with whom he came
in contact; and though he was feared, he was also beloved as few. A very
delightful instance of the reverence with which he was regarded is
recorded by Boettiger.

One summer evening he arrived at a remote parsonage which had never, in
the memory of man, been visited by a bishop. Some time after his arrival
Tegner observed two young ladies, the daughters of the house, coming
across the yard carrying between them a big tub, full of water. When he
asked them, in a friendly way, why they subjected themselves to such
hard labor, one of them replied: "Should we not regard it as an honor to
be allowed to water the bishop's horses?"

In order to give a clear and coherent idea of Tegner in his prime, I
have been obliged to anticipate events. Many literary achievements which
I have left unrecorded belong to the period previous to his assumption
of the bishopric of Wexioe. Unhappily Professor Boettiger's edition is
very chary of dates, and as Dr. Brandes has truly observed, is arranged
with the obvious purpose of falsifying the sequence of Tegner's poems
and confusing the reader. The three periods--previous to 1812, 1812-40,
and 1840-46--are entirely arbitrary, and plainly devised with a view to
concealing, in so far as they are capable of concealment, the unhappy
events which undermined the strength of the Titan and wrecked his
splendid powers. But such a purpose is utterly futile, as long as the
poems themselves had once escaped into publicity.

It was during the period while his sky was yet unclouded that Tegner
enriched Swedish literature with a series of lyrics which in point of
lucidity of thought and brilliancy of diction have rarely been
surpassed. It may be admitted, without materially detracting from his
merit, that in some of them the foreign models from which they were in a
measure fashioned shimmer through. Just as the Germans, Gottsched and
Bodmer, held foreign models to be indispensable, and only disagreed as
to which were the best, so the Swedish Academy, which in its
predilections was French, had no scruple in recommending this or that
literary form for imitation. That degree of literary independence which
Germany reached with Goethe and Schiller, who discarded all models, the
Scandinavian countries did not reach until a much later period; and
Tegner was one of those who stimulated that national self-respect
without which independence is impossible.

A strong spiritual kinship drew him to Schiller, whose splendor of
imagery and impassioned rhetoric were the very gifts which he himself in
a superlative degree possessed. The breath of political and religious
liberalism which pervades the writings of the German poet was also
highly congenial to Tegner, and last, but not least, they were both
light-loving, beauty-worshipping Hellenists, and, though externally
conformists, hid joyous pagan souls under imperfect Christian draperies.
Small blame it is therefore to Tegner that Schiller's poems furnished
him with frequent suggestions and sometimes also with metres. Schiller
had, in "The Gods of Greece," sung a glorious elegy on the Olympian age
which stimulated his Swedish rival to write "The Asa Age," in which he
regretted, though in a rather half-hearted way, the disappearance of
Odin, Thor, and Freya. The poem, it must be admitted, falls much below
Tegner at his best. Schiller's "Three Words of Faith," in which liberty,
virtue, and God are declared to be the only essentials of religion,
finds a parallel (which even retains the metre) in Tegner's "The
Eternal," in which truth, justice, and beauty are substituted. A kindred
poetic creed is far more consciously proclaimed in the famous poem
_Sangen_ (Poetry), which was primarily a protest against the gloomy and
morbid view of poetry entertained by the Swedish Romanticists (the
so-called Phosphorists). Tegner here declares that the poet "with
heavenly joy embraces life," that "he knows no weak lament" (at its
misery), "no dissonance which is not dissolved" (in harmony). His temple
stands in light and flame; and at its base a fountain gurgles, a draught
from which is an elixir of strength and a panacea for all ills.

"Well, then," he continues, "from this fountain will I drink, if I am
worthy of such a draught. With healthy eyes will I look about me in the
sick world. My golden lyre shall not resound with sorrows which I myself
have invented. For the poet's sorrows are none; and the sky of song is
forever bright."

Peter Amadeus Atterbom, the leader of the Phosphorists, replied with
much moderation and good sense to the obvious reflections upon his
school which this poem contained. He intimates plainly enough that
Tegner's philosophy of life, in so far as it ignores sin and sorrow,
which are too real to be banished by song, is a hopelessly shallow one.

"The undissolved dissonances," he says, "in the sense in which Mr.
Tegner uses the expression, certainly betray a disease of the soul, but
this disease is not peculiar to a temperament which is fostered by a
personal emotional affinity for lugubrious topics and ideas given by
birth and developed by circumstances; but it is inherent in the weakness
(which at times doubtless surprises even the strongest ...) of desiring
to set up its sorrowful view of the world as a theory, and treat it as
absolutely true and fundamentally valid for all. Sorrow, as such, is no
more a diseased state than is joy; both are alike primordial, necessary,
indispensable elements and halves of human life. Who would venture to
assert that the day might dispense with the night? And does not the
latter's glorious starry sky rival in majesty (though different in kind)
the former's bright and dazzling blitheness?"

The fact was that Tegner's cheery sun-worship was as much temperamental
as was Atterbom's sentimental reveries and nocturnal melancholy. The
Phosphorist is unquestionably right, however, in asserting that as a
theory of life the one is as limited and imperfect as the other. It was
because of the abhorrence of all the darker phases of existence that
Tegner's bright Hellenic muse never struck those notes which thrill
with deepest resonance through the human heart. Tegner's acquaintance
with suffering during the early part of his career was chiefly a
literary one, and like Goethe he went far out of his way to avoid the
sight of it. As there can be no victory without combat--no laurel
without dust--the Mount of Transfiguration is not reached except through
the valley of the Shadow of Death.

There are, however, many fair flowers to be plucked in Tempe and the
blooming vales of Arcady. Goethe had in 1798 published "Hermann and
Dorothea," the form of which was Greek, though the theme was Teutonic;
and Tegner's "Children of the Lord's Supper" (1820), which Longfellow
has translated so admirably into English, derived its inspiration
primarily from the German idyl:

    "Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come, the church of the village
    Stood, gleaming white in the morning sheen. On the spire of the belfry,
    Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the spring sun
    Glanced like the tongues of fire beheld by Apostles aforetime."

Thus run the beautiful, stately hexameters, which, whatever cavilling
critics may say, are delightfully adapted for epic narrative in any
fairly polysyllabic language. And Swedish, which is the most sonorous of
all Germanic tongues, and full of Gothic strength, produces the most
delectable effects in the long, rolling line of slow-marching dactyls
and spondees. The tempered realism of Tegner, which shuns all that is
harsh and trite, accords well with the noble classical verse. He employs
it, as it were, to dignify his homely tale, as Raphael draped the
fishermen of Galilee in the flowing robes of Greek philosophers. The
description of the church, the rustic youth, and the patriarchal
clergyman has, however, the note of experience and the touch of earth
which we miss in the more declamatory passages. If, however, declamation
is anywhere in place it is in the three orations of the rural parson,
which occupy the larger portion of the poem. It is all very lovely and
edifying; full of sacred eloquence and a grand amplitude of phrase which
is distinctly clerical.

The romantic tale of "Axel" (1822), modelled after Byron's narrative
poems, rejoiced in a greater popularity, in spite of the carping
criticism with which it was received by the _Svensk Litteratur-Tidning,_
the organ of the Phosphorists. Though, to be sure, the merits of the
poem are largely ignored in this review, it is undeniable that the
faults which are emphasized do exist. First, the frequent violations of
probability (which, by the way, ought not to have been so offensive to a
romanticist) draw tremendous draughts upon the reader's credulity; and
secondly, the lavish magnificence of imagery rarely adds to the
vividness of the situations, but rather obscures and confuses them. It
reminds one of a certain style of barocque architecture in which the
rage for ornamentation twists every line into a scroll or spiral or
arabesque, until whatever design there originally was is lost in a riot
of decoration. The metaphors exist for their own sake, and are in nowise
subordinate to the themes which they profess to illustrate. Take, for
instance, the oft-quoted passage:

    "The night drew near, and in the west
    Upon its couch lay Evening dreaming,
    And silent, like the priests of Egypt,
    The stars pursued their radiant paths,
    And earth stood in the starry eve,
    As blissful as a bride who stands,
    The garland in her dusky hair,
    Beneath the baldaquin and blushes.
    Tired of the games of day, and warm,
    The Naiad rested, still and smiling,
    The glow of evening shone resplendent,
    A gorgeous rose upon her breast;
    And merry Cupid, who had slept
    When sun was high, awoke and rode
    Upon the moonbeams up and down,
    With bow and arrow, through the forest."

