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 inColumbia College LondonDavid Nutt, 270, Strand1895. Copyright, 1895, by Charles Scribner's Sonsfor the United States of AmericaPrinted by the Trow Directory, Printing and Bookbinding CompanyNew York, U. S. A. PREFACE Some twenty years ago the ambition seized me to write a History ofScandinavian Literature. I scarcely realized then what an enormousamount of reading would be required to equip me for this task. Mystudies naturally led me much beyond the scope of my original intention. There was a fascination in the work which lured me perpetually on, andmade me explore with a constantly increasing zest the great literarypersonalities of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. Thus my chapter on HenrikIbsen grew into a book of three hundred and seventeen pages, which waspublished a year ago, and must be regarded as supplementary to thepresent volume. The chapter on Björnstjerne Björnson was in danger ofexpanding to similar proportions, and only the most heroic condensationsaved it from challenging criticism as an independent work. As regardsNorway and Denmark, I have endeavored to select all the weightiest andmost 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 BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON, 3 ALEXANDER KIELLAND, 107 JONAS LIE, 121 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN, 155 CONTEMPORARY DANISH LITERATURE, 181 GEORG BRANDES, 199 ESAIAS TEGNÉR, 219 BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON I Björnstjerne Björnson is the first Norwegian poet who can in any sensebe called national. The national genius, with its limitations as well asits virtues, has found its living embodiment in him. Whenever he openshis mouth it is as if the nation itself were speaking. If he writes alittle song, hardly a year elapses before its phrases have passed intothe common speech of the people; composers compete for the honor ofinterpreting it in simple, Norse-sounding melodies, which gradually worktheir way from the drawing-room to the kitchen, the street, and thenceout over the wide fields and highlands of Norway. His tales, romances, and dramas express collectively the supreme result of the nation'sexperience, so that no one to-day can view Norwegian life or Norwegianhistory except through their medium. The bitterest opponent of the poet(for like every strong personality he has many enemies) is thus no lesshis debtor than his warmest admirer. His speech has stamped itself uponthe very language and given it a new ring, a deeper resonance. Histhought fills the air, and has become the unconscious property of allwho have grown to manhood and womanhood since the day when his titanicform first loomed up on the horizon of the North. It is not only astheir first and greatest poet that the Norsemen love and hate him, butalso 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 ofstrife, which it is to be hoped will not sprout forth in armed men. A man's ancestry and environment, no doubt, account in a superficialmanner for his appearance and mental characteristics. Having the man, weare able to trace the germs of his being in the past of his race and hiscountry; but, with all our science we have not yet acquired theingenuity to predict the man--to deduce him _a priori_ from the tangleof determining causes which enveloped his birth. It seems beautifullyappropriate in the Elder Edda that the god-descended hero Helge theVölsung should be born amid gloom and terror in a storm which shakes thehouse, while the Norns--the goddesses of fate--proclaim in the tempesthis tempestuous career. Equally satisfactory it appears to have themodern champion of Norway--the typical modern Norseman--born on thebleak and wild Dovre Mountain, [1] where there is winter eight months ofthe year and cold weather during the remaining four. The parish ofKvikne, in Oesterdalen, where his father, the Reverend Peder Björnson, held a living, had a bad reputation on account of the unruly ferocityand brutal violence of the inhabitants. One of the Reverend PederBjörnson's recent predecessors never went into his pulpit, unarmed; andanother fled for his life. The peasants were not slow in intimating tothe new pastor that they meant to have him mind his own business andconform to the manners and customs of the parish; but there theyreckoned without their host. The reverend gentleman made short work ofthe opposition. He enforced the new law of compulsory education withoutheeding its unpopularity; and when the champion fighter of the valleycame 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 thestairs, where he picked himself up wonderingly and promptly took to hisheels. [1] December 8, 1832. During the winter the snow reached up to the second-story windows of theparsonage; and the servants had to tunnel their way to the storehouseand the stables. The cold was so intense that the little Björnstjernethought twice before touching a door knob, as his fingers were liable tostick to the metal. When he was six years old, however, his father wastransferred to Romsdal, which is, indeed, a wild and grandly picturesqueregion; but far less desolate than Dovre. "It lies, " says Björnson, "broad--bosomed between two confluent fjords, with a green mountainabove, cataracts and homesteads on the opposite shore, waving meadowsand activity in the bottom of the valley; and all the way out toward theocean, mountains with headland upon headland running out into the fjordand a large farm upon each. " The feeling of terror, the crushing sense of guilt which Björnson has sostrikingly portrayed in the first chapters of "In God's Way, " werefamiliar to his own childhood. In every life, as in every race, the Godof fear precedes the God of love. And in Northern Norway, where natureseems so tremendous and man so insignificant, no boy escapes thesephantoms of dread which clutch him with icy fingers. But as acounterbalancing force in the young Björnson, we have his confidence inthe strength and good sense of his gigantic father, who could thrash thestrongest champion in the parish. He used to stand in the evening on thebeach "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 suddenlystop in this or that valley, while running on skees, and standspell-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 waskeenly conscious of a sense of confinement and sorrow. "[2] "We catch aglimpse in these childish memories, " says Mr. Nordahl Rolfsen, "of theremarkable 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 thatanyone is encroaching upon what he deems the right. But this samepugnacious man, whom it is so hard to overcome, can be overwhelmed by anemotion and surrender himself to it with his whole being. " [2] Nordahl Rolfsen: Norske Digtere, pp. 450, 451. At the age of twelve Björnson was sent to the Latin school at Molde, where, however, his progress was not encouraging. He was one of thosethoroughly healthy and headstrong boys who are the despair of ambitiousmothers, and whom fathers (when the futility of educational chastisementhas been finally proved) are apt to regard with a resigned andhalf-humorous regret. His dislike of books was instinctive, hearty, anduncompromising. His strong, half-savage boy-nature could brook norestraints, and looked longingly homeward to the wide mountain plains, the foaming rivers where the trout leaped in the summer night, and thecalm fjord where you might drift blissfully along, as it were, suspendedin the midst of the vast, blue, ethereal space. And when the summervacation came, with its glorious freedom and irresponsibility, he wouldroam at his own sweet will through forest and field, until hunger andfatigue forced him to return to his father's parsonage. After several years of steadily unsuccessful study, Björnson at lastpassed the so-called _examen artium_, which admitted him to theUniversity of Christiania. He was now a youth of large, almost athleticframe, with a handsome, striking face, and a pair of blue eyes which noone is apt to forget who has ever looked into them. There was a certaingrand simplicity and _naīveté_ in his manner, and an exuberance ofanimal spirits which must have made him an object of curious interestamong his town-bred fellow-students. But his University career was ofbrief duration. All the dimly fermenting powers of his rich nature werenow beginning to clarify, the consciousness of his calling began toassert itself, and the demand for expression became imperative. Hisliterary _début_ was an historic drama entitled "Valborg, " which wasaccepted for representation by the directors of the Christiania Theatre, and procured for its author a free ticket to all theatricalperformances; it was, however, never brought on the stage, as Björnson, having had his eyes opened to its defects, withdrew it of his ownaccord. At this time the Norwegian stage was almost entirely in the hands of theDanes, and all the more prominent actors were of Danish birth. Theatrical managers drew freely on the dramatic treasures of Danishliterature, and occasionally, to replenish the exchequer, reproduced aFrench comedy or farce, whose epigrammatic pith and vigor were more thanhalf-spoiled in the translation. The drama was as yet an exotic inNorway; it had no root in the national soil, and could accordingly in norespect represent the nation's own struggles and aspirations. Thecritics themselves, no doubt, looked upon it merely as a form ofamusement, a thing to be wondered and stared at, and to be dismissedfrom the mind as soon as the curtain dropped. Björnson, whose patrioticsoul could not endure the thought of this abject foreign dependence, ascribed all the existing abuses to the predominance of the Danishelement, and in a series of vehement articles attacked the Danishactors, managers, and all who were in any way responsible for theunworthy condition of the national stage. In return he reaped, as mighthave been expected, an abundant harvest of abuse, but the discussion hehad provoked furnished food for reflection, and the rapid development ofthe Norwegian drama during the next decade is, no doubt, largelytraceable to his influence. The liberty for which he had yearned so long, Björnson found at theInternational Students' Reunion of 1856. Then the students of theNorwegian and Danish Universities met in Upsala, where they werereceived with grand festivities by their Swedish brethren. Here the poetcaught the first glimpse of a greater and freer life than moved withinthe narrow horizon of the Norwegian capital. This gay and carelessstudent-life, this cheerful abandonment of all the artificial shackleswhich burden one's feet in their daily walk through a bureaucraticsociety, the temporary freedom which allows one without offence to toasta prince and hug a count to one's bosom--all this had its influenceupon Björnson's sensitive nature; it filled his soul with a happyintoxication and with confidence in his own strength. And having oncetasted a life like this he could no more return to what he had leftbehind him. The next winter we find him in Copenhagen, laboring with an intensity ofcreative ardor which he had never known before. His striking appearance, the pithy terseness of his speech, and a certain _naīve_ self-assertionand impatience of social restraints made him a notable figure in thepolite and somewhat effeminate society of the Danish capital. There wasa general expectation at that time that a great poet was to come, andalthough Björnson had as yet published nothing to justify theexpectation, he found the public of Copenhagen ready to recognize in himthe 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 hedid not discourage this belief, for he himself fervently believed thathe would before long justify it. The first proof of his strength he gavein the tale "Synnöve Solbakken" (Synnöve Sunny-Hill), which he publishedin an illustrated weekly, and afterward in book-form. It is a veryunpretending little story, idyllic in tone, but realistic in itscoloring, and redolent of the pine and spruce and birch of the Norwegianhighlands. It had been the fashion in Norway since the nation regained itsindependence to interest one's self in a lofty, condescending way inthe life of the peasantry. A few well-meaning persons, like the poetWergeland, had labored zealously for their enlightenment and theimprovement of their economic condition; but, except in the case of suchsingle individuals, no real and vital sympathy and fellow-feeling hadever existed between the upper and the lower strata of Norwegiansociety. And as long as the fellow-feeling is wanting, this zeal forenlightenment, however laudable its motive, is not apt to producelasting results. The peasants view with distrust and suspicion whatevercomes to them from their social superiors, and the so-called "usefulbooks, " which were scattered broadcast over the land, were of atediously didactic character, and, moreover, hardly adapted to thecomprehension of those to whom they were ostensibly addressed. Wergelandhimself, with all his self-sacrificing ardor, had but a vague conceptionof 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 andinstruct them. It hardly occurred to him that the culture of which heand his colleagues were the representatives was itself a foreignimportation, and could not by any violent process be ingrafted upon thenational trunk, which drew its strength from centuries of national life, history, and tradition. That this peasantry, whom the _bourgeoisie_ andthe aristocracy of culture had been wont to regard with half-pityingcondescension, were the real representatives of the Norse nation; thatthey had preserved through long years of tyranny and foreign oppressionthe historic characteristics of their Norse forefathers, while the upperclasses had gone in search of strange gods, and bowed their necks to theforeign yoke; that in their veins the old strong saga-life was stillthrobbing with vigorous pulse-beats--this was the lesson which Björnsonundertook to teach his countrymen, and a very fruitful lesson it hasproved to be. It has inspired the people with renewed courage, it hasturned the national life into fresh channels, and it has revolutionizednational politics. To be sure all this was not the result of the idyllic little tale whichmarked the beginning of his career. But this little tale, although notrace of what the Germans call "tendency" is to be found in it, is stillsignificant as being the poet's first indirect manifesto, and as suchdistinctly foreshadowing the path which he has since followed. First, in its purely literary aspect, "Synnöve Solbakken" was strikinglynovel. The author did not, as his predecessors had done, view the peoplefrom the exalted pedestal of superior culture; not as a subject forbenevolent preaching and charitable condescension, but as a concretephenomenon, whose _raison d'étre_ was as absolute and indisputable asthat of the _bourgeoisie_ or the bureaucracy itself. He depicted theirsoul-struggles and the incidents of their daily life with a lovingminuteness and a vivid realism hitherto unequalled in the literature ofthe North. He did not, like Auerbach, construct his peasant figuresthrough laborious reflection, nor did he attempt by anxiouspsychological analysis to initiate the reader into their processes ofthought and emotion. He simply depicted them as he saw and knew them. Their feelings and actions have their immediate, self-evident motives inthe characters themselves, and the absence of analysis on the author'spart gives an increased energy and movement to the story. Mr. Nordahl Rolfsen relates, _ā propos_ of the reception which wasaccorded Björnson's first book, the following amusing anecdote: "'Synnöve Solbakken' was printed, and its author was anxious to have hisfriends read it. But not one of them could be prevailed upon. At last acomrade was found who was persuaded to attack it on the promise of abottle of punch. He entered Björnson's den, got a long pipe which hefilled with tobacco, undressed himself completely--for it was a hotday--flung himself on the bed, and began to read. Björnson sat in thesofa, breathless with expectation. Leaf after leaf was turned; not asmile, not a single encouraging word! The young poet had good reason toregard the battle as lost. At last the pipe, the bottle, and the bookwere finished. Then the merciless Stoic rose and began to dress, and thefollowing little exclamation escaped him: 'That is, the devil take me, the best book I have read in all my life. '" Björnson's style was no less novel than his theme. It may or it may nothave been consciously modelled after the saga style, to which, however, it bears an obvious resemblance. In his early childhood, while he livedamong the peasants, he became familiar with their mode of thought andspeech, and it entered into his being, and became his own natural modeof expression. There is in his daily conversation a certain grimdirectness, and a laconic weightiness, which give an air of importanceand authority even to his simplest utterances. This tendency tocompression frequently has the effect of obscurity, not because histhought is obscure, but rather because energetic brevity of expressionhas fallen into disuse, and even a Norse public, long accustomed to thewordy diffuseness of latter-day bards, have in part lost the faculty tocomprehend the genius of their own language. As a Danish critic wittilyobserved: "Björnson's language is but one step removed from pantomime. " In 1858 Björnson assumed the directorship of the theatre in Bergen, andthere published his second tale, "Arne, " in which the same admirableself-restraint, the same implicit confidence in the intelligenceof his reader, the same firm-handed decision and vigor in thecharacter-drawing, in fact, all the qualities which delighted the publicin "Synnöve Solbakken, " were found in an intensified degree. In the meanwhile, Björnson had also made his _début_ as a dramatist. Inthe year 1858 he had published two dramas, "Mellem Slagene" (Between theBattles) and "Halte-Hulda" (Limping Hulda) both of which deal withnational subjects, taken from the old sagas. As in his tales he hadendeavored to concentrate into a few strongly defined types the modernfolk-life of the North, so in his dramas the same innate love of hisnationality leads him to seek the typical features of his people, asthey are revealed in the historic chieftains of the past. "Between the Battles" is a dramatic episode rather than a drama. Duringthe civil war between King Sverre and King Magnus in the twelfthcentury, the former visits in disguise a hut upon the mountains where ayoung warrior, Halvard Gjaela and Inga, his beloved, are livingtogether. The long internecine strife has raised the hand of fatheragainst son, and of brother against brother. Halvard sympathizes withSverre; Inga, who hates the king because he has burned her father'sfarm, is a partisan of Magnus. In the absence of her lover she goes tothe latter's camp and brings back with her a dozen warriors for thepurpose of capturing Halvard, and thereby preventing him from joiningthe enemy. Sverre discovers the warriors, whom she has hidden in thecow-stable, and persuading them that he is a spy for King Magnus sendstwo of them to his own army for reinforcements. In the meanwhile hereconciles the estranged lovers, makes peace between them and Inga'sfather, and finally, in the last scene, as his men arrive, is recognizedas the king. This is, of course, a venerable _coup de théâtre_. Whatever noveltythere is in the play must be sought, not in the situations, but in thepithy and laconic dialogue, which has a distinct national coloring. Thiswas not the amiable diffuseness of Oehlenschlaeger, who had hithertodominated the Norwegian as well as the Danish stage; and yet it did notby any means represent so complete a breach with the traditions of theromantic drama as was claimed by Björnson's admirers. The freshnaturalness and absence of declamation were a gain, no doubt; but thereare yet several notes remaining which have the well-known romanticcadence. "Between the Battles, " though too slight to be called anachievement, was accepted as a pledge of achievement in future. Björnson's next drama "Limping Hulda" ("Halte-Hulda") (1858) was apartial fulfilment of this pledge. If it is not high tragedy, in theancient sense, it is of the stuff that tragedy is made of. Hulda is animpressive stage figure in her demoniac passion and tiger-liketenderness. Though I doubt if Björnson has, in this type, caught thesoul of a Norse woman of the saga age, he has come much nearer tocatching it than any of his predecessors. If Gudrun Osvif's Daughter, ofthe 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 fatefulspell about her beauty which brings death to whomsoever looks too longupon it. Though ostensibly a saga-drama, the harshness and grim ferocityof that sanguinary period are softened; and a romantic illuminationpervades the whole action. A certain lyrical effusiveness in the lovepassages (which is alien to all Björnson's later works) hints at theinfluence of the Danish Romanticists, and particularly Oehlenschlaeger. It would be unfair, perhaps, to take the author to task because thisyouthful drama exhibits no remarkable subtlety in its conception ofcharacter. It contains no really great living figure who stands squarelyupon his feet and lingers in the memory. A certain half-rhetoricalimpulse carries you along; and the external effectiveness of thesituations keeps the interest on the alert. For all that "LimpingHulda, " like its predecessors and its successors, tended to stimulatepowerfully the national spirit, which was then asserting itself in everydepartment of intellectual activity. Thus a national theatre had, by theperseverance and generosity of Ole Bull, been established in his nativecity, Bergen; and it was almost a matter of course that an effort shouldbe made to identify Björnson with an enterprise which accorded so wellwith his own aspirations. His connection with the Norwegian Theatre ofBergen was, however, not of long duration, for though your enthusiasmmay be ever so great it is a thankless task to act as "artisticdirector" of a stage in a town which is neither artistic enough norlarge enough to support a playhouse with a higher aim than that offurnishing ephemeral amusement. From Bergen he was called to theeditorship of _Aftenbladet_ (The Evening Journal), the second politicaldaily of Christiania, and continued there with hot zeal and eloquencehis battle for "all that is truly Norse. " But a brief experience sufficed to convince him that daily journalismwas not his _forte_. He was and is too indiscreet, precipitate, credulous, and inconsiderately generous to be a successful editor. If apaper could be conducted on purely altruistic principles, and withoutreference to profits, there would be no man fitter to occupy aneditorial chair. For as an inspiring force, as a radiating focus ofinfluence, his equal is not to be encountered "in seven kingdoms round. "However, this inspiring force could reach a far larger public throughpublished books than through the columns of a newspaper. It wastherefore by no means in a regretful frame of mind that he descendedfrom the editorial tripod, and in the spring of 1860 started for Italy. Previous to his departure he published, through the famous house ofGyldendal, 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 itsunpretentiousness, some of Björnson's noblest work. I need only mentionthe masterly tale "The Father, " with its sobriety and serene strength. Iknow but one other instance[3] of so great tragedy, told in so few andsimple words. "Arne, " "En Glad Gut" (A Happy Boy), and the amusingdialect story, "Ei Faarleg Friing" (A Dangerous Wooing), also belong tothis delightful collection. These little masterpieces of concisestory-telling have been included in the popular two-volume edition of"Fortällinger, " which contains also "The Fisher-maiden" (1867-68), theexquisite story, "The Bridal March" (1872), originally written as textto three of Tidemand's paintings, and a vigorous bit of disguisedautobiography, "Blakken, " of which not the author but a horse is theostensible hero. [3] Austin Dobson's poem, "The Cradle. " The descriptive name for all these tales, except the last, is idyl. Itwas, indeed, the period when all Europe (outside the British empire) wasviewing the hardy sons of the soil through poetic spectacles. In GermanyAuerbach 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 thepeasant's honest rudeness and straightforwardness with the refinedsophistication and hypocrisy of the higher classes. George Sand, withher beautiful Utopian genius, poured forth a torrent of rural narrativeof a crystalline limpidity ("Mouny Robin, " "La Mare au Diable, " "LaPetite Fadette, " etc. , 1841-1849), which is as far removed from theturbid stream of Balzac ("Les Paysans") and Zola ("La Terre"), asParadise is from the Inferno. There is an echo of Rousseau's gospel ofnature in all these tales, and the same optimistic delusion regarding"the people" for which the eighteenth century paid so dearly. Thepainters likewise caught the tendency, and with the same thorough-goingconscientiousness as their brethren of the quill, disguised coarsenessas strength, bluntness as honesty, churlishness as dignity. What anidyllic sweetness there is, for instance, in Tidemand's scenes ofNorwegian peasant life! What a _spirituelle_ and movingly sentimentalnote in the corresponding German scenes of Knaus and Hübner, and, _longointervallo_, Meyerheim and Meyer von Bremen. Not a breath of the broadhumor of Teniers and Van Ostade in these masters; scarcely a hint of therobust animality and clownish jollity with which the clear-sightedDutchmen endowed their rural revellers. Though pictorial art has not, outside of Russia (where the great and unrivalled Riepin paints thepeasant with the brush as remorselessly as Tolstoī and Dostoyefski withthe pen), kept pace with the realistic movement in literature, yet thereis no lack of evidence that the rose-colored tinge is vanishing evenfrom the painter's spectacles; and such uncompromising veracity as thatof Millet and Courbet, which the past generation despised, is now hailedwith acclaim in such masters as Bastien-Lepage, Dagnan-Bouveret, andthe Scandinavians, Kristian Krog and Anders Zorn. Björnson is, however, temperamentally averse to that modern naturalismwhich insists upon a minute fidelity to fact without reference toartistic values. His large and spacious mind has a Southern exposure, and has all "its windows thrown wide open to the sun. " A sturdyoptimism, which is prone to believe good of all men, unless they happento be his political antagonists, inclines him to overlook what does notfit into his own scheme of existence. And yet no one can say that, aspresentations of Norwegian peasant life, "Synnöve, " "Arne, " "The BridalMarch, " etc. , are untrue, though, indeed, one could well imaginepictures in very much sombrer colors which might lay a valider claim toveracity. Kielland's "Laboring People, " and Kristian Elster's "A Walk tothe Cross" and "Kjeld Horge, " give the reverse of the medal of whichBjörnson exhibits the obverse. These authors were never in any wayidentified with "the people, " and could not help being struck with manyof the rude and unbeautiful phases of rural existence; while Björnson, who sprang directly from the peasantry, had the pride and intelligenceof kinship, and was not yet lifted far enough above the life he depictedto have acquired the cultivated man's sense of condescension andpatronizing benevolence. He was but one generation removed from thesoil; and he looked with a strong natural sympathy and affectionatepredilection upon whatever reminded him of this origin. If he had been apeasant, however, he could never have become the wonderful chroniclerthat he is. It is the elevation, slight though it be, which enables himto survey the fields in which his fathers toiled and suffered. Or, toquote Mr. Rolfsen: "Björnson is the son of a clergyman; he has neverhimself personally experienced the peasant's daily toil and narrowparochial vision. He has felt the power of the mountains over his mind, and been filled with longing, as a grand emotion, but the contractednessof the spiritual horizon has not tormented him. He has not to take thatinto account when he writes. During the tedious school-days, hisbeautiful Romsdal valley lay waiting for him, beckoning him home atevery 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 drawingout what is good in a man, and brushes away as of small account whatdoes 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 theseearly tales seems to bask in the genial glow of his optimism. The farmSolbakken (Sunny Hill) lies on a high elevation, where the sun shinesfrom its rise to its setting, and both Synnöve and her parents walkabout in this still and warm illumination. They are all good, estimablepeople, and their gentle piety, without any tinge of fanaticism, investsthem with a quiet dignity. The sterner and hardier folk at Granliden(Pine Glen) have a rugged honesty and straightforwardness which, inconnection with their pithy and laconic speech, makes them less genial, but no less typically Norse. They have a distinct atmosphere and spinalcolumns that keep them erect, organic, and significant. Evenreprehensible characters like Aslak and Nils Tailor (in "Arne") have acertain claim upon our sympathy, the former as a helpless victim ofcircumstance, the latter as a suppressed and perverted genius. In the spring of 1860 Björnson went abroad and devoted three years toforeign travel, spending the greater part of his time in Italy. FromRome he sent home the historical drama "King Sverre" (1861), which isone of his weakest productions. It is written in blank verse, withoccasional rhymes in the more impressive passages. Of dramatic interestin the ordinary sense, there is but little. It is a series of more orless animated scenes, from the period of the great civil war(1130-1240), connected by the personality of Sverre. Under the mask, however, of mediæval history, the author preaches a political sermon tohis own contemporaries. Sverre, as the champion of the common peopleagainst the tribal aristocracy, and the wily Bishop Nicholas as therepresentative of the latter become, as it were, permanent forces, whichhave continued their battle to the present day. There can be no doubtthat Björnson, whose sympathies are strongly democratic, permitted thedebate between the two to become needlessly didactic, and strainedhistorical verisimilitude by veiled allusions to contemporaneousconditions. 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 hisstruggle with the vain and mean-spirited king, Harold Gille, is thetheme of the dramatic trilogy. Björnson attempts to give the spiritualdevelopment of Sigurd from the moment he becomes acquainted with hisroyal birth until his final destruction. From a frank and generousyouth, who is confident that he is born for something great, he isdriven by the treachery, cruelty, and deceit of his brother, the king, into the position of a desperate outlaw and guerilla. The very firstscene, in the church of St. Olaf, where the boy confides to the saint, in a tone of _bonne camaraderie_, his joy at having conquered, inwrestling, the greatest champion in the land, gives one the key-note tohis 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 Lindesnäs 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 openingmonologue marks the man who, in spite of the obscurity of his origin, feels his right to be first, and who, in this victory, celebrates theattainment of his birthright. Equally luminous by way ofcharacterization is his exclamation to St. Olaf when he hears that he isKing Magnus Barefoot's son: "Then we are kinsmen, Olaf, you and I!" According to Norwegian law at that time, every son of a king wasentitled to his share of the kingdom, and Sigurd's first impulse is togo straight to Harold Gille and demand his right. His friend KollSaebjörnson persuades him, however, to abandon this hopeless adventure, and gives him a ship with which he sails to the Orient, takes part inmany wars, and gains experience and martial renown. The second part of the trilogy deals with Sigurd's sojourn at theOrkneys, where he interferes in the quarrel between the Earls Haroldand Paul. The atmosphere of suspicion, insecurity, and gloom which hangslike a portentous cloud over these scenes is the very same which blowstoward us from the pages of the sagas. Björnson has gazed deeply intothe heart of Northern paganism, and has here reproduced the heroicanarchy which was a necessary result of the code permitting theindividual to avenge his own wrongs. The two awful women, Helga andFrakark, the mother and the aunt of the earls, are types which areconstantly met with in the saga. It is a long-recognized fact thatwomen, under lawless conditions, develop the wildest extremes ofambition, avarice, and blood-thirstiness, and taunt the men with theirweak scruples. These two furies of the Orkneys plot murder with aninfernal coolness, which makes Lady Macbeth a kind-hearted woman bycomparison. They recognize in Sigurd a man born for leadership;determine to use him for the furtherance of their plans, and to get ridof 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. Whileappearing to acquiesce, he plays for stakes of his own, but in the endabandons all in disgust at the death of Earl Harold, who intentionallyputs on the poisoned shirt, prepared for his brother. There is no greatand monumental scene in this part which engraves itself deeply upon thememory. The love scenes with Audhild, the young cousin of the earls, are incidental and episodical, and exert no considerable influenceeither upon Sigurd's character or upon the development of the intrigue. Historically they are well and realistically conceived; but dramaticallythey are not strong. Another criticism, which has already been made bythe Danish critic, Georg Brandes, refers to an offence against this veryhistorical sense which is usually so vivid in Björnson. When Frakark, the Lady Macbeth of the play, remarks, "I am far from feeling sure ofthe individual mortality so much preached of; but there is animmortality of which I am sure; it is that of the race, " she makes anintellectual somersault from the twelfth century into the nineteenth, and never gets back firmly on her pagan feet again. As Brandes wittilyobserves: "People who talk like that do not torture their enemy todeath; they backbite him. " The third part opens with Sigurd's appearance at court, where he revealshis origin and asks for his share of the kingdom. The king is notdisinclined to grant his request, but is overruled by his councillors, who profit by his weakness and rule in his name. They fear this man ofmany battles, with the mark of kingship on his brow; and they determineto murder him. But Sigurd escapes from prison, and, holding the kingresponsible for the treachery, kills him. From this time forth he is anoutlaw, hunted over field and fell, and roaming with untold sufferingsthrough the mountains and wildernesses. There he meets a Finnish maidenwho loves him, reveals his fate to him, and implores him to abandon hisambition and dwell among her people. These scenes amid the eternalwastes of snow are perhaps the most striking in the trilogy and mostabounding in exquisite poetic thought. Sigurd hastens hence to his doomat the battle of Holmengra, where he is defeated, and, with fiendishatrocity, slowly tortured to death. The rather lyrical monologuepreceding his death, in which he bids farewell to life and calmlyadjusts his gaze to eternity, is very beautiful, but, historically, atrifle out of tune. Barring these occasional lapses from the key, thetrilogy of "Sigurd Slembe" is a noble work. A respectful, and in part enthusiastic, reception had been accorded toBjörnson's early plays. But his first dramatic triumph he celebrated atthe performance of "Mary Stuart in Scotland. " Externally this is themost effective of his plays. The dialogue is often brilliant, andbristles with telling points. It is eminently "actable, " presentingstriking tableaus and situations. Behind the author we catch a glimpseof the practical stage-manager who knows how a scene will look on theboards and how a speech will sound--who can surmise with tolerableaccuracy 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 tospeak of his interminable musical verbiage in "Bothwell") but it ispaler, colder, and poetically inferior. The voluptuous warmth and wealthof color, the exquisite levity, the _débonnaire_ grace of theSwinburnian drama we seek in vain. Björnson is vigorous, but he is notsubtile. Mere feline amorousness, such as Swinburne so inimitablyportrays, he would disdain to deal with if even he could. Such a bit ofintricate self-characterization as the English poet puts into theQueen's mouth in the first scene with Chastelard, in the third act, liesutterly 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 toyou, " uttered in the midst of amorous cooings and murmurings, and wecatch a glimpse of the demoniac depth of this woman's nature. Björnson's"Mary Stuart" weeps more than once; nay, she says to Bothwell, when hehas 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 responseto Bothwell's reference to her son: "My son, my lovely boy! Oh, God, now he lies sleeping in his littlewhite bed, and does not know how his mother is battling for his sake. " Schiller, whose conception of womankind was as honestly single andrespectful as that of Björnson, had set a notable precedent inrepresenting Mary Stuart as a martyr of a lost cause. The psychologicalantitheses of her character, her softness and loving surrender, and hertreachery and cruelty--he left out of account. Without troubling himself greatly about her guilt, which, though withmany palliating circumstances, he admitted, he undertook to exemplify inher the beauty and exaltation of noble suffering. His Mary (which hasalways been a favorite with tragic actresses) is in my opinion as devoidof that insinuating, sense-compelling charm which alone can account forthis extraordinary woman's career as is the heroine of Björnson's play. In fact Björnson's Mary lies half-way between the amorous young tigressof Swinburne and