This is all very magnificent; but the images tread so close upon each
other's heels, that they come near treading each other down, and
tumbling together in a confused jumble. I claim no originality in
calling attention to the fact that it must have been a colossal Naiad
who could wear the evening glow like "a gorgeous rose upon her breast."
Likewise former critics have questioned whether the stars gain in the
least in vividness by being compared to the priests of Egypt,[31] who
were certainly far less familiar to the reader's vision.

    [31] L. Dietrichson: Indledning i Studiet af Sveriges Litteratur.
    Kjoebenhavn, 1862. See also Svensk Litteratur-Tidning as quoted in B.
    E. Malmstroem: Grunddragen af Svenska Vitterhetens Historia, vol. v.,
    p. 423. Oerebro.

The story of the Swedish officer Axel and his beloved, the Cossack
Amazon, Maria, has from beginning to end a flavor of Byron, and recalls
alternately "the Corsair" and "Lara." The extravagant sentimentality of
the tale appealed, however, powerfully to the contemporary taste, and
the dissenting voice of criticism was drowned like the shrill note of a
single fife in the noisy orchestra of praise. The Swedish matrons and
maidens wept over Axel's and Maria's heroic, but tragic love, as those
of England, nay, of all Europe, wept over that of Conrad and Medora.
Maria, when she hears that Axel has a betrothed at home, enlists as a
man in the Russian army (a very odd proceeding by the way, and scarcely
conducive to her purpose) and resolves to kill her rival. She is,
however, mortally wounded, and Axel finds her dying upon the
battlefield.

    "Yea, it was she; with smothered pain
    She whispers with a voice full faint:
    'Good-evening, Axel, nay, good-night,
    For death is nestling at my heart.
    Oh! ask not what hath brought me hither;
    'Twas love alone led me astray.
    Alas! the last long night is dusking;
    I stand before the grave's dread door.
    How different life, with all its small distresses,
    Seems now from what it seemed of yore!
    And only love--love fair as ours,
    Can I take with me to the skies.'"[32]

    [32] The original is in the rhymed Byronic metre, mostly in
    couplets. In order not to sacrifice anything of the meaning I have
    chosen to put it into blank verse.

This is exactly the Byronic note, which would be still more audible, if
I had preserved the rhymed couplets. Even Medora's male attire is
borrowed by Maria, and much more of this Byronic melodramatic heroism is
there, only a little more conventionally draped and with larger
concessions to the Philistine sense of propriety. But even if Tegner in
"Axel" had coquetted with the Romantic muse, it would be rash to
conclude that he contemplated any durable relation. The note which he
had struck in his renowned oration at the festival commemorating the
Reformation (1817), came from the depth of his heart, and continued to
resound through his speech and song for many years to come. I do not
moan to imply, of course, that the Byronic Romanticism was very closely
akin to that of Tieck, the Schlegels, and Novalis; or that Tegner in the
least compromised his frank and manly liberalism by composing a
variation, as it were, on a Byronic theme. How deeply he hated the
mediaeval obscurantism which then, under the auspices of Metternich and
his unholy "Holy Alliance" was spreading over Europe, he showed in
numerous private and public utterances concerning the political
condition of Europe after the fall of Napoleon. His greeting to the "New
Year, 1816" (which his son-in-law has foolishly excluded from his
edition of the collected works), is overbrimming with bitterness at the
triumph of the enemies of the light.

    "Hurrah! Religion is a Jesuit,
    The rights of man are Jacobins;
    The world is free; the raven is white;
    Long live the Pope--and that other;
    I am going to Germany, and there I'll learn
    Sonnets to sing and incense to burn.

    "Welcome, thou New Year, with murder and gloom,
    Stupidity, lies, and fraud!
    I hope thou'lt make an end of our earth,
    A bullet at least she's worth;
    She's restless, poor thing, like many another,
    A shot through the head--she'll cause no more bother!"

It was the fashion in those days to revile the Revolution, because it
had produced the man on horseback who had turned the old order of things
topsy-turvy in a very unceremonious fashion. Coleridge, Southey, and
Wordsworth in England, and Klopstock, Schiller, and a horde of lesser
lights in Germany, had hailed the French uprising as the bloody dawn of
a new and more glorious day; but the excesses of the Reign of Terror
frightened them back into the old fastnesses of Conservatism. Tegner
(and to his honor be it said) was one of the few who did not despair of
liberty because a people born and bred in despotism failed to exercise
the wisdom and self-restraint which only liberty can foster. For the
only road to the attainment of liberty is its practice and its abuse,
and the slow education which can be acquired by no theoretical teaching,
but only in the hard and expensive school of experience. For the
terrible birth-pangs of liberty no despotically governed people can
escape, unless it chooses to remain in thraldom.

This is the spirit that breathes through Tegner's speeches and poems,
during his most vigorous manhood; and even, when the rift in his lute
made its music harsh and uncertain, the strain was yet essentially the
same, though transposed into an alien key. It is very tempting to quote
the many noble sayings of this master of the commanding phrase, but one
or two must suffice. It is a delight to read his published
correspondence, because of this power of strong and luminous utterance,
which he wields with such Titanic ease. Then, again, there is no
affectation or cant, but an engaging candor and straightforwardness
which bespeak a true man, considering the time when they were written.
What clarity of political vision there is in such passages as these:

(1813.) "He who fancies that Europe will be delivered by Russia and her
confederates, or that the progress of the Cossacks is for the advantage
of Sweden, may perhaps be in the right; but his views are very different
from mine. In the hatred of the Barbarians I am born and bred, and I
hope to die in it, unbewildered by modern sophisms."

(1814.) "Who can believe in the re-establishment of the European balance
of power or rejoice in the victory of wretched mediocrity over power and
genius. The upheavals of the age will soon affect us all--at least us
Swedes."

(1817) "That we are living on an earth yet quaking from the French
Revolution is undeniable; and extremely foolish seems to me the speech
of those who insist that the Revolution is finished, or even approaching
its end."

"Napoleon fell, not on account of his wretched opponents, but because
despotism is the livery of all strong souls, because his spirit was
opposed to the spirit of the age, with which he wrestled, and which was
stronger than he."[33]

    [33] Quoted from G. Brandes: Esaias Tegner: En
    Litteraturpsychologisk Studie. Kjoebenhavn, 1878, pp. 87 and 88.

Living as he did in an age of general disillusion, Tegner performed an
important service in endeavoring to stem with the full force of his
personality the rising tide of reaction. How much he accomplished in
this direction is difficult to estimate, for we can never know what turn
Swedish affairs might have taken, if his clarion voice had not been
heard. But it could scarcely fail that such a speech as the one at the
Festival of the Reformation (1817), delivered in the presence of a large
assembly of scholars and public men, must have made a great impression,
and in a hundred direct and indirect ways affected public opinion.
Luther is to Tegner a hero of liberty, a breaker of human shackles, a
deliverer from spiritual bondage and gloom.

"Luther was one of those rare historical characters who always, in
whatever they undertake, by their very manner, surprise, and indelibly
impress themselves upon the memory. There was something chivalrous, I
could almost say adventurous, in his whole personality, in his whole way
of beginning and prosecuting an enterprise. He put upon whatever he did
the stamp of an almost inconceivable greatness--of an almost
overwhelming force. His mere word was half a battle, his deed was a
whole one. He was one of those mighty souls which, like certain trees,
can only bloom in a storm. His whole great, rich, marvellous life has
always seemed to me like an epic with its battles and its final victory.
Such a spirit must of necessity make room for itself, and decisively
assert itself in history, in whatever direction its activity may be
turned, under whatever circumstances and at whatever time it enters upon
its career. The time when Luther came was one of those great historical
epochs when the world-serpent sheds its skin and reappears in
rejuvenated shape.... A great man, even the very greatest, is always the
son of his age--only he is the eldest son; he is the deputy and executor
of the age. The age is his, and he administers its substance according
to his judgment. He finds the scattered elements to his hand, but
usually tangled up and struggling in chaotic disorder. To gather and
arrange them into a creation, to direct them toward a definite goal, ...
this is his greatness; this is his creative powers.... In this ... sense
Luther created his age."[34]

    [34] Esaias Tegner's Samlade Skrifter, vol. v., pp. 6, 7, 9, and 10.

Dr. Brandes has anticipated me in calling attention to the fact that the
orator's characterization of Luther, though highly interesting, is
one-sided. But as his admirable monograph on Tegner is not accessible to
English readers, I feel justified in repeating his argument in
abbreviated form. There is a great uniformity, he says, in substance, in
all Tegner's heroes. They are all men of action--bold, strong,
adventurous heroes, such as boys delight in. They have a striking family
resemblance. With the change of a few attributes Tegner applies his
characterization of Luther to such a widely differing personality as
King Gustavus III. of Sweden, a frivolous, theatrical, Frenchified,
infidel monarch. And Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII. are forced into
the same livery, in spite of their diversity of structure, because
Tegner admired them all, and had practically but one type which appeared
to his frank, open, and somewhat boyish fancy wholly worthy of
admiration.[35]

    [35] Georg Brandes: Esaias Tegner, pp. 17-19.

In reading consecutively the whole series of Tegner's collected works I
am much struck with the force of this criticism. The brave man who
defies the world single-handed, and plunges up to his ears into dangers,
without counting the odds against him, is the typical juvenile hero; and
it is strange, though by no means incomprehensible, that a man like
Tegner, who could betray such political insight as is shown in his
letters to Franzen and Leopold had not really gotten beyond this
primitive type of excellence. In a certain sense, perhaps, it was not
desirable that he should. For the tremendous popularity which greeted
"Frithjof's Saga" was due in no small measure to this half-juvenile
robustness of its author's genius. As I cannot help regretting in myself
the loss of my boyish appetite for swashbuckling marauders, and
mysterious treasure-diggers, I am, indeed, far from deploring Tegner's
delight in the insane prowess of Charles XII., or the gay and chivalrous
gallantry of Gustavus III. There is a sort of fine salubriousness in it
which makes one, on the whole, like him the more.

It might well be said of Tegner, as he said of Luther, that his word was
half a battle. At all events he accomplished by his speeches a complete
overthrow of his opponents the Phosphorists, without engaging in the
barren polemics to which they invited him. He waited until some
appropriate public occasion occurred, and then spoke out of the fulness
of his conviction. And his words spread like undulating waves of light
from one end of the land to the other, finding lodgement in thousands
of hearts. Thus his beautiful epilogue at the "magister promotion"[36]
in Lund (1820) was a direct manifesto (and a most incisive one) against
that mystic obscurity which, according to the Phosphorists, was
inseparable from the highest and deepest poetic utterance:

    "In vain they call upon the lofty Truth
    With sombre conjurations; for the dark
    She ne'er endures; for her abode is light.
    In Phoebus' world, in knowledge as in song,
    All things are bright. Bright beams the radiant sun;
    Clear runs and pure his bright Castalian fountain.
    Whate'er thou canst not clearly say thou know'st not.
    Twin-born with thought is word on lips of man;
    That which is darkly said is darkly thought;
    For wisdom true is like the diamond,
    A drop that's petrified of heavenly light;
    The purer that it is, the more its value,
    The more the daylight shines and glitters through it.
    The ancients builded unto Truth a temple,
    A fair rotunda, light as heaven's vault.
    And freely poured the sunshine from all sides
    Into its open round; the winds of heaven
    Amid its ranks of pillars gayly gambolled.
    But now instead we build a Tower of Babel,
    A heavy, barbarous structure. Darkness peeps
    From out its deep and narrow grated casements.
    Unto the sky the tower was meant to reach,
    But hitherto we've only had confusion.
    As in the realm of thought, in that of song
    It is; and poesy is e'er transparent ..."

    [36] A magister promotion corresponds approximately to our
    university commencements. It is the ceremony of bestowing the degree
    of master of arts.

This was certainly an attractive doctrine, and it did not fail to
command public approval. But it suffers from exactly the same limitation
as Tegner's gospel of joy. It is only relatively (I might almost say
temperamentally) true; and the opposite might be maintained with equal
force, and in fact was so maintained by Atterbom, who declared (in the
"Poetical Calendar for 1821") that there can be no such a conception as
light without darkness. Darkness, he says, is the condition of all color
and form. You distinguish the light and all things in it only by the
contrasting effect of shadow--all of which, I fancy, Tegner would not
have denied. More to the point would have been the query whether in
poetry darkness and indistinctness are synonymous terms. It is only the
most commonplace truths which can be made intelligible to all. Much of
the best and highest thinking of humanity lies above the plane of the
ordinary untrained intellect. What is light to me may be twilight or
darkness to you. What to you is clear as the daylight, may to me be as
densely impenetrable as the Cimmerian night. Christ himself recognized
this fact when he said to his disciples: "I have yet many things to say
unto you, but ye cannot bear them now."

For all that, Tegner's doctrine was in its effect wholesome. It
discouraged the writers of the Romantic School, who under the guise of
profundity gave publicity to much immature and confused thinking. He was
no doubt right in saying that "a poetry which commences with
whooping-cough is likely to end in consumption." His frequently repeated
maxim, that poetry is nothing but the health of life, "occasioned by an
abounding intellectual vigor, a joyous leap over the barriers of
everyday life," applied, however, to his own poetry only so long as his
vigor was unimpaired. His terrible poem "Hypochondria" (_Mjeltsjukan_)
is to me no less poetical because it is not "a petrified drop of
heavenly light," and mocks all the cheerful theories of its author's
prime.

Tegner had yet a few years in which to rejoice in this "health of life"
in which he found the inspiration for his song; and these last years
were the most fruitful in his entire career. He was about forty years of
age when, in 1820, he began to compose the first cantos of "Frithjof's
Saga." He was living in modest comfort, happy in his marital relation,
and surrounded by a family of children to whom he was a most
affectionate father. He could romp and play with his curly-headed boys
and girls without any loss of dignity; and they loved nothing better
than to invade his study. Next to them in his regard was a black-nosed
pug, named Atis, who invariably accompanied him to his lectures and
remained sitting at his feet listening with intelligent gravity to his
explanations of the Greek poets. If by chance his master, in his zeal
for his own poetry, forgot the lecture-hour, Atis would respectfully
pull him by the tails of his coat. No man at the University of Lund was
more generally beloved than Tegner, and all honors which the University
could bestow had been offered to him. The office of Rector Magnificus he
had, however, persisted in declining.