the statuesque martyr of Schiller. She is lessintricately feminine than the former, and more so than the latter. Butshe is yet a long way removed from her historical original, who musthave been a strong and full-blooded character, with just that touch ofmystery which nature always wears to whomsoever gazes deeply upon her. That subtile intercoiling of antagonistic traits, which in a man couldnever coexist, is to be found in many historic women of theRenaissance--exquisite, dangerous creatures, half-doves, half-serpents, half-Clytemnestra, half-Venus, whose full-throbbing passion now madethem soft and tender, over-brimming with loveliness, now fierce andimperious, their outraged pride revelling in vengeance and blood. IfBjörnson could have fathomed the depth and complexity of the historicalMary Stuart to the extent that Swinburne has done, he would, no doubt, also have devised a more effective conclusion to his play. There is nodramatic climax, far less a tragic one, in the dethronement of Mary, andthe proclamation by John Knox, which is chiefly an assertion of popularsovereignty, and the triumph of the Presbyterian Church. The declarationof 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 awavering and uncertain sound in it which seems inappropriate to atriumphant strain, when the organist naturally turns on the full forceof his organ. If (as is obvious) the Queen represents the evil, or atleast the weakness, which has been routed, it would appear that sheought to have been painted in quite different colors. Björnson's next dramatic venture, which rejoices to this day in anunabated popularity, was the two-act comedy, "The Newly Married" (_DeNygifte_). Goethe once made the remark that he was not a good dramatist, because his nature was too conciliatory. Without intendingdisparagement, I am inclined to apply the same judgment to Björnson. Hissunny optimism shrinks from irreconcilable conflicts and insolubleproblems; and in his desire to reconcile and solve, he occasionally isin danger of wrenching his characters out of drawing and muddling theirmotives. Half a dozen critics have already called attention to theambiguity of Mathilde's position and intentions in "The Newly Married. "That she loves Axel, the husband, is clear; and the probability is thatshe meant to avenge herself upon him for having before his marriage usedher as a decoy, when the real object of his attention was her friendLaura. But if such was her object, she lacked the strength of mind andhardness of heart to carry it out, and in the end she becomes abenevolent providence, who labors for the reconciliation of theestranged couple. She proves too noble for the ignoble _rôle_ she hadundertaken. Instead of wrecking the marriage, she sacrifices herselfupon the altar of friendship. To that there can, of course, be noobjection; but in that case the process of her mental change ought tohave been clearly shown. In Ibsen's "Rosmersholm, " Rebecca West, occupying a somewhat similar position, is subject to the same ennoblingof motive; but the whole drama hinges upon her moral evolution, andnothing is left to inference. The situation in "The Newly Married" is an extremely delicate one, andrequired delicate handling. Axel, a young and gifted lawyer, has marriedLaura, the daughter of a high and wealthy official, who prides himselfon his family dignity and connections. Laura, being an only child, hasbeen petted and spoiled since her birth, and is but a grown-up littlegirl, with no conception of her matrimonial obligations. Shesubordinates her relation to her husband to that to her parents, andexasperates 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 herparents, where they have hitherto been living, and establishes himselfin a distant town. Mathilde, Laura's friend, accompanies them, though itis difficult to conjecture in what capacity; and publishes an anonymousnovel, in which she enlightens the young wife regarding the probableresults of her conduct. She thrusts a lamp into the dusk of her soul andfrightens her by the things she shows her. She also, by arousing herjealousy, leads her out of childhood, with its veiled vision and happyignorance, into womanhood, with its unflinching recognition of therealities that were hidden from the child. And thus she paves the wayfor the reconciliation which takes place in the presence of the oldpeople, who pay their daughter a visit _en route_ for Italy. Mathilde, having accomplished her mission, acknowledges the authorship of theanonymous novel, and is now content to leave husband and wife in theconfidence that they will work out their own salvation. A mere skeleton of this simple plot (which barely hints at the realproblem) can, of course, give no conception of the charm, the color, andthe wonderful poetic afflatus of this exquisite little play. It may bewell enough to say that such a situation is far-fetched and not verytypical--that outside of "The Heavenly Twins, " _et id omne genus_, wiveswho insist upon remaining maidens are not very frequent; but, in spiteof this drawback, the vividness and emotional force of the dialogue andthe beautiful characterization (particularly of the old governor and hiswife) set certain sweet chords in vibration, and carry the play to atriumphant issue. As a school-boy I witnessed the first performance of "The NewlyMarried, " at the Christiania Theatre (1865), (as, indeed, of all theBjörnsonian dramas up to 1869); and I yet remember my surprise when, instead of mail-clad Norse warriors, carousing in a sooty, log-builthall, the curtain rose upon a modern interior, in which a fashionablyattired young lady kissed a frock-coated old gentleman. It was a diredisappointment to me and my comrade, who had come thirsting for gore. But how completely the poet conquered us! Each phrase seemed to woo ourreluctant ears, and the pulse of life that beat in the characters andcarried along the action awakened in us a delighted recognition. Truthto tell, we had but the very vaguest idea of what was the _prima causamalorum_; but for all that, with the rest of the audience, we wereimmensely gratified that the upshot of it all was so satisfactory. During the years 1865-67 Björnson occupied the position of artisticdirector of the Christiania Theatre, and edited the illustrated weeklypaper, _Norsk Folkeblad_ ("The Norwegian People's Journal"). As thechampion of Norwegian nationality in literature, and on the stage, heunfolded an amazing activity. In 1870 he published "Arnljot Gelline, " alyrical epic, relating, in a series of poems of irregular metres, thestory of the pagan marauder of that name, and his conversion toChristianity by King Olaf the Saint. Never has he found a more daringand tremendous expression for the spirit of old Norse paganism than inthis powerful but somewhat chaotic poem. Never has anyone gazed moredeeply into the ferocious heart of the primitive, predatory man, whosefree, wild soul had not yet been tamed by social obligations and thescourge of the law. In the same year (1870) was published the nowclassical collection of "Poems and Songs" (_Digte og Sange_), which, itis no exaggeration to say, marks a new era in the Norwegian lyric. AmongBjörnson's predecessors there are but two lyrists of the first order, viz. , Wergeland and Welhaven. The former was magnificently profuse andchaotic, abounding in verve and daring imagery, but withalhigh-sounding, declamatory, and, at his worst, bombastic. There is areminiscence in him of Klopstock's inflated rhetoric; and a certaindithyrambic ecstasy--a strained, high-keyed aria-style which sometimesbreaks into falsetto. His great rival, Welhaven, was soberer, clearer, more gravely melodious. He sang in beautiful, tempered strains, alongthe middle octaves, never ranging high into the treble or deep into thebase. There is a certain Tennysonian sweetness, artistic self-restraint, and plastic simplicity in his lyrics; just as there is in Wergeland'sreformatory ardor, his noble rage, and his piling up of worlds, æons, 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 generalsoil of the century, whose ideas they had absorbed. Their personalitieswere not sufficiently tinged with the color of nationality to give adistinctly Norse cadence to their voices. Wergeland seems to me like aman who was desperately anxious to acquire a national accent; butsomehow never could catch the trick of it. As regards Welhaven, he wasless aware of his deficiency (if deficiency it was); but was content tosing of Norse themes in a key of grave, universal beauty. Of the newnote that came into the Norwegian lyric with Björnson, I can discover nohint in his predecessors. Such a poem as, for instance, "Nils Finn, "with its inimitably droll refrain--how utterly inconceivable it would bein the mouth of Wergeland or Welhaven! The new quality in it is asunexplainable as the poem itself is untranslatable. It has thatinexpressible cadence and inflection of the Norse dialect which you feel(if you have the conditions for recognizing it) in the first word aNorseman addresses to you. It has that wonderful twang of the Hardangerfiddle, and the color and sentiment of the ballads sung and thelegendary tales recited around the hearth in a Norwegian homesteadduring the long winter nights. With Björnson it was in the blood. It washis soul's accent, the dialect of his thought, the cadence of hisemotion. And so, also, is the touching minor undertone in the poem, thetragic strain in the half burlesque, which is again so deeply Norwegian. Who that has ever been present at a Norse peasant wedding has failed tobe struck with the strangely melancholy strain in the merriest dances?And in Landstad's collection of "Norwegian Ballads" there is the sameblending of humor and pathos in such genuine folk-songs as _Truls medbogin, 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 ofthe past at the very first verse: "Og vetli Nils Finn skuldi ut at gå, Han fek inki ski 'i tel at hanga på --'Dat var ilt' sa'd 'uppundir. '" Neither Wergeland nor Welhaven nor any other poet has with all hisrapturous description of fjord, valley, and mountain, this power toconjure up the very soul of the Norseland. The purely juvenile rhymes ofBjörnson, such as _Killebukken, Lokkeleg_ and _Haren og Raeven_ ("TheHare and the Fox"), are significant because of the masterly securitywith which they strike the national key and keep it. Not a word is therethat rings false. And with what an exquisite tenderness the elegaicballad strain is rendered in _Venevil_ and "Hidden Love" (_DulgtKaerlighed_), and the playful in the deliciously girlish roguery of_Vidste du bare_ ("If you only knew"), and the bold dash and youngwantonness of "Marit's Song!" It seems to me that every Norseman's life, whether he is willing toacknowledge it or not, has been made richer and more beautiful by thisprecious volume. It contains a legacy to the Norwegian people which cannever grow old. If Björnson had written nothing else, he would still bethe first poet of Norway. How brazen, hollow, and bombastic sound thepatriotic lyrics of Bjerregaard Johan Storm Munch, S. O. Wolff, etc. , which are yet sung at festal gatherings, by the side of Björnson's "Yes, we Love our Native Country, " and "I will Guard Thee, my Land!" There isthe brassy blare of challenging trumpets in the former; they defy allcreation, 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 axedoth threaten him who dares break the Northland's peace. " Not a suggestion of this juvenile braggadocio is there to be found inBjörnson. Calm, strong, and nobly aglow with love of country, he has noneed of going into paroxysms in order to prove his sincerity. To thosewho regard the declamatory note as indispensable to a national hymn (aswe have it, for instance, in "Hail, Columbia, " and "The Star-spangledBanner") the low key in which Björnson's songs are pitched will no doubtappear as a blemish. But it is their very homeliness in connection withthe deep, full-throbbing emotion which beats in each forceful phrase--itis this, I fancy, which has made them the common property of the wholepeople, and thus in the truest sense national. I could never tell why myheart 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 thewords. The poem, as such, is by no means faultless. It is easy to pickflaws in it. The transition from the fifth and sixth lines of the firstverse: "Love it, love it, and think of our father and mother, " to theseventh and eighth, "And the saga night which makes dreams to descendupon our earth, " is unwarrantably forced and abrupt. And yet who wouldwish it changed? It may be admitted that there is no very subtle art inthe 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, whichnever fails to vibrate responsively. As regards Björnson's prosody, I am aware that it is sometimesdefective. Measured by the Tennysonian standard it is often needlesslyrugged and eccentric. But a poet whose bark carries so heavy a cargo ofthought may be forgiven if occasionally it scrapes the bottom. Moreover, the Norwegian tongue has never, as a medium of poetry, been polished andrefined to any such elaborate perfection as the English languageexhibits 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 theauthor'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 aproblem so important and so difficult as this. In the first place, wefind in "Sigurd the Crusader" not a trace of a didactic purpose beyondthat of familiarizing the people with its own history, and this, as hehimself admits in the preface just quoted, is merely a secondaryconsideration. He wishes to make all, irrespective of age, culture, andsocial station, feel strongly the bond of their common nationality; and, with this in view, he proceeds to unroll to them a panorama of simplebut striking situations, knit together by a plot or story which, withoutthe faintest tinge of sensationalism, appeals to those broadly human andnational sympathies which form the common mental basis of Norseignorance and Norse culture. He seizes the point in the saga where thelong-smouldering hostility between the royal brothers, Sigurd theCrusader and Eystein, has broken into full blaze, and traces, in aseries of vigorously sketched scenes, the intrigue and counter-intriguewhich hurry the action onward toward its logically prepared climax--amutual reconciliation. The dialogue is pithy, simple, and sententious. Nevertheless the play, as a whole, makes the impression ofincompleteness. It is a dramatic sketch rather than a drama. It marks noadvance on Björnson's previous work in the same line; but perhaps rathera retrogression. II A period is apt to come in the life of every man who is spirituallyalive, when his scholastic culture begins to appear insufficient and thetraditional premises of existence seem in need of readjustment andrevision. This period, with the spiritual crisis which it involves, islikely to occur between the thirtieth and the fortieth meridian. Ibsenwas thirty-four years old (1862) when in "The Comedy of Love" he brokewith the romanticism of his youth, and began to wrestle with theproblems of contemporary life. Goethe was thirty-seven when, in 1786, heturned his back upon the Storm and Stress, and in Italy sought andgained a new and saner vision of the world. This renewal of the sourceswhich water the roots of his spiritual being becomes an imperativenecessity to a man when he has exhausted the sources which traditionsupplies. It is terrible to wake up one morning and see one's past lifein a new and strange illumination, and the dust of ages lying inch-thickupon one's thoughts. It is distressing to have to pretend that you donot hear the doubt which whispers early and late in your ear, _Vanitas, vanitas, vanitas vanitatum_. Few are those of us who have the courage toface it, to rise up and fight with it, and rout it or be routed by it. Björnson had up to this time (1870) built solely upon tradition. He hadbeen orthodox, and had exalted childlike peace and faith above doubt andstruggle. Phrases indicative of a certain spiritual immaturity arescattered through his early poems. In "The Child in our Soul, " he says, for instance: "The greatest man on earth must cherish the child in hissoul and listen, amid the thunder, to what it whispers low;" and again:"Everything great that thought has invented sprouted forth in childlikejoy; and everything strong, sprung from what is good, obeyed the child'svoice. " Though in a certain sense that may be true enough, it belongs tothe kind of half-truths which by constant repetition grow perniciousand false. The man who at forty assumes the child's attitude of merewondering acceptance toward the world and its problems, may, indeed, bea very estimable character; but he will never amount to much. It is thehonest doubters, the importunate questioners, the indefatigable fighterswho have broken humanity's shackles, and made the world a morecomfortable abiding-place to the present generation than it was to thepast. There is unquestionably a strain of Danish romanticism inBjörnson's persistent harping upon childlike faith and simplicity and achildlike vision of the world. Grundtvig, with whom this note ispervasive, had in his early youth a great influence over him. Theglorification of primitive feeling was part of the romantic revoltagainst the dry rationalism of the so-called period of enlightenment. To account for the fact that so mighty a spirit as Björnson could havereached his thirty-eighth year before emerging from this state ofidyllic _naīveté_, I am inclined to quote the following passage fromBrandes, descriptive of the condition of the Scandinavian countriesduring 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 joyousor noisy self-satisfaction; for there was much sadness in their mindsafter the great disasters [the Sleswick-Holstein War]. .. . They restedon their laurels and fell into a doze. And while they dozed they haddreams. The cultivated, and especially the half-cultivated, public inDenmark and Norway dreamed that they were the salt of Europe. Theydreamed that by their idealism--the ideals of Grundtvig andKierkegaard--and their strong vigilance, they regenerated the foreignnations. They dreamed that they were the power which could rule theworld, but which, for mysterious and incomprehensible reasons, had for along series of years preferred to eat crumbs from the foreigners' table. They dreamed that they were the free, mighty North, which led the causeof 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 thisunflattering statement. Scandinavia had by its own choice cut itself offfrom the cosmopolitan world life; and the great ideas which agitatedEurope found scarcely an echo in the three kingdoms. In my own boyhood, which coincides with Björnson's early manhood, I heard on all handsexpressions of self-congratulation because the doubt and fermentingrestlessness which were undermining the great societies abroad had neverruffled the placid surface of our good, old-fashioned, Scandinavianorthodoxy. How heartily we laughed at the absurdities of Darwin, who, aswe had read in the newspapers, believed that he was descended from anape! How deeply, densely, and solidly ignorant we were; and yet howsuperior we felt in the midst of our ignorance! All this must be taken into account, if we are to measure thesignificance, as well as the courage, of Björnson's apostasy. For fiveyears (1870-74) he published nothing of an æsthetical character. But heplunged with hot zeal into political life, not only because he needed anoutlet for his pent-up energy; but because the question at issue engagedhim, heart and soul. The equal and co-ordinate position of Norway andSweden 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 lookedupon as a dependency, if not a province, of the latter. The Bernadottes, lacking comprehension of the Norwegian character, had shown themselvespurblind as bats in their dealings with Norway. They had mistaken aperfectly legitimate desire for self-government for a demonstration ofhostility to Sweden and the royal house; and instead of identifyingthemselves with the national movement (which they might well have done), they fought it, first by cautious measures of repression, and later byvetoes and open defiance. Charles XV. , and, later, Oscar II. , kept theminority ministries, Stang and Selmer, in power, with a bland disregardof popular condemnation, and snapped their fingers at the parliamentarymajorities which, for well-nigh a quarter of a century, foughtpersistently, bravely, and not altogether vainly, for their country'srights. 