There was at that time a general revival of interest in the so-called
saga-age. The Danish poet, Oehlenschlaeger, had published his old-Norse
cycle of poems, "Helge," which aroused a sympathetic reverberation in
Tegner's mind. The idea took possession of him that here was a theme
which lay well within the range of his own voice, and full of alluring
possibilities. Accordingly he chose the ancient "Saga of Frithjof the
Bold," and resolved to embody in it all the characteristic features of
the old heroic life. And what Oehlenschlaeger had attempted to do, and
partly succeeded in doing, he accomplished with a completeness of
success which was a surprise to himself. No sooner had "Iduna," the
organ of the Gothic League, published the first nine cantos (1821), than
all Sweden resounded with enthusiastic applause; and even from beyond
the boundaries of the fatherland came voices of praise. When the
completed poem appeared in book-form, it was translated into all
civilized languages, and everywhere, in spite of the translators'
shortcomings, it was hailed with delight. Not only England, France, and
Germany hastened to appropriate it, but even in Spain, Greece, and
Russia tears were shed over "Ingeborg's Lament," and tender bosoms
palpitated with sympathy for Frithjof's sorrows. I know a dozen English
translations of "Frithjof's Saga" (a friend of mine, who is a
bibliophile, assures me that the exact number is at present twenty-one),
and of German versions the number is not very much less. A Norwegian (or
rather Danish) rendering was presented to me on my twelfth birthday; and
the sentiment which then most forcibly appealed to me was, as I vividly
remember, embodied in the following verse, in which Bjoern chides his
friend's grief for the loss of his beloved:

    "Frithjof, 'tis time for your folly's abating;
    Sigh and lament for a woman's loss:
    Earth is, alas, too full of such dross;
    One may be lost, still a thousand are waiting.
    Say but the word, of such goods I will bring
    Quickly a cargo--the Southland can spare them,
    Bed as the rose, mild as lambs in the spring;
    Then we'll cast lots, or as brothers we'll share them."[37]

    [37] Holcomb's translation.

It was not the unconscious humor of this proposition which struck me the
most in those days; but it was the bluff frankness of the gruff old
viking which then seemed truly admirable. In fact, I am not sure but
that Bjoern appeared to me a more sympathetic figure than Frithjof. But a
little later it dawned upon me that his utter lack of chivalry was
rather revolting; and I began to marvel at my former admiration. At
fourteen the following verse (which at twelve was charmingly heroic)
caused me to revise my opinion of Bjoern:

    "Good! to King Ring it shall be my glad duty
    Something to teach of a wronged viking's power;
    Fire we his palace at midnight's still hour,
    Scorch the old graybeard and bear off the beauty."

For all that, Bjoern with his rough speech and hearty delight in fighting
and drinking, is far truer to the spirit of the old heroic age than is
Frithjof with his sentimentality and lovesick reveries. This verse, for
instance, is replete with the briny breath of the northern main. The
north wind blows through it:

    "Good is the sea, your complaining you squander,
    Freedom and joy on the sea flourish best.
    He never knoweth effeminate rest
    Who on the billows delighteth to wander.
    When I am old, to the green-growing land
    I, too, will cling, with the grass for my pillow.
    Now I will drink and will fight with free hand,
    Now I'll enjoy my own sorrow-free billow."

I might continue in the autobiographical vein; but must forbear. For
there is a period in the life of every young Norseman when, untroubled
by its anachronism, he glories in Frithjof's melancholy mooning, his
praise of Ingeborg, his misanthropy, and all the manifold moods of love
so enchantingly expressed in Tegner's melodious verse.

When a book acquires this significance as an expression of the typical
experience in the lives of thousands, the critical muse can but join in
the general chorus, and find profound reasons for the universal praise.
In the case of "Frithjof's Saga" this is not a difficult matter. From
beginning to end the poem has a lyrical intensity which sets the mind
vibrating with a responsive emotion. It is not a coldly impersonal epic,
recounting remote heroic events; but there is a deeply personal note in
it, which has that nameless moving quality--_la note emue_, as the
French call it--which brings the tear to your eye, and sends a delicious
breeze through your nerves. All that, to be sure, or nearly all of it,
evaporates in translation; for no more than you can transfer the
exquisite dewy intactness of the lily to canvas can you transfer the
rapturous melody of noble verse into an alien tongue. The subtlest
harmonies--those upon which the thrill depends--are invariably lost. If
Longfellow, instead of giving us two cantos, had translated the whole
poem, we should, at least, have possessed an English version which would
have afforded us some conception of the charm of the renowned original.

The objections to "Frithjof's Saga" which have been urged by numerous
critics may all be admitted as more or less valid; yet something remains
which will account for its astounding popularity. Tegner at the time
when he was singing of Frithjof's and Ingeborg's love was himself
suffering from a consuming but unrequited passion. The strong, warm
pulse of life which throbs in Frithjof's wrath, defiance, and scorn, and
in his deep and manly tenderness is the poet's own. It marks but the
rhythm of his own tumultuous heart-beat. It is altogether an unhappy
chapter, which his biographer has vainly striven to suppress. There was
among his acquaintance in Lund a certain Mrs. Palm, toward whom he felt
drawn with an irresistible half-demonic force. Beyond this fact we know
nothing of the lady, except that she was handsome, cultivated, and
well-connected. Whatever approaches Tegner may have made toward her (and
it is not known of what nature they were) she appears to have repelled;
and the poet, though fighting desperately against his growing
infatuation, wore out his splendid vitality in the conflict of emotions
which the unhappy relation occasioned. He became a prey to the most
terrible melancholy, and a misanthropy of the deepest hue spread its
sombre veil over the world which hitherto had given to him its brightest
smile. The dread of insanity became an _idee fixe_ with him; and the
pathetic cry, "God preserve my reason," rings again and again through
his private correspondence. One of his brothers was insane; and he
fancied that there must be a taint in his blood which menaced him with
the same tragic doom.

Happily, he could as yet conjure the storm. It hung threateningly on the
horizon of his mind, with mutterings of thunder and stray flashes of
lightning. But his poetic bark still sped along with full sails, bravely
breasting the waves.

    "Und wenn der Mensch in seiner Qual verstummt
    Gab mir ein Gott zu sagen was ich leide,"

says Goethe. And this divine gift of saying, or, better still, of
singing, what he suffered made Tegner, during this period, master of his
sufferings. They did not overwhelm him and ruin his usefulness. On the
contrary, these were the most active and fruitful years of his life. But
it was the deep agitation which possessed him--it was the suppressed
tumult of his strong soul which vibrated through "Frithjof" and which
imparted to it that vital quality, that moving ring which arouses the
deeper feelings in the human heart.

Archaeologically the poem was not correct, and was not meant to be.
Tegner distinctly disclaimed the intention of producing a historically
accurate picture of the saga age; and all criticism censuring the
modernness of Frithjofs and Ingeborg's sentiments is, therefore,
according to his idea, wide of the mark. I do not quite agree with his
point of view, but will state his argument. For the historical Frithjof,
as he is represented in the ancient Norse saga bearing his name, Tegner
cared but little. What he wished to do was to give a poetic presentation
of the old heroic life, and he chose Frithjof as his representative of
this age because he united in himself so many of its characteristics:

     "In the saga much occurs which is very grand and heroic, and hence
     valid for all times, which both might and ought to be retained;
     but, on the other hand, a great deal occurs which is rough, savage,
     barbarous; and this had either to be entirely eliminated, or at
     least materially softened. Up to a certain degree it therefore
     became necessary to modernize; but the difficulty was to find the
     golden mean. On the one hand, the poem ought not to offend too much
     our more refined manners and gentler modes of thought; but, on the
     other hand, the natural quality, the freshness, the truth to nature
     ought not to be sacrificed."

Tegner fancies he has solved this problem by retaining in Frithjof the
fundamental traits of all heroism, viz., nobility, magnanimity, courage;
but at the same time nationalizing them by giving them a distinctly
Scandinavian tinge. And this he has done by making his hero almost
wantonly defiant, stubborn, pugnacious. As Ingeborg, lamenting his
fierce pugnacity, and yet glorying in it, says:

    "How glad, how stubborn, and how full of hope!
    The point he setteth of his trusty sword
    Against the breast of Fate and crieth, Thou must yield."

     "Another peculiarity of the Norseman's character is a certain
     tendency to sadness and melancholy which is habitual with all
     deeper natures. An elegiac tone pervades all our old national
     melodies, and, generally speaking, all that is of significance in
     our history; for it rises from the very bottom of the nation's
     heart. There is a certain joyousness (commonly attributed to the
     French) which in the last instance is only levity. But the
     joyousness of the North is fundamentally serious; for which reason
     I have in Frithjof endeavored to give a hint of this brooding
     melancholy in his repentance of the unintentional burning of the
     temple, his brooding fear of Balder,

    "Who sits in the sky, and the thoughts he sends down,
    Which forever are clouding my mind."

It will be seen from this that Tegner was fully conscious of what he was
doing. He civilized Frithjof, because he was addressing a civilized
audience which would have taken little interest in the rude viking of
the eighth century, if he had been presented to them in all his savage
unrestraint. He did exactly what Tennyson did, when he made King Arthur
the model of a modern English gentleman and (by implication) a
Protestant a thousand years before Protestantism existed. Ingeborg, too,
had to be a trifle modified and disembarrassed of a few somewhat too
naturalistic traits with which the saga endows her, before she became
the lovely type that she is of the faithful, loving, long-suffering,
womanhood of the North, with trustful blue eyes, golden hair, and a
heart full of sweet and beautiful sentiment. It was because
Oehlenschlaeger had neglected to make sufficient concessions to modern
demands that his "Helge" (though in some respects a greater poem than
"Frithjof's Saga") never crossed the boundary of Scandinavia, and even
there made no deep impression upon the general public.

Though the story of "Frithjof" is familiar to most readers, I may be
pardoned for presenting a brief _resume_. The general plot, in Tegner's
version, coincides in its main outlines with that of the saga. Frithjof,
the son of the free yeoman Thorstein Vikingson, is fostered in the house
of the peasant Hilding, with Ingeborg, the daughter of King Bele of
Sogn. The King and the yeoman have been life-long friends, and each has
a most cordial regard for the other.

    "By sword upheld, King Bele in King's-hall stood,
    Beside him Thorstein Vikingson, that yeoman good,
    His battle-friend with almost a century hoary,
    And deep-marked like a rune-stone with scars of glory."

The yeoman's son and the king's daughter, thrown into daily
companionship in their foster-father's hall, love each other; and
Frithjof, after the death of their fathers, goes to Ingeborg's brothers,
Helge and Halfdan, and asks her hand in marriage. His suit is scornfully
rejected, and he departs in wrath vowing vengeance. The ancient King
Ring, of Ringerike, having heard of Ingeborg's beauty, sends also
ambassadors to woo her. Her brothers make sacrifices in order to
ascertain the will of the gods. The omens are inauspicious, and they
accordingly feel compelled to decline the King's offer.

Ingeborg is shut up in Balder's Grove, where the sanctity of the temple
would make it sacrilege for any one to approach her. Frithjof, however,
braves the wrath of the god, and sails every night across the fjord to a
stolen rendezvous with his beloved. The canto called "Frithjof's
Happiness," which is brimming over with a swelling redundance of
sentiment, is so cloyingly sweet that the reader must himself be in love
in order to enjoy it. It is written in the key of the watch-songs of the
German minnesingers and the aubades of Provencal troubadours. The Norse
note is not only wanting, but would never fit into that key:

    "'Hush! 'tis the lark.' Nay, those soft numbers
      Of doves' faith tell that knows no rest.
    The lark yet on the hillside slumbers
      Beside his mate in grassy nest.
    To them no king seals his dominions
      When morning breaks in eastern air;
    Their life is free as are their pinions
      Which bear aloft the gladsome pair.

    "'See day is breaking!' Nay, some tower
      Far eastward sendeth forth that light;
    We yet may spend another hour,
      Not yet shall end the precious night.
    May sleep, thou sun, thee long encumber,
      And waking may'st thou linger still,
    For Frithjof's sake may'st freely slumber
      Till Ragnaroek, be such thy will.

    "Vain hope! The day its gray discloses,
      Already morning breezes blow,
    Already bend the eastern roses,
      As fresh as Ingeborg's can glow;
    The winged songsters mount and twitter
      (The thoughtless throng!) along the sky,
    And life starts forth, and billows glitter,
      And far the shades and lover fly.

           *       *       *       *       *

    "Farewell, beloved: till some longer
      And fairer eve we meet again.
    By one kiss on thy brow the stronger
      Let me depart--thy lips, once, then!
    Sleep now and dream of me, and waken
      When mid-day comes, and faithful tell
    The hours as I yearn forsaken,
      And sigh as I! Farewell, farewell!"[38]

    [38] Translation of L. A. Sherman, Ph.D. Boston, 1878.

The two following cantos, entitled "The Parting" and "Ingeborg's
Lament," though liable to the same criticism as their predecessor, are,
with all their sentimental effusiveness, beautiful. No lover, I fancy,
ever found them redundant, overstrained, spoiled by the lavish splendor
of their imagery. Tegner has accomplished the remarkable feat of
interveining, as it were, his academic rhetoric with a blood-red
humanity, and making the warm pulse of experience throb through the
stately phrases.

King Ring, incensed at the rejection of his suit, declares war against
Helge and Halfdan, who in their dire need ask Frithjof's aid, which is
promptly refused. In order to be rid of him they then send him on an
expedition to the Orkneys, to collect a tribute which is due to them
from Earl Angantyr. He entreats Ingeborg to flee with him; but she
refuses. She sees from Balder's Grove his good ship Ellida breasting the
waves and weeps bitter tears at his loss:

        "Swell not so high,
    Billows of blue with your deafening cry!
    Stars, lend assistance, a shining
    Pathway defining!

        "With the spring doves
    Frithjof will come, but the maiden he loves
    Cannot in hall or dell meet him,
    Lovingly greet him.
        Buried she sleeps
    Dead for love's sake, or bleeding she weeps
    Heart-broken, given by her brother
    Unto another."

It is perfectly in keeping with the character of Norse womanhood in the
saga age that Ingeborg should refuse to defy her brother's authority by
fleeing with Frithjof and yet deeply mourn his departure without her.
The family feeling, the bond of blood, was exceptionally strong; and
submission to the social code which made the male head of the house the
arbiter of his sister's fate was bred in the bone. It is, therefore,
perfectly natural that, when King Ring has beaten her brothers in
battle, and exacted Ingeborg as the prize of victory, she yields
unmurmuringly to their decree.

Frithjof, in the meanwhile, distinguishes himself greatly in the Orkneys
by his strength and prowess, gains Earl Angantyr's friendship, and
returns with the tribute. As he sails into the fjord, a sight greets him
which makes his heart quail. Framnaes, his paternal estate, is burnt to
the ground, and the charred beams lie in a ruined heap under the smiling
sky. The kings, though they had pledged their honor that they would not
harm his property, had broken faith with him; and Ingeborg, in the hope
of gaining whom he had undertaken the perilous voyage, was wedded to
King Ring. In a white-heat of wrath and sorrow Frithjof starts out to
call her perjured brothers to account. He finds them in the temple in
Balder's Grove, preparing for the sacrifice. There he flings the bag
containing the tribute into King Helge's face, knocking out his front
teeth, and observing on his wife's arm the ring with which he had once
pledged Ingeborg, he rushes at her to recover it. The woman, who had
been warming the wooden image of Balder before the fire, drops, in her
fright, the idol into the flame. Frithjof seizes her by the arm and
snatches the ring from her. In the general confusion that follows the
temple takes fire, and all attempts to quench the flames are futile. In
consequence of this sacrilege Frithjof is outlawed at the _Thing_ as a
_vargr-i-veum_, _i.e._, wolf in the sanctuary, and is forced to go into
exile. His farewell to his native land strikes one as being altogether
out of tune. The old Norse viking is made to anticipate sentiments which
are of far later growth; but for all that the verses are quite stirring:

    "Brow of creation,
      Thou North sublime!
    I have no station
      Within thy clime.
    Proud, hence descended
      My race I tell;
    Of heroes splendid,
      Fond nurse, farewell!