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, afar more fearless assertion of equality, and a far more democraticfeeling permeating society than, for instance, in the United States. Sweden, on the other hand, is essentially an aristocratic country, witha landed nobility and many other remnants of feudalism in her politicaland social institutions. Two countries so different in character cannever be good yoke-fellows. They can never develop at an even pace, andthe fact of kinship scarcely helps matters where the temperaments andthe conditions are so widely dissimilar. Brothers who fall out are aptto fight each other the more fiercely on account of the relationship. Björnson certainly does not cherish any hatred of Sweden, nor do Ibelieve that there is any general animosity to the Swedish people to befound anywhere in Norway. It is most unfortunate that the mistakenpolicy of the Bernadottes has placed the two nations in an attitude ofapparent hostility. In spite of the loud denunciation of Norway by theso-called Grand Swedish party, and the equally vociferous response ofthe Norwegian journals (of the Left) there is a strong sympathy betweenthe democracy of Norway and that of Sweden, and a mutual respect whichno misrepresentation can destroy. It was Björnson who, in 1873, began the agitation for the actual andnot merely nominal, equality of the two kingdoms;[6] he appealed to thenational sense of honor, and by his kindling eloquence aroused thetremendous popular indignation that swept the old ministry of Stang frompower, and caused the impeachment and condemnation of the Selmerministry. It would seem when the king, in 1882, charged the liberalleader, Mr. Johan Sverdrup, to form a ministry, that parliamentarism hadactually triumphed. But unhappily a new Stang ministry (the chief ofwhich is the son of the old premier) has, recently (1893) re-establishedthe odious minority rule, which sits like a nightmare upon the nation'sbreast, checking its respiration, and hindering its natural development. [6] I had the pleasure of accompanying Björnson 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 Böe in Guldbrandsdalen. During this period of national self-assertion Björnson has unfolded acolossal activity. Though holding no office, and steadily refusing anelection to the Storthing, he has been the life and soul of the liberalparty. The task which he had undertaken grew upon his hands, and assumedwider and wider dimensions. As his predecessor Wergeland had done, andin a far deeper sense, he consecrated his life to the spiritual andintellectual liberation of his people. It is told of the former that hewas in the habit of walking about the country with his pockets full ofseeds of grass and trees, of which he scattered a handful here and ahandful there; for, he said, you can never tell what will grow up afterit. There is to me something quite touching in the patriotism whichprompted this act. Björnson, too, is in the same sense "a sower who wentforth for to sow. " And the golden grain of his thought falls, as in theparable, in all sorts of places; but, unlike some of the seed in theparable, it all leaves some trace behind. It stimulates reflection, itawakens life, it arouses the torpid soul, it shakes the drowsy soul, itshocks the pious soul, it frightens the timid soul, but it lifts themall, as it were, by main force, out of themselves, and makes healthfulbreezes blow, and refreshing showers fall upon what was formerly abarren waste. This is Björnson's mission; this is, during the secondperiod of his career, his greatness and his highest significance. Of course there are many opinions as to the value of the work he hasaccomplished in this capacity of political and religious liberator. TheConservative party of Norway, which runs the errands of the king andtruckles to Sweden, hates him with a bitter and furious hatred; theclergy denounce him, and the official bureaucracy can scarcely mentionhis name without an anathema. But the common people, though he hasfrightened many of them away by his heterodoxy, still love him. It isespecially his disrespect to the devil (whom he professes not to believein) which has been a sore trial to the Bible-reading, hymn-singingpeasantry. Does not the Bible say that the devil goes about like aroaring lion seeking whom he may devour? Nevertheless Björnson has thehardihood to assert that there is no such person. And yet Björnson is aman who can talk most beautifully, and who knows as much as any parson. It is extremely puzzling. The fact was, Björnson's abolition of the devil, and his declaration ofa war against the orthodox miracle faith, were, as far as the Norwegianpeople were concerned, somewhat premature. The peasant needs the oldscriptural devil, and is not yet ready to dispense with him. The devilis a popular character in the folk-stories and legends, and I have knownsome excellent people who declare that they have seen him. Creeds arelike certain ancient tumuli, which now are but graves, but were once thehabitations of living men. The dust, ashes, and bones of defunct lifewhich they often contain, nourish in the dark the green grass, the fairflowers, the blooming trees, that shoot up into the light. You cannotdig it all up and throw it out without tearing asunder the net-work ofroots which organically connects the living with the dead. Björnson, though he is an evolutionist, is far removed from thephilosophic temper in his dealings with the obsolete or obsolescentremnants in political and religious creeds. He has the healthfulintolerance of strong conviction. He is too good a partisan to admitthat there may be another side to the question which might be worthconsidering. With magnificent ruthlessness he plunges ahead, and with atruly old Norse pugnacity he stands in the thick of the fight, rejoicingin battle. Only combat arouses his Titanic energy and calls all hissplendid faculties into play. Even apart from his political propaganda the years 1870-74 were a periodof labor and ferment to Björnson. The mightier the man, the mightier thepowers enlisted in his conversion, and the mightier the struggle. Atremendous wrench was required to change his point of view from that ofa childlike, wondering believer to that of a critical sceptic andthinker. In a certain sense Björnson never took this step; for when thestruggle was over, and he had readjusted his vision of life to thetheory of evolution, he became as ardent an adherent of it as he hadever been of the _naīve_ Grundtvigian miracle-faith. And with the deepneed of his nature to pour itself forth--to share its treasures with allthe world--he started out to proclaim his discoveries. Besides Darwinand Spencer, he had made a study of Stuart Mill, whose noble sense offair-play had impressed him. He plunged with hot zeal into the writingsof Steinthal and Max Müller, whose studies in comparative religionchanged to him the whole aspect of the universe. Taine's historicalcriticism, with its disrespectful derivation of the hero from food, climate, and race, lured him still farther away from his old Norse andromantic landmarks, until there was no longer any hope of his everreturning to them. But when from this promontory of advanced thought helooked back upon his idyllic love-stories of peasant lads and lasses, and his taciturn saga heroes, with their predatory self-assertion, hesaw that he had done with them forever; that they could never moreenlist his former interest. On the other hand, the problems of moderncontemporary life, of which he had now gained quite a new comprehension, tempted him. The romantic productions of his youth appeared as a more orless arbitrary play of fancy emancipated from the stern logic ofreality. It was his purpose henceforth to consecrate his powers to thestudy of the deeper soul-life of his own age and the exposition of theforces which in their interdependence and interaction make modernsociety. This is the significance of the four-act drama "Bankruptcy, " with which, in 1874, he astounded and disappointed the Scandinavian public. I havecalled it a drama, in accordance with the author's designation on thetitle-page; but it is, in the best sense, a comedy of manners, of thekind that Augier produced in France; and in everything except themechanics of construction superior to the plays of Sardou and Dumas. Thedialogue has the most admirable accent of truth. It is not unnaturallywitty or brilliant; but exhibits exactly the traits which Norwegians ofthe higher commercial plutocracy are likely to exhibit. All the poetictouches which charmed us in Björnson's saga dramas were conspicuous bytheir absence. Scarcely a trace was there left of that peculiar anddelightful language of his early novels, which can only be described bythe term "Björnsonian. " "Dry, prosaic, trivial, " said the reviewers; "Björnson has evidentlyworked out his vein. He has ceased to be a poet. He has lost with hischildhood's faith his ideal view of life, and become a mere prosychronicler 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 markedthe poet's fall from the idealism of his early song. But, for all that, "Bankruptcy" made a strong impression upon the boards. It not onlyconquered a permanent place in the _répertoires_ of the theatres of theScandinavian capitals, but it spread through Austria, Germany, andHolland, and has finally scored a success at the _Théâtre Libre_ inParis. There is scarcely a theatre of any consequence in Germany whichhas not made "Bankruptcy" part of its _répertoire_. At the Royal Theatrein Munich it was accorded a most triumphant reception, and somethingover sixty representations has not yet exhausted its popularity. The effort to come to close quarters with reality is visible in everyphrase. The denial of the value of all the old romantic stage machinery, with its artificial climaxes and explosive effects, is perceptible inthe quiet endings of the acts and the entirely unsensational expositionof the dramatic action. There is one scene (and by no means an unnaturalone) in which there is a touch of violence, viz. , where Tjaelde, whilehe hopes to avert his bankruptcy, threatens to shoot Lawyer Berent andhimself; but there is a very human quiver in the threat and in thepassionate outbreak which precedes it. Nowhere is there a breath of thatsuperheated hot-house atmosphere which usually pervades the moderndrama. "Bankruptcy" deals, as the title indicates, with the question offinancial honesty. Zola has in _Le Roman Sentimental_ made theobservation that "absolute honesty no more exists than perfecthealthfulness. There is a tinge of the human beast in us all, as thereis a tinge of illness. " Tjaelde, the great merchant, exemplifies thisproposition. He is a fairly honest man, who by the modern commercialmethods, which, in self-defence, he has been forced to adopt, gets intothe position of a rogue. The commandment, "Thou shalt not steal, " seemsat first glance an extremely simple injunction; but in the light ofBjörnson's searching analysis it becomes a complex and intricate tangle, capable of interesting shades and _nuances_ of meaning. Tjaelde, in theauthor's opinion, certainly does steal, when, in order to save himself(and thereby the thousands who are involved in his affairs), hespeculates with other people's money and presents a rose-colored accountof 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 pointwhere legitimate speculation ceases and the illegitimate begins. And ifTjaelde neglected any legitimate means of saving his estate he would beculpable. A stern code of morals (which the commercial world of to-daywould scarcely exact), the poet enforces in the fourth act, whereTjaelde refuses to accept any concession from his creditors, but insistsupon devoting the remainder of his life to the liquidation of his debts. Admirably strong and vital is the exposition of the _rôle_ and functionsof money in the modern world, and the nearer and remoter psychologicaleffects of the tremendous tyranny of money. A certain external _éclat_is required to give the great commercial house the proper splendor inthe sight of the world. Thus Tjaelde speculates in hospitality as ineverything else, and when he virtually has nothing, makes the grandestsplurge in order to give a spurious impression of prosperity. Though bynature an affectionate man, he neglects his family because businessdemands all his time. He defrauds himself of the happiness which knocksat his door, because business fills his head by night and by day, andabsorbs all his energy. A number of parasites (such as thefortune-hunting lieutenant) attach themselves to him, as long as he isreputed 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 hectoredand contemned are revealed by adversity. There would be nothingremarkable in so common an experience, if the friends themselves, aswell as the parasites, were not so delightfully delineated. Thelieutenant, with his almost farcical interest in the bay trotter, isamusingly but lightly drawn; but the awkward young clerk, Sannaes, whorefuses to abandon his master in the hour of trial, is a deeply typicalNorwegian figure. All the little coast towns have specimens to show ofthese aspiring, faithful, sensitively organized souls, who, having hadno social advantages are painfully conscious of their deficiencies, butwhose patient industry and sterling worth in the end will triumph. Noless keenly observed and effectively sketched is the whole gallery ofdastardly 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 Norwegiannationality which gives a gentle distinctness and relief to theworld-old types. Björnson's next play, [7] "The Editor, " grapples with an equally modernand timely subject, viz. , the license of the press. With terriblevividness he shows the misery, ruin, and degradation which result fromthe present journalistic practice of misrepresentation, sophistry, anddefamation. It is a very dark picture he draws, with scarcely a gleam oflight. The satire is savage; and the quiver of wrath is perceptible inmany a sledge-hammer phrase. You feel that Björnson himself has sufferedfrom 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 pilloriedis no mere general editorial type, but a well-known person who, untilrecently, conducted one of the most influential journals in Norway. Theplay is an act of retribution, and a deserved one. But its weaknesses, which it is vain to disguise, are also explained by the author'spersonal 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 respecteddistiller, has a daughter, Gertrude, who is engaged to Harold Rein, apolitical leader of peasant origin. Mr. Rein's brother, Halfdan, fromwhom he has, in a measure, inherited the leadership, is dying from thepersecution to which he has been exposed by the Conservative press andpublic. In his zeal for the Radical cause it is his consolation that heleaves it in such strong hands as those of his brother. The election isimpending and a meeting of the electors has been called for thefollowing day. Harold is the candidate of the Left. It now becomes aquestion with the party of the Right so to ridicule and defame him as toruin his chances. His position as prospective son-in-law of the richMr. Evje lends an air of importance and respectability to his candidacy. Mr. Evje must therefore be induced, or, if necessary, compelled, tothrow him overboard. With this end in view the editor of theConservative journal goes to Evje (whose schoolmate and friend he hasbeen) and tries to persuade him to break the alliance with Rein. Evje, who prides himself on his "moderation" and tolerance, and his purpose tokeep aloof from partisanship, refuses to be bullied; whereupon theeditor threatens him with social ostracism and commercial ruin. Thedistiller, who is at heart a coward, is completely unnerved by thisthreat. Well knowing how a paper can undermine a man's reputationwithout making itself liable for libel, he sends his friend the doctorto the editor, suing for peace. Late in the evening he meets his foeoutside of his house, and after much shuffling and parleying agrees todo his will. He surprises his daughter and Harold Rein in a loving_tęte-ā-tęte_, and lacks the courage to carry out his bargain. He vainlyendeavors to persuade them to break the engagement and separate untilafter the election. In the meanwhile, John, a discharged servant of Evje (of whosedrunkenness and political radicalism we have previously been informed), has overheard the parley with the editor, and in order to get even withhis master countermands in the editor's name his order to the foreman ofthe printing-office; and the obnoxious article which was intended to beomitted appears in the paper. John also takes care to procure Evje anearly copy, which, first utterly crushes him, then arouses his wrath, convinces him that "holding aloof" is mere cowardice, and makes himresolve to bear his share in the great political battle. The meanness, the malice of each ingenious thrust, while it stings and burns alsoawakens a righteous indignation. He goes straight to the lodgings ofHarold Rein and determines to attend the Radical meeting. Not findinghim at home he goes to the house of his brother Halfdan, where he leavesthe copy of the paper. The sick man picks it up, reads an onslaught onhimself which in baseness surpasses the attack on Evje, starts up inuncontrollable excitement, and dies of a hemorrhage. The maid, who seeshim lying on the floor, cries out into the street for help, and theeditor, who chances to pass by, enters. He finds the Radical leaderdead, with the paper clutched in his hand. The fourth act opens with a festal arrangement at Evje's in honor of thegreat success of Rein's electoral meeting. There is no more "holdingaloof. " Everybody has convictions and is ready to avow the party thatupholds them. All are