           *       *       *       *       *

    My love false-hearted,
      My manor burned,
    My name departed,
      An outlaw, spurned,
    I now appealing
      From earth, will dwell
    With waves, for healing.
      Farewell, farewell!"[39]

    [39] Sherman's translation.

Frithjof now roams for many years over the sea as a viking, and gains
much booty and honor. His viking code, with its swift anapestic rhythm,
has a breezy melody which sings in the ear. It is an attempt to embody
the ethics of Norse warfare at its best, and to present in the most
poetic light the rampant, untamable individualism of the ancient
Germanic paganism. In defiance of his friend Bjoern's advice, Frithjof,
weary of this bootless chase for glory and pelf, resolves to see
Ingeborg once more before he dies, and, disguised as a salt-boiler, he
enters King Ring's hall. There he sees his beloved sitting in the
high-seat beside her aged lord; and the sorrow which the years had
dulled revives with an exquisite agony. He punishes with fierce
promptitude one of the King's men who insults him; and his answer to the
King's rebuke betrays him as a man of rank and station. He then throws
away his disguise, without, however, revealing his name, but Ingeborg
instantly recognizes him.

    "Then even to her temples the queen's deep blushes sped,
    As when the northlight tinges the snow-clad fields with red,
    And like two full-blown lilies on racking waves which rest,
    With ill-concealed emotion so heaved her throbbing breast."

The king now invites the stranger, who calls himself Thjof, to remain
his guest during the winter, and Frithjof accepts. He makes, however, no
approach to Ingeborg, with whom he scarcely exchanges a single word.
During a sleigh-ride on the ice he saves, by a tremendous feat of
strength, the life of the king and queen. With the coming of the spring
preparations are made for a grand chase, in which Frithjof participates.

    "Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles
          the sun;
    And the loosened torrents downward singing to the ocean run;
    Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds 'gin to ope,
    And in human hearts awaken love of life and joy and hope."

The canto called "The Temptation" contains the most dramatic and
altogether the most beautiful situation in the poem. The old king,
feigning weariness, begs Frithjof to tarry with him alone, while he
takes a rest. Frithjof tries to dissuade him, but in vain.

    "Then threw Frithjof down his mantle, and upon the green sward
          spread;
    And the ancient king, so trustful, laid on Frithjof's knee his head;
    Slept as calmly as the hero sleepeth after war's alarms
    On his shield, calm as an infant slumbers in its mother's arms."

Then the temptation comes to Frithjof to slay the old man who had stolen
his bride; but after a brief struggle he hurls his sword far away into
the forest.

    "Straight the ancient king awakens. 'Sweet has been my sleep,' he
          said.
    'Pleasant 'tis to sleep in shadow, guarded by a brave man's blade.
    But where is thy sword, O stranger, lightning's brother, where is
          he?
    Who has parted one from other that should never parted be?'"

    "'Not a whit care I,' said Frithjof, 'I shall find a sword some day;
    Sharp, O King, are tongues of falchions, words of peace they seldom
          say;
    In the steel dwell swarthy demons, demons strayed from Nifelhem,
    No man's sleep to them is sacred, silver locks embitter them.'

    "'Youth, no moment have I slumbered, but to prove thee feigned to
          rest,
    Unproved men and weapons never trusts King Ring without a test.
    Thou art Frithjof. I have known thee since thou first cam'st to my
          hall;
    Much that thou hast hidden from me; from the first I guessed it
          all.'"

Soon after this interview the aged king feels death approaching; and in
order not to go to the dark abode of Hela, he cuts death-runes upon his
breast and ascends to Odin's bright hall. But before dying he gives
Ingeborg to Frithjof, and makes him the guardian of his son. The people,
in _Thing_ assembled, glorying in Frithjof's great renown, desire,
however, to make him King's successor; but he lifts the small boy above
his head upon his shield and proclaims him king. He returns home and
rebuilds Balder's temple, whereupon the sentence of outlawry is removed,
and he is reconciled to Ingeborg's brothers and marries the beloved of
his youth.

The last canto, called "The Atonement," is perhaps the most flagrant
violation of historical verisimilitude in the whole epic. A hoary priest
of Balder actually performs the wedding ceremony in the restored temple,
and pronounces a somewhat unctuous wedding oration, which differs from
those which Tegner himself had frequently delivered chiefly in the
substitution of pagan for the Christian deities. As a matter of fact,
marriage was a purely civil contract among the ancient Norsemen, and had
no association with the temple or the priesthood, which, by the way, was
no separate office but a patriarchal function belonging to the secular
chieftainship. But Tegner's public were in nowise shocked by
anachronisms of this sort; they probably rejoiced the more heartily in
the happiness of the reunited lovers, because their marriage was,
according to modern notions, so "regular."

It was soon after his publication of "Frithjof's Saga" that Tegner
became Bishop of Wexioe. He then removed from Lund and took up his
residence upon the estate Oestrabo, near the principal town in his
diocese. The great fame of his poem came to him as a surprise; and he
even undertook to protest against it, declaring with perfect sincerity
that he held it to be undeserved. In letters to his friends he never
wearied of pointing out the faults of "Frithjof" and his own
shortcomings as a poet. In a letter to the poet Leopold (August 17,
1825), who had praised the poem to the skies, he argues seriously to
prove that his admiration is misplaced:

     "My great fault in 'Frithjof' was not that I chose my theme from
     the old cycle of sagas, but that I treated it in a tone and with a
     manner which was neither ancient nor modern, neither antiquarian
     nor poetical, but hovered, as it were, on the boundary of both. For
     what does it mean to treat a subject poetically if not this, to
     eliminate everything which belongs to an alien and past age and now
     no longer appeals to any heart? The hearts to which it once did
     appeal are now all dust. Other modes of thought and feeling are
     current. It is impossible to properly translate one age into
     another. But to poetry nothing is really past. Poetry is the
     beautifying life of the moment; she wears the colors of the day;
     she cannot conceive of anything as dead.... But I am convinced that
     all poetic treatment of a theme belonging to a past age demands its
     modernization; and that everything antiquarian is here a mistake.
     This holds good not only in regard to the northern tone but also in
     regard to the Greek. Look, for instance, at Goethe's 'Iphigenie.'
     Who does not admire the beautiful, simple, noble, Hellenic form?
     And yet who has ever felt his soul warmed by this image of
     stone?... No living spirit has been breathed into these nostrils;
     the staring eyes gaze upon me without life and animation; no heart
     beats under the Hellenically rounded marble bosom. The whole is a
     mistake, infinitely more beautiful than 'Frithjof,' but fashioned
     according to the game principles of art. The Greeks said that the
     Muse was the daughter of Memory; but this refers only to the
     material, the theme itself, which is everywhere of minor
     consequence. The question, then, is as to the proper treatment.
     Where it tends toward the antiquarian it misses the mark; it
     represents, like 'Frithjof,' only a restored ruin."

This passage is by no means the only one in which Tegner, with an utter
absence of vanity or illusion, judged his work and found it wanting.
There is no mock modesty in his manly deprecation of the honors that
were showered upon him; but as a father knows best the faults of his
child whom he loves, so he knew the defects of his work, as measured by
his own high standard, and refused to accept any more praise than was
his due. Not even the fact that Goethe expressed his admiration of
"Frithjof's Saga" could persuade him that he was entitled to the
extravagant homage which his enthusiastic countrymen accorded him. There
were even times when he disclaimed the title of poet. Whether he was
forgotten a little sooner or a little later, he said, was a matter of
small moment.

"Speaking seriously," he writes in 1824 (accordingly before the
publication of "Frithjof"), "I have never regarded myself as a poet in
the higher significance of the word.... I am at best a John the Baptist,
who is preparing the way for him who is to come."