ignorant of Halfdan Rein's death, until the editorarrives, utterly broken in spirit and asks Evje's pardon. He wishes toexplain, but no one wishes to listen. When Evje wavers and is on thepoint of accepting his proffered hand, his wife and daughter loudlyprotest. The editor declares his purpose to renounce journalism. The festivitiesare abandoned, and all betake themselves to the house of the deadleader. Thus the play ends; there is no tableau, no climax, no dramaticcatastrophe. It is Zola's theory[8] and Maeterlink's practiceanticipated. [8] "Naturalism on the Stage. " The journalistic conditions here described are, of course, those of theNorwegian capital nearly a quarter of a century ago. Few editors, Ifancy, outside of country towns, now go about personally spreadingrumors, with malice aforethought, and collecting gossip. But the powerof the press for good and for ill, and the terrorism which, in evilhands, it exercises, are surely not exaggerated. But its most strikingapplication has the drama in its exposure of the desperate andignominious expedients to which a party will resort in order to defeat, defame, and utterly destroy a political opponent. The following passagesmay be worth quoting: "Most of the successful politicians nowadays win not by their owngreatness 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 becomein order to endure the ice-storms. Then one is not harmed. But yourbrother! In him lived yet the whole murmuring, singing palm-forest. .. . As regards you, it remains to be seen whether you can get all humanityin you completely killed. .. . But who would at that price be apolitician?. .. That one must be hardened is the watchword of allnowadays. Not only army officers but physicians, merchants, officialsare to be hardened or dried up; . .. Hardened for the battle of life, asthey say. But what does that mean? We are to expel and evaporate thewarmth of the heart, the fancy's yearning, . .. Before we are fit forlife. .. . No, I say, it is those very things we are to preserve. That'swhat we have got them for. " Björnson's increasing Radicalism and his outspoken Socialisticsympathies had by this time alienated a large portion of theScandinavian public. The cry was heard on all sides that he had ceasedto be a poet, and had become instead a mere political agitator. I cannotdeny myself the pleasure of quoting Björnson's reply when at his requesta friend repeated to him the opinion which was entertained of him incertain quarters: "Oh, yes, " he cried, with a wrathful laugh, "don't I know it? You mustbe 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 topof 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 primarilybecause I can write verse (there are lots of people who can do that) butby virtue of seeing more clearly, and feeling more deeply, and speakingmore truly than the majority of men. All that concerns humanityconcerns me. If by my song or my speech I can contribute ever so littletoward the amelioration of the lot of the millions of my poorerfellow-creatures, I shall be prouder of that than of the combinedlaurels of Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe. " This is the conception of a poet which was prevalent in Norway in theolden time. The scalds of the sagas were warriors as well as singers. They fought with sword and battle-axe, and their song rang the moreboldly because they knew how to strike up another tune--the fierce songof the sword. In modern times Wergeland and Welhaven have demonstratednot only the pugnacity, but also the noble courage of their ancestry byespousing the cause of opposing parties during the struggle for nationalindependence. Those who demand that literature shall be untinged by any tendency orstrong conviction will do well to eschew all the subsequent works ofBjörnson. They might perhaps put up with the brief novel "Magnhild, "which is tolerably neutral in tone, though it is the least enjoyable ofall Björnson's works. It gives the impression that the author is halfafraid of his subject (which is an illicit love), and only dares tohandle it so gingerly as to leave half the tale untold. The short, abrupt sentences which seemed natural enough when he was dealing withthe peasants, with their laconic speech and blunt manners, have a forcedand unnatural air when applied to people to whom this style of languageis foreign. Moreover, these condensed sentences are often vague, full ofinnuendo, and mysterious as hieroglyphics. It is as if the author, inthe consciousness of the delicacy of his theme, had lost the boldsecurity of touch which in his earlier works made his meaningunmistakable. The drama "The King" (1877) is an attack upon the monarchical principlein its political as well as its personal aspect. It is shown howdestructive the royal prerogative is and must be to the king as anindividual; how the artificial regard which hedges him in, interposingcountless barriers between the truth and him, makes his relations to hissurroundings false and deprives him of the opportunity forself-knowledge which normal relations supply. Royalty is therefore acurse, because it robs its possessor of the wholesome discipline of lifewhich 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 theage, and reconciliation with modern progress. The king in the play is ayoung, talented, liberal-minded man, who is fully conscious of theanomaly of his position, and determined to save his throne by strippingit of all mediæval and mythological garniture. He dreams of being a"folk-king, " the first citizen of a free people, a kind of hereditarypresident, with no sham divinity to fall back upon, and no "grace ofGod" to shield him from criticism and sanctify his blunders. He resentsthe _rôle_ of being the lock of the merchant's strong-box and the headof that mutual insurance company which is called the state. He goesabout _incognito_, first in search of love adventures, and later inorder to acquaint himself with public opinion; and he proves himselfremarkably unprejudiced and capable of profiting by experience. He fallsin love with Clara Ernst, the daughter of a Radical professor, who, onaccount of a book he has written, has been sentenced for _crimen læsæmajestatis_, and in an attempt to escape from prison has broken both hislegs. 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 toconvince her of the purity of his motives; and finally succeeds inwinning her love. It is not a _liaison_ he contemplates, but a valid andlegitimate marriage for which he means to compel recognition. The court, which he has no more use for, he desires to abolish as a costly anddegrading 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 enthusiasmfor its realization. It is not vanity, but a lofty faith in her missionto regenerate royalty, by discarding its senseless pomp and bringing itinto accord with, and down to the level of, common citizenship--it isthis, I say, which upholds her in the midst of opprobrium, insults, andhostile demonstrations. For the king's subjects, so far from beingcharmed by his resolution to marry a woman out of their midst, arescandalized. They riot, sing mocking songs, circulate base slanders, andthreaten to mob the royal bride on her way to her first public function. She is herself terribly wrought up, particularly by the curse of herfather, who hates the king with the deep hatred of a fanaticalRepublican. A royal princess, who had come to insult her, is conqueredby her candor and truth, and stays to sympathize with her and lend herthe support of her presence. But just as the king comes to lead her outto face the populace, the wraith of her father rises upon the thresholdand she falls back dead. It is learned afterward that Professor Ernsthad died in that very hour. The king's bosom friend, the Minister of the Interior, Gran, who islargely responsible for his liberalism, and whose whole policy it hasbeen to rejuvenate and revitalize the monarchy, is challenged and shotby his old teacher, the Republican Flink; and the king himself, convinced of the futility of all his efforts to realize his idea of ademocratic monarchy, commits suicide. As a piece of sanguinary satire on royalty as an institution "The King"is most interesting--that is, royalty logically and speculativelyconsidered, without reference to its historical basis and development. To me the postulate that it had its origin in a kind of conspiracy (formutual benefit) of the priest and the king seems shallow andunphilosophical. Björnson's fanatical partisanship has evidently carriedhim a little too far. For surely he would himself admit that every freenation is governed about as well as it deserves to be--that itspolitical institutions are a reflection of its maturity and capacity forself-government. A certain allowance must, indeed, be made for the _visinertiæ_ of whatever exists, which makes it exert a stubborn and notunwholesome resistance to the reformer's zeal. This conservatism (whichmay, however, have more laudable motives than mere self-interest)Björnson has happily satirized in the scene before the Noblemen's Clubin the third act. But, I fancy, it looks to him only as a sinisterpower, which for its own base purposes has smitten humanity withblindness to its own welfare. Though not intending to enter into adiscussion, I am also tempted to put a respectful little interrogationmark after the statement that the republic is so very much cheaper thanthe monarchy. If the experience of the two largest republics in theworld counts for anything, I should say that in point of economy therewas not much to choose. Strange as it may seem, Björnson did not intend "The King" as anargument in favor of the republic. In his preface to the third editionhe distinctly repudiates the idea. The recent development of theNorwegian people, has, he says, made the republic a remoter possibilitythan it was ten years before (1875). But he qualifies this statementwith the significant condition, "If we are not checked by fraud. " And Ifancy that he would have a perfect right to justify his present positionby demonstrating the fraud, trickery, if not treason, by which Norwayhas during the last decade been thwarted in her aspirations and checkedin her development. That preface, by the way, dated Paris, October, 1885, is one of the most forceful and luminous of his politicalpronunciamientos. It rings from beginning to end with conviction and amanly indignation. His chief purpose, he says, in writing this dramawas, "to extend the boundaries of free discussion. " His polemics againstthe clergy are not attacks upon Christianity, though he contends thatreligion is subject to growth as well as other things. The ultimate formof government he believes to be the republic, on the journey towardwhich all European states are proceeding fast, or slow, and in variousstages of progress. There is something abrupt, gnarled, Carlylese, inhis urgent admonitions and appeals for fair-play. The personal note isso distinct that I cannot read the play without unconsciously supplyingthe very cadence of Björnson's voice. A further attempt to extend the boundaries of free discussion is made inthe two dramas, "Leonarda" (1879) and "A Glove" (1883), which both dealwith interesting phases of the woman question, and both wage waragainst conventional notions of right and wrong. The former elucidatesthe attitude of society toward the woman who has been compromised(whether justly or not), and the latter its attitude toward the man. Iconfess there is something a trifle hazy in his exposition of theproblem in "Leonarda;" and I am unable to determine whether Leonardareally has anything to reproach herself with or not. In her conversationwith the bishop in the second act, she appears to admit that she hasmuch to regret. She begs him "help her atone for her past. " Shepractically throws herself upon his mercy, reminding him that hisMaster, Christ, was the friend of sinners. But in the last act sheappears suddenly with the halo of martyrdom. General Rosen, who has beenthe cause of her social ostracism, turns out to be her husband, whom shehas divorced on account of his dissipated habits, and now keeps, in thehope of saving him, on a sort of probation. She believes that withouther he would go straight to perdition, and from a sense of duty shetolerates him, not daring to shirk her responsibility for the oldreprobate'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 whenhe has been good, rewarding him with her company. I suppose there aremen who might be saved by such treatment, but I venture to doubt whetherthey are worth saving. As for Leonarda, she has apparently no cause forencouragement. But she perseveres, heedless of obloquy, as long as herown affections are disengaged. She presently falls in love, however, with a young man named Hagbart Tallhaug, who has insulted her and is nowengaged to her niece, Agot. Hagbart is the nephew of the bishop of thediocese, who, after much persuasion is induced to receive Agot, oncondition that her aunt will remove from the district and demand norecognition from the family. Having been informed of these conditions, Leonarda calls upon the bishop, uninvited, and vainly remonstrates withhim. The young people are, however, unwilling to accept happiness on theterms offered by his reverence. At this point a new complication arises. Hagbart who had loved in Agot a kind of reflection of her aunt'scharacter and manner, being now thrown into the company of the latter, discovers his mistake and transfers his affection to Leonarda. Exactlywherein the newness of Leonarda's type consists we are not fullyinformed, but we are led to infer that she represents a purer and truerhumanity than the women bred in the traditions of feudalism, with theirhypocritical arts and conventions. She is not meant to be seductive, butradiant, ravishing. There is a candor in her speech, and an almost boyishstraightforwardness, for which she is not indebted to nature but to thestanch idealism of her creator. She is, however, on that account no lessimpressionable, no less ready to respond to the call of love. Shestruggles manfully (or ought I not, in deference to the author'scontention, to say "womanfully") against her love for Hagbart, and atlast has no choice but to escape from the cruel dilemma by accepting thebishop's demand. Though she cannot conquer her affection for the youngman, 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 thesame. It is a hard lot to be a man in these later dramas of Björnson. With a slight violation of the chronological sequence I shall discuss "AGlove" in this connection, because of its organic coherence with"Leonarda. " They are the obverse and reverse of the same subject--thecruelty of society to the woman of a blemished reputation, and itsleniency to the man. To those who worship the conventional ideal of womanly innocence "AGlove" will seem a very shocking book, for it fearlessly discusses, and, what is more, makes a young girl discuss--the standards of sexual purityas applied to men and women. The sentiments which she utters are, to besure, elevated and of an almost Utopian idealism; and the authorobviously means to raise, not to lower, her in the eyes of the reader byher passionate frankness. The problem of the drama is briefly this: Society demands of women anabsolute chastity, and refuses to condone the least lapse, either beforeor after marriage. But toward men it is indulgent. It readily overlooksa plenteous seed of wild oats, and would regard it as the sheerestQuixotism to judge the bridegroom by the same standard of purity as itdoes the bride. It is easy enough, and perhaps also legitimate, toexclaim with Björnson that this is all wrong, and that a man has noright to ask any more than he gives. As a mere matter of equity a wifeowes her husband no more fidelity than he owes her, and may exact ofhim, if she chooses, the same prematrimonial purity that he exacts ofher. But questions of this kind are never settled on the basis ofequity. The sentiments by which they are determined have long andintricate roots in the prehistoric past; and we are yet very far fromthe millennial condition of absolute equality between the sexes. According to Herbert Spencer there is a hereditary transmission ofqualities which are confined exclusively to the male, and of otherswhich are confined to the female; and these are the results of theprimitive environments and conditions which were peculiar to each sex. Even the best of us have a reminiscent sense of proprietorship in ourwives, dating from the time when she was obtained by purchase or captureand could be disposed of like any other chattel. Wives, whoseprehistoric discipline has disposed them to humility and submission (Iam speaking of the European, not the American species, of course), havenot yet in the same degree acquired this sense of ownership in theirhusbands, involving the same strict accountability for affectionalaberrations. And for this there is a very good reason, which is no lessvalid now than it was in the hoariest antiquity. A husband's infidelity, though morally as reprehensible as that of the wife, does not entailquite such monstrous consequences. For if she deceives him, he mayignorantly bring up another man's children, toil for them, bestow hisname and affection upon them, and leave them his property. One canscarcely conceive of a more outrageous wrong than this; and it is inorder to guard against such a possibility that society from remote ageshas watched over the chastity of women far more jealously than over thatof men. It is as a result of this vigilance of centuries that womenhave, among civilized nations, a finer sense of modesty than men, and ahigher standard of personal purity. Men are, as yet, as Mr. Howellsremarks, "imperfectly monogamous;" and Björnson is, no doubt, in themain right in the tremendous indictment he frames against them in thepresent 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 AlfChristensen, the son of a great commercial magnate. Her father and mother are overjoyed at the happy event; she is herselfno less delighted. Her _fiancé_ has an excellent reputation, shares herinterest in social questions, and supports her in her efforts to foundkindergartens and to ameliorate the lot of the poor. Each glories inthe exclusive possession of the other's love, and with the retrospectivejealousy of lovers, fancies that he has had no predecessors in theaffection of the beloved. Alf can scarcely endure to have any one touchSvava, and is almost ill when any one dances with her. "When I see you among all the others, " he exclaims, "and catch, forinstance, a glimpse of your arm, then I think: That arm has been woundabout 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. Sheardently 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 indignantrevulsion of feeling, she hurls her glove in his face and breaks theengagement. This act is, I fancy, intended to be half symbolic. Theyoung girl expresses not only her personal sense of outrage; but sheflings a challenge in the face of the whole community, which by itsindulgence made his transgression easy. She discovers that what in herwould have been a crime is in him a lapse, readily forgiven. Her wholesoul revolts against this inequality of conditions; and in terminatingtheir relation, which has lost all its beauty, she wishes to cut off allchance 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 havesubmitted the question to two refined women for whom I have a highregard. To my surprise they both declared that Svava, whatever she mayhave said to the contrary, did not love her _fiancé_; that her sorrowand even her indignation were just and natural; but that her somewhatover-conscious purity--her _virginité savante_, as Balzac phrases it in"Modeste Mignon, " and her inability to give due weight to amelioratingcircumstances were unwomanly. I confess I am not without sympathy withthis criticism. Svava, though she is right in her vehement protestagainst masculine immorality, is not charming--that is, according to ourpresent notion of what constitutes womanly charm. It is not unlikely, however, that like Leonarda she is meant to anticipate a new type ofwomanhood, co-ordinate and coequal with man, whose charm shall be of awholly different order. The coquetry, the sweet hypocrisy, nay, all thefrivolous arts which exercise such a potent sway over the heart of manhave their roots in the prehistoric capture and thraldom; and from thepoint of view of the woman suffragists, are so many reminiscences ofdegradation. I fancy that Björnson, sharing this view, has with fulldeliberation made Svava boldly and inexorably truthful, frank as a boyand as uncompromisingly honest as a man. She has sufficient use for this masculine equipment (I am speaking inaccordance with the effete standards) in the battle which is before her. Dr. Nordan, the family physician, her parents, and those of her_fiancé_, take her to task and endeavor to demonstrate to her theconsequences of her unprecedented demand. She learns in the course ofthis prolonged debate that she has been living in a fool's paradise. Shehas been purposely (and with the most benevolent intention) deceived inregard to this question from the very cradle. Her father, whom she hasbelieved to be a model husband, proves to have been unworthy of hertrust. The elder Christensen has also had a compromising intrigue of thesame kind; and it becomes obvious that each male creature is soindulgent in this chapter toward every other male creature, because eachknows himself to be equally vulnerable. There is a sort of tacitfreemasonry among them, which takes its revenge upon him who tells talesout of school. It is a consciousness of this which makes Christensen, after having declared war to the knife against the Riises, withdraw hischallenge and become doubly cordial toward his enemy. Alf, who in thesecond act has expressed the opinion that a man is responsible to hiswife for his future, but not for his past, retracts, and does penance. Svava, in consideration of his penitence, gives him a vague hope offuture 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. Itmight be styled a series of brilliant and searching debates concerning atheme of great moment. The same definition applies, though in a lesserdegree, to "The New System" (1879), a five-act play of great power andbeauty. By power I do not mean noise, but convincing impressiveness andconcentration of interest. One could scarcely imagine anything fartherremoved from the ha! and ho! style of melodrama. "The New System" is primarily social satire. It is a psychologicalanalysis of the effect of the "small state" upon its citizens. It is anexpansion and exemplification of the proposition (Act I. , 1) that "whilethe great states cannot subsist without sacrificing their small peopleby the thousands, small states cannot subsist without the sacrifice ofmany of their great men, nay of the very greatest. " The smooth, craftyman, "who can smile ingratiatingly like a woman, " rises to the higherheights; while the bold, strong, capable man, who is unversed in thearts of humility and intrigue, struggles hopelessly, and perhaps in theend goes to the dogs, because he is denied the proper field for hisenergy. Never has Björnson 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 startledsense of exposure that is at first wounding to his patriotism. It ismortifying to have to admit that things are thus in Norway. And theworst of it is that there appears to be no remedy. The condition is, according to Björnson, inherent in all small states which cripple thesouls of men, stunt their growth, and contract their horizon. The first act opens with a conversation between the civil engineersKampe and Ravn, and the former's son Hans, who has just returned from aprolonged sojourn abroad. The keynote is struck in the sarcastic remarkof Ravn, that in a small society only small truths can be tolerated--ofthe kind that takes twenty to the inch; but great truths are apt to beexplosive and should therefore be avoided, for they might burst thewhole society. This is _ā propos_ of a book which Hans Kampe haswritten, exposing the wastefulness and antiquated condition of theso-called "new system" of railway management introduced, or supposed tohave been introduced, by Kampe's and Ravn's brother-in-law, thesupervisor-general Riis. The way for Hans to make a career, declares theworldly wise Ravn, is not to oppose the source of promotion and power, but to be silent and marry the supervisor-general's daughter. Ravn haslearned this lesson by bitter experience, and hopes that his nephew willprofit by it. All talk about duty to the state and society he pretendsto regard as pure moonshine, and he professes not to see the connectionbetween the elder Kampe's drunkenness and the artificial bottling up towhich he has been subjected, the curbing and jailing of Titanic powerswhich once sought outlet in significant action. The same mighty forcewhich in its repression drives the men to the brandy-bottle makes thewomen intoxicate themselves with fictitious narratives of high courage, daring rescues, and all kinds of melodramatic heroism. Extremely amusingis 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 ofhigh-strung novels, and when a drowning man cries to them for help theyrow 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 ofhis fellow-men. The supervisor-general is a sort of personification ofpublic opinion. He is always correct, professes to believe what othersbelieve, and conforms from prudent calculation to the religious customsof the community. He demands of his son Frederic that he shall abandon ayoung girl whom he loves and has seduced, and he requires of hisdaughter Karen that she shall, out of regard for her family, renounceher lover. He feigns all proper sentiments and emotions, while underthe smooth, agreeable mask lurk malice and cunning. When Hans Kampe'sbook reaches him, it never occurs to him to examine it on its merits;his only thought is to make it harmless by inventing a scandalousmotive. The elder Kampe has just resigned from the railway service; thesupervisor-general (with infamous shrewdness) demands an officialinquiry into the state of his accounts. Then all the world will say thatHans Kampe has been used as a cat's-paw by his father, who, knowing thatan investigation is inevitable, wishes to throw dust in the eyes of thepublic and save his own reputation by attacking that of his superior. Itis needless to say that he has not a shadow of suspicion regardingKampe's honesty, but merely chooses for his own defence the weapon whichhe knows to be the most effective. In order to fortify his position and sound the sentiment of theprofession, Riis gives a grand dinner to the engineers of the city, towhich Kampe and his son are also invited. The chairman of the committeeon railways (of the national diet) is present, and when it appears thatHans Kampe makes a favorable impression upon him, the friends of Riisconcoct a scheme to injure him. They inform his father that he issuspected of embezzlement, and get him drunk, whereupon the old manscandalizes the company by a burst of uncomplimentary candor. When Hansarrives the mischief is done; though the pathetic scene between fatherand son convinces the chairman that, whatever their failings, these menare true and genuine. Simply delicious is the satire in the scene wherethe ladies discuss the question at issue between Riis and Kampe. Butthis satire is deprived of much of its force by the subsequentdevelopment of the plot. The logical ending would seem to be the triumphof the supervisor-general's defensive tactics and the discomfiture ofhis critics. That would have given point to the criticism of the smallstate and invested the victims of progress with an almost tragicdignity. Björnson chooses, however, to let neither the one party nor theother triumph. In a small state, he says, no one is victorious;everything ends in compromise. If two parties championed two differentplans of railway construction, the one of which was demonstrated to besuperior in economy and safety to the other, such a demonstration wouldnot be likely to result in its adoption. No, the two parties would cometogether, dicker and compromise, and in the end the diet would agree tobuild one road according to the one plan, and one according to theother. Agreeably to this principle Björnson leaves the honors betweenthe combatants about easy; but Riis, deserted by his children, undergoesa partial change of heart and is seized with doubt as to the excellenceof his philosophy of life. That the satire of "The New System" struck home is obvious from thefierceness and virulence of the criticism with which it was hailed. Ithas never become fairly domesticated on the Scandinavian stages, andprobably never will be. In Germany, France, and Holland it has receivedrespectful attention, and (I am informed) has proved extremely effectiveupon the boards. In the same year as "The New System" (1879) appeared the delightfulnovelette "Captain Mansana, " dealing with Italian life, and throwinginteresting side-lights upon the War of Liberation. There is anirresistible charm in the freshness, the vividness, the extrememodernness of this little tale. The mingled simplicity andsophistication of the Italian character, the histrionic touch which yetgoes with perfect sincerity, the author has apprehended and presentedwith happy realism. In "Beyond their Strength" (_Over Aevne_) (1883) Björnson has invadedthe twilight realm of psycho-pathological phenomena, and refers thereader for further information to _Leįons sur le systčme nerveux, faitespar J. M. Charcot_, and _Études cliniques sur l'hystéro-épilepsie ougrande hystérie, par le Dr. Richer_. As a man is always in danger oftalking nonsense in dealing with a subject concerning which hisknowledge is superficial, I shall not undertake to pronounce upon thevalidity of the theory which is here advanced. The play is an inquiryinto the significance and authenticity of miracles. Incidentally thetheme is faith-healing, the hypnotic effect of prayer, and kindredphenomena. Pastor Sang, a clergyman in a remote parish of Northern Norway, is famedfar and wide as the miracle-priest, and it is popularly believed that hecan work wonders, as the apostles did of old. He has given away hislarge fortune to the poor; in a fervor of faith he plunges into everydanger, and comes out unscathed; he lives constantly in an overstrainedecstasy, and by his mere presence, and the atmosphere which surroundshim, forces his wife and children to live in the same state of highnervous tension and unnatural abstraction from mundane reality and allits concerns. His wife, Clara, who loves him ardently, is gradually wornout by this perpetual strain, which involves a daily overdraft upon hervitality; and finally the break comes, and she is paralyzed. For, likeeveryone who comes in contact with Sang, she has had to live "beyond herstrength. " She does not fully share her husband's faith, and though shefeels his influence and admires his lofty devotion, there is ahalf-suppressed criticism in her mind. She feels the unwholesomeness ofthus "living by inspiration, and not by reason. " When he comes to her, "beaming always with a Sabbath joy, " she would fain tune him down, ifshe could, into a lower key, "the C-major of every-day life, " asBrowning calls it. But in this effort she has had no success, for Sang'secstatic elevation above the concerns of earth is not onlytemperamental; nature itself, in the extreme North, favors it. As Claraexpresses it: "Nature here exceeds the limits of the ordinary. We have night nearlyall winter; we have day nearly all summer--and then the sun is above thehorizon, both day and night. Have you seen it in the night? Do you knowthat behind the ocean vapors it often looks three or four times as largeas usual? And then the color-effects upon sky, sea, and mountain! Fromthe deepest glow of red to the finest, tenderest, golden white. And thecolors of the aurora upon the wintry sky!" etc. It is the most ardent desire of Sang to heal his wife, as he has healedmany others. But the doubt in her mind baffles him, and for a long timehe is unsuccessful. At last, however, he resolves to make a mightyeffort--to besiege the Lord with his prayer, to wrestle with him, asJacob did of old, and not to release him, until he has granted hispetition. While he lies thus before the altar calling upon the Lord insacred rapture, a tremendous avalanche sweeps down the mountainside, butdivides, leaving the church and parsonage unharmed. The rumor of thisnew wonder spreads like fire in withered grass, and among thousands ofothers a number of clergymen, with their bishop, on their way to someconvention, stop to convince themselves of the authenticity of themiracle, and to determine the attitude which they are to assume towardit. Then follows a long discussion between the bishop and the clergyregarding the value of miracles, some maintaining that the church hasoutgrown the need of them, others that they are indispensable--thatChristianity cannot survive without them. For has not Christ promisedthat "even greater things than these shall ye do?" Is not this a case ofthe faith which verily can say to the mountain, "Rise up and castthyself into the sea?" The other miracle, scarcely less marvellous than the deflection of theavalanche, 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 fallsupon his neck amid the ringing of the church-bells and the hallelujahsof 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 howit would look under the illumination of the foot-lights. For all that, Isee a recent announcement that the trial is soon to be made at the_Théâtre 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), Björnson reconquered the stage andrepeated his early triumphs. From the scientific seriousness of "Beyondtheir Strength" his pendulum swung to the opposite extreme of lightcomedy, almost bordering on farce. Not that "Love and Geography" iswithout a Björnsonian moral, but it is amusingly, jocosely enforced inscenes of great vivacity and theatrical effect. This time it is himselfthe author has chosen to satirize. The unconscious tyranny of a man whohas a mission, a life-work, is delightfully illustrated in the person ofthe geographer, Professor Tygesen, to whom Björn Björnson, the actor, when he played the part at the Christiania Theatre, had the boldness togive his father's mask. Professor Tygesen is engaged upon a greatgeographical opus, and gradually takes possession of the whole housewith his maps, globes, and books, driving his wife from the parlor floorand his daughter to boarding-school. So absorbed is he in his work thathe can talk and think of nothing else. He neglects the social forms fromsheer abstraction and becomes almost a boor, because all the worldoutside of his book pales into insignificance, and all persons andevents are merely interesting in so far as they can stimulate inquiry orfurnish information bearing upon the immortal opus. The inevitableconsequence follows. The professor alienates all who come in contactwith him. He is on the point of losing the affection of his wife, andhis daughter comes near going astray for want of paternal supervision. Both these calamities are, however, averted, though in an arbitrary andhighly eccentric manner. The professor's eyes are opened to the error ofhis ways, he does penance, and the curtain falls upon a reunited family. [10] July, 1894. The unpretentious little story "Dust" (_Stöv_, 1882) undertakes todemonstrate the unwholesomeness of the religious ideas regarding thelife to come usually impressed upon children by parents and teachers. Bydust Björnson means all obsolete, lifeless matter in the world ofthought which settles upon, and often impairs, the vitality of theliving growth, or even chokes it outright. "When children are taughtthat the life here is nothing compared to the life to come--that to bevisible is nothing compared to being invisible--that to be a man isnothing compared to being an angel--that to be alive is nothing comparedto being dead--then that is not the way to give them the right view oflife; not the way to teach them to love life; not the way to inspirethem with courage, energy, and patriotism. " In his novel "Flags in City and Harbor" (1884), the English translationof which is entitled "The Heritage of the Kurts, " Björnson has attackeda tremendous problem. He has attempted to illustrate the force ofheredity, and the exact extent to which it may be modified byenvironment--to what extent an unfavorable heredity may be counteractedby a favorable environment. The family of Kurt, whose history is heretraced through five generations, inherits a temperament which would havesecured its survival and raised it to distinction in barbaric ages, butwhich will as surely, unless powerfully modified, necessitate itsextinction in the present age. For the Kurts are incapable ofassimilating civilization. An excess of physical vigor in the first Kurtwho settled in Norway takes the form of lawlessness and an entireabsence of moral restraint. Violence of the most atrocious kind goes unpunished because Kurt ispowerful and has friends at court. In his two legitimate sons, Adler andMax (he has a host of illegitimate ones), the family temperament ismodified, though in Max, who perpetuates the race, the modification isnot 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 aman of inexhaustible vitality, violent like his father, but possessed ofa gift of speech and a tremendous voice which serve to establish hisauthority over the simple inhabitants of the little coast town. Moreover, he is endowed with great shrewdness and practical sense, andis an expert in ship-building, agriculture, and other pursuits. But heis the terror of women, and his sensual excesses so undermine hisstrength that he becomes insane, and believes that he is continuallypursued by the spirit of his brother, whose death he had caused. KonradKurt, the son of Max, runs away from home because he cannot endure tosee his mother maltreated by his father. He inherits a shatteredconstitution and poor nerves; outwardly he is quite a respectable man, but he has a strong physical need of drink, and every night he goes tobed intoxicated. It is the author's purpose to show how the sins of hisfathers, by