He is always just and inclined to be generous in his judgment of every
one except himself. It is necessary, however, after the year 1824, to
make due allowance for the terrible strain upon his mind which disposed
him to give violent and hyperbolical expression to the mood of the
moment. The unhappy passion which he could at times smother, but never
subdue, went boring away into his heart like a subterranean fire,
consuming his vitals, and occasionally breaking forth into a wild blaze.
The following reference to it, in his letter to Franzen (November 13,
1825), is very pathetic:

     "It is to-day my forty-third birthday. I have thus long since
     passed the highest altitude of life where the waters divide. With
     every year one now becomes smaller and smaller; one star is
     extinguished after another. And yet the sun does not rise. One dies
     by degrees and by halves. Therefore only children and youth ought
     to celebrate their birthdays with joy; we who have passed into the
     valley of age, which with every step is growing darker and
     chillier, are right in celebrating them with--whims.... However,
     this is not my only or my greatest affliction, I have had and have
     others. But the night is silent and the grave is dumb, and their
     sister, Sorrow, should be as they. Therefore--let this suffice."

     December 29th. "Alas, this old year! What I have suffered in it no
     one knows, if not, perhaps, the Recorder beyond the clouds. But I
     am indebted to this year. It has been darker, but also more serious
     than all the others put together. I have learned at my own expense
     what a human heart can endure without breaking, and what power God
     has deposited in a man under his left nipple. As I say, I am under
     obligation to this year, for it has enriched me with what is the
     real sinking fund of human wisdom and human independence--a mighty,
     deeply rooted contempt for man.... My inner nature emerges from the
     crisis like the hibernating bear from his den, emaciated and
     exhausted, but happily with my ursine sinews well preserved; and by
     and by some flesh will be growing on them again. It seems to me
     that my old barbaric, Titanic self, with its hairy arms, is
     constantly more and more rubbing the sleep out of its eyes. I hope
     that some vine may still grow upon the scorched and petrified
     volcano of my heart."

     January, 1826. "But when one is compelled to despise the
     _character_ of a human being, especially of one who has been or is
     dear to one, then that is the bitterest experience which life can
     afford; then it is not strange if a frank and ardent soul turns
     with loathing from this false, hypocritical generation and shuts
     himself up, as well as may be, in the hermitage of his own heart.

     "My mind is unchristian, for it has no day of rest. Generally I
     think that my disease has its seat in the abdomen or in the waist.
     Mineral waters I can no more drink this summer. But is there not a
     mineral water which is called Lethe?

     "Whether my little personality returns thither whence it came, with
     or without consciousness, a few months later or earlier, in order
     to be drowned in its great fountain-head, or to float for some time
     yet like a bubble, reflecting the clouds and an alien light--this
     appears to me constantly a matter of less and less consequence."

There is to me a heartrending pathos in these confessions. It is easy to
stand aloof, of course, like a schoolmaster with his chastising rod, and
lash the frailties of poor human nature. It is easy to declare with
virtuous indignation that the man who covets his neighbor's wife is a
transgressor who has no claim upon our sympathy. And yet who can help
pitying this great, noble poet, who fought so bravely against his
"barbaric, Titanic self with its hairy arms"? His passionate intensity
of soul was, indeed, part of his poetic equipment; and he would not have
been the poet he was if he had been cool, callous, and self-restrained.
The slag in him was so intimately moulded with the precious metal that
their separation would have been the extinction of the individuality
itself. The fiery furnace of affliction through which he passed warped
and scorched and cracked this mighty compound, but without destroying
it. A glimpse of this experience which transformed the powerful, joyous,
bright-visaged singer into a bitter, darkly brooding pessimist, fleeing
from the sinister shadow which threatened to overtake him, is afforded
us in the poem "Hypochondria[40]":

    "I stood upon the altitude of life,
    Where mingled waters part and downward go
    With rush and foam in opposite directions.
    Lo, it was bright up there, and fair to stand.
    I saw the sun, I saw his satellite,
    Which, since he quenched his light, shone in the blue;
    I saw that earth was fair and green and glorious,
    I saw that God was good, that man was honest.

    "Then rose a dread black imp, and suddenly
    The black one bit himself into my heart;
    And lo, at once the earth lay void and barren,
    And sun and stars were straightway drenched in gloom.
    The landscape, glad erewhile, lay dark, autumnal;
    Each grove was sere, each flower stem was broken;
    Within the frozen sense my strength lay dead,
    All joy, all courage withered within me.

    "What is to me reality--its dumb,
    Dead bulk, inert, oppressive, grim, and crude?
    How hope has paled, alas, with roseate hue!
    And memory, the heavenly blue, grown hoary!
    And even poesy! Its acrobatic
    Exertions, leaps--they pall upon my sense;
    Its bright mirage can satisfy no soul--
    Light skimmings from the surface fair of things.

    "Still I will praise thee, oh, thou human race.
    God's likeness art thou, oh, how true, how striking!
    Two lies thou hast natheless, in sooth, to show;
    The name of one is man, the other's woman!
    Of faith and honor there's an ancient ditty,
    'Tis sung the best, when men each other cheat.
    Thou child of heaven, the one thing true thou hast
    Is Cain's foul mark upon thy forehead branded.

    "A mark quite legible, writ by God's finger;
    Why did I fail ere now to heed that sign?
    A smell of death pervades all human life,
    And poisons spring's sweet breath and summer's splendor.
    Out of the grave that odor is exhaling.
    The grave is sealed and marble guards its freight,
    But still corruption is the breath of life,
    Eludes its guard and scatters everywhere.

    "Oh, watchman, tell me now the night's dark hour!
    Will it then never wane unto its end?
    The half-devoured moon is gliding, gliding,
    The tearful stars forever onward go,
    My pulse beats fast as in the time of youth,
    But ne'er beats out the hours of torment sore.
    How long, how endless is each pulse-beat's pain!
    Oh, my consumed, oh, my bleeding heart.

    "My heart! Nay in my bosom is no heart,
    There's but an urn that holds life's burnt-out ashes;
    Have pity on me, thou green mother Earth,
    And hide that urn full soon in thy cool breast.
    In air it crumbles, moulders; earth's deep woe
    Has in the earth, I ween, at last an end;
    And Time's poor foundling, here in school constrained,
    Finds then, perchance, beyond the sun--a father."

    [40] The poem is written in the _ottava rime_, but in order to
    preserve the sense intact I have rendered it in blank verse.

A physical disease which seems to have baffled the skill of physicians
may have been the primary cause of the sufferings here described, and
was no doubt aggravated by the psychical condition to which I have
alluded. Now it was supposed to be the liver which was affected; then
again Tegner was treated for gall-stones. In the summer of 1833 he made
a journey through Germany and spent some months at Carlsbad; but he
returned without sensible relief. His foreign sojourn was, however, of
some benefit in widening his mental horizon. Tegner's intellectual
affinities had always been French; and toward Germany he had assumed a
more or less unsympathetic attitude. A slight acquaintance with the
philosopher Schleiermacher and the Germanized Norwegian author Henrik
Steffens (who was then a professor at the University of Berlin) did not,
indeed, reverse his predilections, but it opened his eyes to
excellences in the German people to which he had formerly been blind,
and removed prejudices which had obscured his vision. He had everywhere
the most distinguished reception, and was honored with an invitation to
Sans Souci, where he was the guest of the witty Crown Prince of Prussia,
later Frederick William IV. But these agreeable incidents of his journey
were a poor compensation for his failure to obtain that which he had
gone in search of. Fame, honor, and distinguished friends, without
health, are but a Tantalus feast, the sweets of which are seen but never
tasted.

"I fear," said Tegner, in his hopelessness, "that my right side, like
that of the Chamber of Deputies, is incurable."