a physiological necessity, predisposed Konrad Kurt to drink. His son, John Kurt, who is the result of a criminal relation, is thecomplete incarnation of the genius of the family. The fresh blood whichhe has derived from his English mother has postponed the doom of therace and enabled him to repeat, in a modified form, the excesses of hisancestors. He first distinguishes himself as a virtuoso in swearing. Themagnificent redundance and originality of his oaths make him famous inthe army, which he chooses as the first field of his exploits. Later heroams aimlessly about the world, merely to satisfy a wild need ofadventure. On his return to his native town he signalizes himself by hisvices as a genuine Kurt. The little town, however, cannot find it in itsheart to condemn a man of so distinguished a race, and society, thoughit is fully cognizant of his mode of life, not only tolerates but evenpets him. He is entertaining, has been everywhere and seen everything. He meets a young girl, named Thomasine Rendalen, the daughter of aneducated peasant, who occupies a position as a teacher. She is large, ruddy, full of health and uncorrupted vigor. John Kurt takes a violentfancy to her, and moves heaven and earth to induce her to marry him. Hegoes even to the length of bribing all her female friends, and they bydegrees begin to sing his praises. At last she yields; a net of subtleinfluences surrounds her, and unconsciously she comes to reflect theview of society. Her moral prudery begins to appear ridiculous to her, and the so-called common-sense view predominates. The author here, withgreat earnestness, emphasizes the responsibility of society in weakeningthe moral resistance of the individual rather than strengthening it. Thomasine Rendalen would not have married John Kurt if society had notcondoned his offences; and society in condoning such offences underminesits 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 hauntshim that his wife's friends, in a confidential moment, may expose hisdelinquencies, and destroy her confidence in him. He watches her like alynx, surprises her at all hours and places, and thereby produces thesuspicion which he is endeavoring to avert. The relation develops withinevitable logic toward an awful crisis. This is brought about by a meretrifle. John Kurt, failing to humble his wife, strikes her. The balefulforces that lurk in the depths of the Kurt temperament rise to thesurface; the whole terrible heritage of savagery overwhelms the feeblecivilization which the last scion has acquired. If Thomasine had beenweak, she would have been killed; but she defends herself with fiercepersistency, and though it seems as if she must succumb, her compactframe, strengthened by generations of healthful toil, possesses anendurance which in the end must prevail over the paroxysmal rage of JohnKurt. When the combatants part there is not a whole piece of furniturein the room. John Kurt retires a conquered man. But with cowardlyviciousness he locks the door and leaves his wife for hours despairing, while he himself goes to a dinner-party. There he is stricken down byapoplexy. The terror with which Thomasine contemplates her approaching maternityis one of the finest points in the book. Has she the right to perpetuatesuch 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, shesweetened the life-blood of humanity? For by self-destruction she wouldforever cut off the turbid current of the Kurt blood which had darkenedthe vital stream of the race for centuries. The moral exaltation whichmanifests itself in this struggle is most vividly portrayed. She clingsto life desperately; she is young and strong, unsentimental, and averseto ascetic enthusiasm. It finally occurs to her that her own race, too, will assert itself in this child; that the pure and vigorous strainwhich her own blood will infuse may redeem it from the dark destiny ofthe 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 andlight-haired, like the Rendalens, she will devote her life toobliterating in it, or transforming into useful activities, thedestructive vigor of the paternal character. Thomas, when he is born, chooses a golden mean between these two extremes, and perversely makeshis appearance as a red-haired, gray-eyed infant, in which both a Kurtand a Rendalen might have made comforting observations. He isaccordingly permitted to live, and to become the hero of one of the mostremarkable novels which has ever been published in Scandinavia. He is by no means a good boy, but his mother, by a kind of heroicconscientiousness and rationality, slowly conquers him and secures hisattachment. She has solemnly abjured her connection with her husband'sfamily, assumed her maiden name, and has consecrated her life to whatshe regards as the highest utility--the work of education. She wishes toatone to the race for her guilt in having perpetuated the race of theKurts. The scene in which she makes a bonfire of all the ancestralportraits in the Hall of Knights, and the smell of all the burning Kurtsis blown far and wide over city and harbor, would, in the hands ofanother novelist, have been made the central scene in the book. ButBjörnson is so tremendously in earnest that he cannot afford to stop andnote picturesque effect. Therefore he relates the burning of the Kurtsquite 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 withhumanity. All the latest, improved methods of education are introduced. The Hall of Knights is turned into a chemical laboratory, and thedaylight is allowed to pour unobscured into all its murky recesses. Through the dim and lofty passage-ways resounds the laughter ofchildren; on the scenes of so many hoary crimes the prattle of innocentgirls is heard; a multitude of scientific instruments labor todemonstrate the laws of nature, and to simplify the problem of existencewhich the crimes of the Kurts had tended to complicate. Thomas Rendalen, profoundly impressed as he is with his responsibility as the lastdescendant of such a race, takes up this educational mission with alofty humanitarian enthusiasm. He has spent many years abroad inpreparing himself for this work, and possesses, like hisgreat-grandfather, the gift of lucid exposition. But his perpetual andconscious struggle with his heritage makes him nervous and ill-balanced. He conceives the idea, fostered both by observation and by the study ofhis own family history, that unchastity is the chief curse of humanity, and the primal cause of the degeneracy of races. He believes that thefalse modesty which leaves young people in ignorance of one of the mostimportant natural functions is largely responsible for the prevailingimmorality, and he advocates, as a remedy, fearless and searchingphysiological study. His inaugural address as superintendent of theschool deals uncompromisingly with this subject, and excites suchuniversal indignation that it comes near wrecking the promisingenterprise. A great speech in a small town, Björnson hints, is alwaysmore or less risky. But we are also given to understand that thoughRendalen obviously speaks out of the author's heart, this very speechis in itself a subtle manifestation of the Kurt heritage. Rendalen is asimmoderate in virtue as his ancestors have been in vice. The violentenergy which formerly expended itself in lawless acts now expends itselfin an excessive, ascetic enthusiasm for self-conquest and loftyhumanitarian ideals. As a piece of psychology this is admirable. Prudent, well adapted or adaptable to the civilization in which helives, the scion of the Kurts is not yet; but as a promise of theredemption of the race he represents the first upward step. It is highlycharacteristic of Björnson's respect for reality that he makes Rendalenneither agreeable, handsome, nor lovable; nay, he dwells again and againon the bad relations which temporarily exist between him and his mother, between him and the teachers, between him and the town. For all that weare filled with a profound respect for a man who can fight in himself sogreat a fight, and win so great a victory. It is the sturdy peasantblood which he derived from his mother that enables him to wrestle thusmightily with the Lord, and extort at last the tardy blessing; for weare 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 assuredthat he conquers happiness either for himself or for his wife; and thereis not a syllable to betray that he cherishes for her any romanticattachment. But the chances are that, in transforming and ennobling theKurt heritage, he insures vigor and usefulness to his descendants. Hebequeathes to them a more wholesome mixture of blood than he himselfpossesses, and an energy, nay, perhaps a genius, derived from the Kurts, which, with an upward instead of a downward tendency, may be a redeemingforce in society instead of a corrupting one. In order not to miss any phase of his problem, Björnson also takes upbriefly the illegitimate line of the Kurts, which, being unsupplied withany favorable environment, sinks deeper and deeper into the mire ofvice. The inevitable result is insanity and ultimate extinction. Mrs. Rendalen's visit to the slums, and her recognition of the peculiarscream of her own son in a terrible little ragamuffin, is one of themost remarkable incidents in this remarkable book. One thing that especially strikes the reader in this novel is theauthor's fierce indignation against all shams, deceits, and social lies. Therefore he calls a spade a spade, and leaves you to blush if you areso inclined. The young girls whom he introduces are mostly misses intheir teens, and his portrayal of them is physiological rather thanpictorial. The points which he selects for comment are those which wouldparticularly be noted by their medical advisers; and the progress oftheir histories, as he follows them, is characterized by this samescientific minuteness of observation. Zola's ideal of scientific realism(which Björnson has repudiated) has nevertheless found its mostbrilliant exponent in him. Here the sordid and cruel facts of life arenot 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 ThomasRendalen again figures, though not as hero, is another indictment ofconventional morality. It is a very powerful but scarcely an agreeablebook. The abrupt, laconic style has no flux, no continuity, and givesthe reader the sensation of being pulled up sharply with a curb bit, whenever he fancies that he has a free rein. Though every page iscrowded with trenchant and often admirable observations, they have notthe coherence of an organic structure, but rather that of a mosaic. Thedesign is obvious, striking, and impressive. It is neither distorted noroverdrawn. It is unquestionably thus we treat moral non-conformists, even though it be in pure self-preservation that they broke the bondwhich we are agreed to enforce. The question resolves itself into this:Has society, in its effort to uphold its moral standards, the right toexact the sacrifice of life itself and every hope of happiness from thevictims of its own ignorance and injustice? When the young physician, Edward Kallem, rescues the eighteen-year old Ragni Kule from thedegradation of her marriage to a husband afflicted with a most loathsomedisease, and afterward marries her--does he deserve censure or praise?Björnson's answer is unmistakable. It is exactly the situation, depictedfive years later, by Madame Sarah Grand in the relation of Edith to theyoung rake, Sir Moseley Menteith. Only, Björnson rescues the victim, while the author of "The Heavenly Twins" makes her perish. In bothinstances it is the pious ignorance of clerical parents whichprecipitates the tragedy. Ragni's deliverance is, however, only anapparent one. Society, which without indignation had witnessed her saleto the corrupt old libertine, is frightfully shocked by her marriage toDr. Kallem, and manifests its disapproval with an emphasis which takesno account of ameliorating circumstances. The sanguinary ingenuity inthe constant slights and stabs to which she is exposed makes her life amartyrdom and finally kills her. "Contempt will pierce the armor of atortoise, " says an oriental proverb; and poor Ragni had no chelonianarmor. When her most harmless remarks are misinterpreted and her mostgenerous acts become weapons wherewith to slay her, she loses all heartfor resistance, and merely lies down to die. Very subtile and beautifulis the manner in which Björnson indicates the interaction of psychicaland physical conditions. The "soul-frost" which chills the very marrowof her bones is so vividly conveyed that you shiver sympathetically. Theself-righteous and brutally censorious attitude of the community lowersthe temperature and makes the atmosphere deadly. And the fact that itis Ragni's unsuspicious innocence, and even her love of her husband, which expose her to this condemnation is made plain with much delicateart. Her residence of five years in the United States after her divorce, and before her second marriage, had, no doubt, accustomed her to agreater freedom of intercourse between man and woman, and therebydisposed her to trip rather lightly over the stumbling-blocks ofprudence. The history of Kallem's sister, Josephine, and her husband, the ReverendOle Tuft, which is closely interwoven with the above, furnishes us withtwo more characters deeply felt and strongly realized. It is they whoare the chief instruments of Ragni's martyrdom. As the upholders ofsocial purity, and, as it were, professional guardians of morals, itwould seem that Tuft and his wife had scarcely any choice but to condemnmarriage with a _divorcée_. When, however, after Ragni's death, theydiscover whom they have slain--how much purer, nobler, and of moredelicate nature she was than either of them--they are dissolved in shameand remorse. A tremendous crisis in their spiritual lives is produced bythe mortal peril of their only child, whom Kallem saves by a skilfuloperation. Out of the ancient religion of dogmas which judges and damns, Tuft is by these experiences led into a new religion of love, whichvalues life above faith, and charity above all. The reconciliation ofbrother and sister in the last chapter is profoundly moving. The moralis emphasized in the phrase with which the story closes: "Wherever goodmen walk, there are the ways of God. " The charm of this novel is, to me, that it is strong, virile, instinctwith vital thought. There are blemishes in it, too, which no one will belikely to overlook. Several chapters read like the reports of a clinicin a medical journal, so extremely minute and circumstantial are theaccounts of Kallem's operations and hypnotic experiments. An excursioninto botany, _ā propos_ of Ragni's walk in the woods, is likewiseoverloaded with details and teems with scientific terms. But thegreatest blemish is the outbreak in Kallem (who has the author's fullestsympathy) of a certain barbaric violence which to civilized people iswell-nigh incomprehensible. Thus, when, after an absence of six years, he calls upon his brother-in-law, the pastor, he proceeds to turnhandsprings about the latter's study. When, after his marriage, hissister meets him in the street for the purpose of informing him of thescandalous rumors concerning his wife, he gives her a box on the ear. In Björnson's last book, "New Tales" (_Nye Fortaellinger_) (1894), thistendency to vehemence is even more marked. In the masterly story, "Absalom's Hair" (than which the author has never written anything moreboldly original) old Harold Kaas literally spanks his young wife in thepresence of his servants. And the matter is in nowise minced, butdescribed with an unblushing zest which makes the impression of_naīveté_. It is obvious that in his delight in the exhibition of ahealthy, primitive wrath, Björnson half forgets how such barbarism mustaffect his readers. We hear, to be sure, that the servants were filledwith indignation and horror, and that Harold Kaas, having expectedlaughter and applause, "went away a defeated and irremediably crushedman. " But for all that the incident is crude, harsh, and needlesslyrevolting. In Russia it might have happened; but I am inclined to doubtif a Norwegian gentleman, even though he were descended from theuntamable Kurts, would have been capable of so outrageous a breach ofdecency. Apart from this incident, "Absalom's Hair" is so interpenetrated with asense of reality that we seem to live the story rather than read it. Iverily believe it to be a type of what the fiction of the future willbe, when scientific education shall have been largely substituted forthe classical; and even the novelists will be expected to know somethingabout the world in which they live and the sublime and inexorable lawswhich govern it. At present the majority of them spin irresponsibleyarns, and play Providence _ad libitum_ to their characters. Man's vitalcoherence with his environment is but loosely indicated. Chance reignssupreme. They have observed carefully enough the external phenomena oflife--and chiefly for their picturesque or dramatic interest--but of thecauses which underlie them they rarely give us a glimpse. It is in this respect that Björnson's last tales offer so grateful acontrast to conventional fiction. Here is a man who has resolutelyaroused himself from the old romantic doze, cleared his eyes of the filmof dreams, and with a sharp, wide-awake intensity focussed them to theactual aspect of the actual world. He has sat down with his windows wideopen, and allowed the sounds and sights and smells of reality to pour inupon him. And the magic spectacles are his which enable him to gauge thesignificance of the phenomena and divine the causes which lurk behindthem. Therefore his characterizations are often extremelyunconventional, and amid all their picturesque vigor of phrase hint atthe kind of knowledge which could only be possessed by a familyphysician. In "Absalom's Hair" we have no mere agglomeration ofhalf-digested scientific data, but a scientific view of life. The storymoves, from beginning to end, with a beautiful epic calm and a grandinevitableness which remind one of Tolstoi, and reaches far toward thehigh-water mark of modern realism. Take, for instance, thecharacterization of Kirsten Ravn (pp. 11-15), and I wonder where incontemporary fiction so large and deep a comprehension is shown both ofpsychic and of physical forces. Emma, the heroine of Flaubert's "MadameBovary" is the only parallel I can recall, as regards the kind andmethod of portraiture, though there is no resemblance between thecharacters. In the development of the character of Rafael Kaas, thereis the same beautiful respect for human nature, the same unshrinkingstatement of "shocking" facts, and the same undeviating adherence to thelogic of reality. The hair by which Rafael, as his prototype, the son ofDavid, is arrested and suspended in the midst of his triumphant race issensuality. His life is on the point of being wrecked, and his splendidpowers are dissipated by his inability to restrain his passions. Thetragic fate which hovers over him from the moment of his birth isadmirably hinted at, but not emphasized, in the sketch of his parents. The carnal overbalance, supplied by the