"When this Saul's spirit comes over me I often feel an indescribable
bitterness, which endures nothing, spares nothing, in heaven or on
earth. It usually finds vent in misanthropic reflections, sarcasms, and
ideas which I have no sooner written down than I repent of them."

The activity which he unfolded, even in the midst of intolerable
sufferings, was phenomenal. He possessed an energy of will and vigor of
temperament which enabled him to rise superior to his physical
condition, and lure strong music (though sometimes jarred into discords)
from the broken lyre. It was in 1829, after his illness had fastened its
hold upon him, that he pronounced the beautiful epilogue in hexameters
at the graduating festivities at the University of Lund, and crowned
the Dane, Adam Oehlenschlaeger, as the king of poets:

    "Now, before thou beginnest the distribution of laurels
    Grant me one for him in whom I shall honor them all.
    Lo, the Adam of poets is here, the Northern king among singers;
    Heir to the throne in poesy's world; for the throne yet is Goethe's.
    Oscar, the king, if he knew it, would give his grace to my action.
    Now I speak not for him, still less for myself, but the laurel
    Place on thy brow in poesy's name, the bright, the eternal.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Past is disunion's age (in the infinite realm of the spirit
    Never it ought to have reigned), and kindred tones o'er the water
    Ring, which enrapture us all, and they are especially thine.
    Therefore, Svea--I speak in her name--adorns thee with laurel:
    Take it from brotherly hand, of the day in festal remembrance."

Restless official activity, parliamentary labors, educational addresses,
and metrical discourses on memorable occasions filled the years from
1829 to 1840. He felt the demon of insanity lurking behind him, now
close at his heels, now farther away; and it was a desperate race, in
which life and death, nay, worse than death, was at stake. His
indefatigable exertions afforded him a respite from the thought of his
terrible pursuer. We can only regard with respectful compassion the
outbreaks of misanthropic spleen which often disfigure his
correspondence from this period of deepening twilight, relieved by a
brief interval of brightness. It is especially woman who is the object
of his bitterest objurgation. The venerable _mutabile et varium_ of
Virgil is the theme upon which he perpetually rings the changes. No
occasion is too inappropriate for a joke at the fickle and faithless
sex; and even the school-boys in the Wexioe gymnasium are treated to some
ironical advice, _a propos_ of the beautiful jade, which must have
sounded surprising in an episcopal oration. Life with its bright pageant
was oppressive, like a nightmare to the afflicted poet. All charm, all
rationality had departed from existence, which was but a meaningless
dance of hideous marionettes. The world was battered and befouled;
inexpressibly loathsome. And finally, in 1840, while Tegner was
attending the Riksdag (of which in his official capacity he was a
member), the long-dreaded catastrophe occurred. His insanity manifested
itself in tremendous projects of reform, world-conquests, and outbreaks
of wild sensuality. He was sent to a celebrated asylum in Sleswick; and
on the way thither wrote a series of "Fantasies of Travel" which have
all the rich harmony of his earlier verse, and are full of delightful
imagery. He fancied that there was a huge wheel of fire revolving with
furious haste in his head, and his sufferings were terrific. The
following fragment from the notes of his attendant, who kept a record of
his ravings, has a cosmic magnificence:

     "The whole trouble comes from that accursed nonsense about the
     diadem which they wanted to put on me. You may believe, though,
     that it was a splendid piece. Pictures in miniature, not painted,
     but living, really existing miniatures of fourteen of the noblest
     poets were made into a wreath. It was Homer and Pindar, Tasso and
     Virgil, Schiller, Petrarch, Ariosto, Goethe, Sophocles, Leopold,
     Milton, and several more. Between each one of them burned a radiant
     star, not of tinsel, but of real cosmic material. In the middle of
     my forehead there was the figure of a lyre on the diadem, which had
     borrowed something of the sun's own living light; it poured with
     such bright refulgence upon the wreath of stars that I seemed to be
     gazing straight through the world. As long as the lyre stood still,
     everything was well with me--but all of a sudden it began to move
     in a circle. Faster and ever faster it moved, until every nerve in
     my body was shaken. At last it began to rotate in rings with such
     speed that it was transformed into a sun. Then my whole being was
     broken, and it moved and trembled; for you must know that the
     diadem was no longer put on the outside of my head, but inside, on
     my very brain. And now it began to whirl around with an
     inconceivable violence, until it suddenly broke and burst into
     pieces. Darkness--darkness--darkness and night spread over the
     whole world wherever I turned. I was bewildered and faint, and I
     who had always hated weakness in men--I wept; I shed hot, burning
     tears. All was over."[41]

    [41] Brandes: Esaias Tegner, pp. 231-223.

Contrary to the expectation of his friends he recovered rapidly, and was
able to return home in May, 1841. He promptly resumed his episcopal
functions, and even wrote a beautiful rural idyl in hexameters called
"The Crowned Bride" (_Kronbruden_), which he dedicated to Franzen. He
was well aware, however, that his powers were on the wane, and in 1845
he was persuaded to apply for a year's relief from his official duties.
The last months of his life he spent mostly lying upon a sofa in his
library, surrounded by great piles of books containing a most
miscellaneous assortment of classics, from Homer to Goethe,
intersprinkled with controversial pamphlets and recent novels. He was
gentle and affectionate in his demeanor; and his beautiful face lighted
up with a smile whenever any of his children or grandchildren approached
him. Once or twice a day he drove out in his carriage, and he was even
able to visit his eldest son, who was a clergyman in Scania, and to
receive the sacrament for the last time from his hand. Shortly after his
return he was stricken with paralysis, and died November 2, 1846, in the
sixty-fourth year of his age. His mind was unclouded and his voice was
clear. When the autumnal sun suddenly burst through the windows and
shone upon the dying poet, he murmured: "I will lift up mine hands unto
the house and the mountain of God."

These were his last words. He was carried to the grave at night by the
light of lanterns, followed by a long procession of the clergy,
citizens, and the school-boys of his diocese. Peasants, from whose ranks
he had sprung and to whom he was always a good friend, bore his coffin.

The academic tendency which "idealizes" life and shuns earth-scented
facts, had, through the decisive influence of Tegner, been victorious in
Swedish literature. I am aware that some will regard this as a
questionable statement; for the academicism of Tegner is not the
stately, bloodless, Gallic classicism of the Gustavian age, of which
Leopold was the last representative. It is much closer to the classicism
of Goethe in "Iphigenia" and "Hermann and Dorothea," and of Schiller in
"Wallenstein" and "Wilhelm Tell." Tegner's poetic creed was exactly that
of Schiller, who saw no impropriety in making the peasant lad, Arnold
Melchthal, when he hears that his father has been blinded, deliver an
enraptured apostrophe to the light:

    "O eine edle Himmelsgabe ist
    Das Licht des Auges," etc.

The rhetorical note is predominant in both. Their thoughts have to be
arrayed in the flowing toga before they are held to be presentable. This
is the academic tendency in Sweden as in France, even though the degree
of euphemistic magniloquence may differ with the age and latitude. The
Swedes have been called the Frenchmen of the North, and there is no
doubt that delight in this toga-clad rhetoric is inherent in both. It
was because Tegner, in appealing to this delight, was so deeply
representative that he extinguished the old school and became the
national poet of Sweden.



           *       *       *       *       *



Transcriber's notes:

   Dostoyevski is also spelled Dostojevski and Dostoyefski

   Tolstoi is also spelled Tostoi.

   It appears that Fortaellinger is also spelled Fortaellinger.

   Page 11: valuble changed to valuable. Typo.

   Page 45: Gjeunembrud's is a typo for Gjennembrud's. Changed
            in text.

   Page 191: Open parenthesis added to 1882.

   Page 262: ["The objections to "Frithjof's Saga" which] was
             changed to [The objections to "Frithjof's Saga" which].
             The first double quote appears to be unnecessary.

   Page 270: The stanzas are spaced as they appear in the original
             text, although they appear to be in error.



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