blood of the Kurts, wellnighneutralizes the mechanical genius which is hereditary in the blood ofthe Ravns. It is reported that "Absalom's Hair" has aroused great indignation inChristiania, because it is claimed that the characters are drawn, withscarcely an attempt at disguise, from well-known persons in theNorwegian capital. The remaining stories of the volume, "An Ugly Reminiscence ofChildhood, " "Mother's Hands, " and "One Day" betray the same contempt forromantic standards, the same capacity for making acquaintance with lifeat first hand. The first-named is an account of a murder and execution, and extremely painful. The second is a bit of pathological psychology _āpropos_ of intemperance. Tastes imprisoned, genius cramped andperverted, joy of life (_joie de vivre_) denied, will avenge themselves. They will break out in drunkenness. The hero of "One Day" is afflictedwith the same vice, and apparently for the same reason. The crueldisillusion which in consequence overtakes the poor little soul-starvedheroine rises almost to the height of tragedy. It is an every-day tale, full of "deep and blood-veined humanity, " and deriving its interest andsignificance from the very fact of its commonness. What distinguishes the Norsemen above other nations is, generallyspeaking, an indestructible self-respect and force of individuality. Theold Norse sagas abound in illustrations of this untamable vigor andruthless self-assertion. It was the looseness of the social structure, resulting from this sense of independence and consequent jealousy andinternecine warfare, which destroyed the Icelandic republic and madeNorway for four centuries a province of Denmark. In all the great men ofNorway we recognize something of the rampant individualism of theirViking forefathers. Ibsen is the modern apostle _par excellence_ ofphilosophic anarchism; and Björnson, too, has his full share of thenational aggressiveness and pugnacity. For all that there is a radicaldifference between the two. The sense of social obligation which Ibsenlacks, Björnson possesses in a high degree. He fights, not as a daringguerilla, but as the spokesman and leader of thousands. He is thechieftain who looms a head above all the people. He wields a heavysword, 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 notfor himself, primarily, that he demands larger liberties, securerrights, more humanizing conditions of life; but it is for hisfellow-men. The many, the small and down-trodden, the dumb millions, whom Ibsen despises, Björnson loves. As Dr. Brandes[11] has so happilysaid: [11] Det Moderne Gjennembruds Maend, p. 60. "Ibsen is a judge, stern as the old judges of Israel. Björnson is aprophet, the hopeful herald of a better day. Ibsen is, in the depth ofhis mind, a great revolutionist. In 'The Comedy of Love, ' 'A Doll'sHouse, ' and 'Ghosts, ' he scourges marriage; in 'Brand, ' the StateChurch; in the 'Pillars of Society, ' the dominant bourgeoisie. Whateverhe attacks is shivered into splinters by his profound and superiorcriticism. Only the shattered ruins remain, and we are unable to espythe new social institutions beyond them. Björnson is a conciliatoryspirit who wages war without bitterness. April sunshine glints andgleams through all his works, while those of Ibsen, with their sombreseriousness, lie in deep shadow. Ibsen loves the idea--the logical andpsychological consistency which drives Brand out of the church and Noraout of the marital relation. To Ibsen's love of the idea correspondsBjörnson's love of man. " BIBLIOGRAPHY. As Björnson'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 themore important English translations; but would warn my readers not tojudge Björnson's style by that of his translators. _Arne_: Translated byAugusta Plesner and S. R. Powers (Boston, 1872). _The Happy Boy_:Translated by H. R. G. (Boston, 1872). _The Railroad and theChurchyard_, _The Eagle's Nest_, and _The Father_ are contained in thevolume to which Goldschmidt's _The Flying Mail_ gives the title (Sever, Francis & Co. , Boston and Cambridge, 1870). The following volumes aretranslated by Professor R. B. Anderson, and published in a uniformedition by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. (Boston, 1881): _Synnöve Solbakken_, _Arne_, _A Happy Boy_, _The Fisher Maiden_, _The Bridal March_, _Magnhild_, _Captain Mansana and other Stories_. _Sigurd Slembe_: ADramatic Trilogy: Translated by William Morton Payne (Boston and NewYork, 1888). _Arne_ and _The Fisher Lassie_: Translated, with anIntroduction, by W. H. Low (Bohn Library, London). _Pastor Sang (OverAevne)_: Translated by Wm. Wilson (London, 1893). _In God's Way_(Heinemann's International Library, London, 1891). _The Heritage of theKurts_, 1892. _A Gauntlet_. A Play. London, 1894. A new translation ofall Björnson's novels and tales has just been announced by Messrs. Macmillan & Co. , and the first volume, _Synnöve Solbakken_ (New York andLondon, 1895), has appeared. The translation is rather slipshod. ALEXANDER KIELLAND In June, 1867, about a hundred enthusiastic youths were vociferouslycelebrating their attainment of the baccalaureate degree at theUniversity of Norway. The orator on this occasion was a tall, handsome, distinguished-looking young man named Alexander Kielland, from thelittle coast town of Stavanger. There was none of the crudity of aprovincial either in his manners or his appearance. He spoke with aquiet self-possession and a pithy incisiveness which were altogetherphenomenal. "That young man will be heard from one of these days, " was the unanimousverdict 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 ofAlexander Kielland. His friends were aware that he had studied law, spent some winters in France, married, and settled himself as adignitary in his native town. It was understood that he had bought alarge brick and tile factory, and that as a manufacturer of these usefularticles he bid fair to become a provincial magnate, as his fathers hadbeen before him. People had almost forgotten that great things had beenexpected of him, and some fancied perhaps that he had been spoiled byprosperity. Remembering him, as I did, as the most brilliant and notablepersonality among my university friends, I began to apply to himMallock's epigrammatic damnation of the man of whom it was said attwenty that he would do great things, at thirty that he might do greatthings, 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 1879a modest volume of "Novelettes" appeared, bearing his name. It was, toall appearances, a light performance, but it revealed a sense of stylewhich made it, nevertheless, notable. No man had ever written theNorwegian language as this man wrote it. There was a lightness of touch, a perspicacity, an epigrammatic sparkle, and occasional flashes of witwhich seemed altogether un-Norwegian. It was obvious that this authorwas familiar with the best French writers, and had acquired through themthat 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 timeof their first appearance that they hinted at a more serious purposethan their style seemed to imply. Who can read, for instance, "Pharaoh"(which in the original is entitled "A Ball Mood") without detecting therevolutionary note that trembles quite audibly through the calm andunimpassioned language? There is, by the way, a little touch ofmelodrama in this tale which is very unusual with Kielland. "Romance andReality, " too, is glaringly at variance with conventional romanticism inits satirical contrasting of the prematrimonial and the postmatrimonialview of love and marriage. The same persistent tendency to present thewrong side as well as the right side--and not, as literary good mannersare supposed to prescribe, ignore the former--is obvious in the charmingtale, "At the Fair, " where a little spice of wholesome truth spoils thethoughtlessly festive mood; and the squalor, the want, the envy, hate, and greed which prudence and a regard for business compel the performersto disguise to the public, become the more cruelly visible to thevisitors of the little alley-way at the rear of the tents. In "A GoodConscience" the satirical note has a still more serious ring; but thesame admirable self-restraint which, next to the power of thought andexpression, is the happiest gift an author's fairy godmother can bestowupon him, saves Kielland from saying too much--from enforcing his lessonby marginal comments, _á la_ George Eliot. But he must be obtuse indeedto whom this reticence is not more eloquent and effective than a page ofphilosophical moralizing. "Hope's Clad in April Green" and "The Battle of Waterloo" (the firstand the last tale in the Norwegian edition) are more untinged with amoral tendency than any of the foregoing. The former is a mere _jeud'esprit_, full of good-natured satire on the calf-love of very youngpeople, and the amusing over-estimate of our importance to which we areall, at that age, peculiarly liable. As an organist with vaguely melodious hints foreshadows in his preludethe musical _motifs_ which he means to vary and elaborate in his fugue, so Kielland lightly touched in these "Novelettes" the themes which inhis later works he has struck with a fuller volume and power. What hegave in this little book was a light sketch of his mental physiognomy, from which, perhaps, his horoscope might be cast and his literary futurepredicted. Though a patrician by birth and training, he revealed a strong sympathywith the toiling masses. But it was a democracy of the brain, I shouldfancy, rather than of the heart. As I read the book, sixteen years ago, its tendency puzzled me considerably, remembering, as I did, with thegreatest vividness, the fastidious and _distingué_ personality of theauthor. I found it difficult to believe that he was in earnest. The bookseemed to me to betray the whimsical _sans-culottism_ of a man ofpleasure who, when the ball is at an end, sits down with his gloves on, and philosophizes on the artificiality of civilization and thewholesomeness of honest toil. An indigestion makes him a temporarycommunist; but a bottle of seltzer presently reconciles him to his lot, and restores the equilibrium of the universe. He loves the people at adistance, can talk prettily about the sturdy son of the soil, who is thecore and marrow of the nation, etc. ; but he avoids contact with him, and, if chance brings them into contact, he loves him with hishandkerchief to his nose. I may be pardoned for having identified Alexander Kielland with thistype, with which I am very familiar; and he convinced me presently thatI had done him injustice. In his next book, the admirable novel "Garmanand Worse, " he showed that his democratic proclivities were somethingmore than a mood. He showed that he took himself seriously, and hecompelled the public to take him seriously. The tendency which had onlyflashed forth here and there in the "Novelettes" now revealed its wholecountenance. The author's theme was the life of the prosperous_bourgeoisie_ in the western coast towns; and he drew their types with ahand that gave evidence of intimate knowledge. He had himself sprungfrom one of these rich ship-owning, patrician families, had been givenevery opportunity to study life both at home and abroad, and hadaccumulated a fund of knowledge of the world, which he had allowedquietly to grow before making literary draughts upon it. The same Gallicperspicacity of style which had charmed in his first book was here in aheightened degree; and there was, besides, the same underlying sympathywith progress and what is called the ideas of the age. What mastery ofdescription, what rich and vigorous colors, Kielland had at his disposalwas demonstrated in such scenes as the funeral of Consul Garman and theburning of the ship. There was, moreover, a delightful autobiographicalnote in the book, particularly in the boyish experiences of GabrielGarman. Such things no man invents, however clever; such material noimagination supplies, however fertile. Except Fritz Reuter'sStavenhagen, I know no small town in fiction which is so vividly andcompletely individualized, and populated with such living and crediblecharacters. Take, for instance, the two clergymen, Archdeacon Sparre andthe Rev. Mr. Martens, and it is not necessary to have lived in Norway inorder to recognize and enjoy the faithfulness and the artistic subtletyof these portraits. If they have a dash of satire (which I will notundertake to deny), it is such delicate and well-bred satire that noone, except the originals, would think of taking offence. People arewilling, for the sake of the entertainment which it affords, to forgivea little quiet malice at their neighbors' expense. The members of theprovincial bureaucracy are drawn with the same firm but delicate touch, and everything has that beautiful air of reality which proves the worldakin. It was by no means a departure from his previous style and tendencywhich Kielland signalized in his next novel, "Laboring People" (1881). He only emphasizes, as it were, the heavy, serious bass chords in thecomposite theme which expresses his complex personality, and allows thelighter treble notes to be momentarily drowned. His theme is thecorrupting influence of the upper upon the lower class. He has in thisbook made some appalling, soul-searching studies in the pathology aswell as the psychology of vice. Kielland's third novel, "Skipper Worse, " marked a distinct step in hisdevelopment. 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 aconcise and well-constructed story, full of beautiful scenes andadmirable portraits. The theme is akin to that of Daudet's"L'Évangéliste;" but Kielland, as it appears to me, has in this instanceoutdone his French _confrčre_, as regards insight into the peculiarcharacter and poetry of the pietistic movement. He has dealt with it asa psychological and not primarily as a pathological phenomenon. Acomparison with Daudet suggests itself constantly in reading Kielland. Their methods of workmanship and their attitude toward life have manypoints in common. The charm of style, the delicacy of touch, andfelicity of phrase, are in both cases pre-eminent. Daudet has, however, the advantage (or, as he himself asserts, the disadvantage) of workingin a flexible and highly finished language, which bears the impress ofthe labors of a hundred masters; while Kielland has to produce hiseffects of style in a poorer and less pliable language, which oftenpants and groans in its efforts to render a subtle thought. To havepolished this tongue and sharpened its capacity for refined and incisiveutterance, is one--and not the least--of his merits. Though he has by nature no more sympathy with the pietistic movementthan Daudet, Kielland yet manages to get psychologically closer to hisproblem. His pietists are more humanly interesting than those of Daudet, and the little drama which they set in motion is more genuinelypathetic. Two superb figures--the lay preacher Hans Nilsen and SkipperWorse--surpass all that the author had hitherto produced in depth ofconception and brilliancy of execution. The marriage of that delightful, profane old sea-dog Jacob Worse with the pious Sara Torvestad, and theattempts of his mother-in-law to convert him, are described not with themerely superficial drollery to which the subject invites, but with asweet and delicate humor which trembles on the verge of pathos. In theChristmas tale, "Elsie, " Kielland has produced a little classic ofalmost flawless perfection. With what exquisite art he paints the lifeof a small Norwegian coast-town in all its vivid details! WhileBjörnson, in "The Heritage of the Kurts, " primarily emphasizes theresponsibility of the individual to society, Kielland chooses toemphasize the responsibility of society to the individual. The formerselects a hero with vicious inherited tendencies, redeemed by wiseeducation and favorable environment; the latter portrays a heroine withno corrupt predisposition, destroyed by a corrupting environment. Elsiecould not be good, because the world was once so constituted that girlsof her kind were not expected to be good. Temptations, perpetuallythronging in her way, broke down the moral bulwarks of her nature;resistance seemed in vain. In the end, there is scarcely one who, havingread the book, will have the heart to condemn her. Incomparably clever is the satire on the benevolent societies whichexist to furnish a kind of officious sense of virtue to theiraristocratic members. "The Society for the Redemption of the AbandonedWomen of St. Peter's Parish" is presided over by a gentleman who isresponsible for the abandoned condition of a goodly number of them. However, it turns out that those miserable creatures who need to beredeemed belong to another parish, and accordingly cannot be reached bySt. Peter's. St. Peter's parish is aristocratic, exclusive, and keepsits wickedness discreetly veiled. The horror of the secretary of thesociety, when she hears that "the abandoned woman" who calls upon herfor 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 withlife and admirably characteristic. Besides being the author of some minor comedies and a full-grown drama("The Professor"), Kielland has published several novels, the morerecent 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 besymbolic. From Kielland's point of view, Norway is yet wrapped in thewintry winding-sheet of a tyrannical orthodoxy, and all he dares assertis that the chains of frost and snow seem to be loosening. There is aspring 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 aprotest against that optimism which in fiction we call poetic justice. The harsh and unsentimental logic of reality is emphasized with aruthless disregard of rose-colored traditions. From the pedagogic point of view, I have no doubt that "Jacob" would beclassed as an immoral book. But the question of its morality is of lessconsequence than the question of its truth. The most modern literature, which is interpenetrated with the spirit of the age, has a way of askingdangerous questions--questions before which the reader, when heperceives their full scope, stands aghast. Our old idyllic faith in thegoodness and wisdom of all mundane arrangements has undoubtedly receiveda shock. Our attitude toward the universe is changing with the change ofits attitude toward us. What the thinking part of humanity is nowlargely engaged in doing is readjusting itself toward the world and theworld toward it. Success is but adaptation to environment, and successis the supreme aim of the modern man. The authors who, by their fearlessthinking and speaking, help us toward this readjustment should, in myopinion, whether we choose to accept their conclusions or not, be hailedas benefactors. It is in the ranks of these that Alexander Kielland hastaken his place, and occupies a conspicuous position. JONAS LIE The last Norwegian novelist who is in the Parisian sense _arrivé_ isJonas Lie. [12] The _Figaro_ has occupied itself with him of late; andbefore long, I venture to predict, London and New York will also havediscovered him. English versions of a few of his earlier novelsappeared, to be sure, twenty years ago--in very bad translations--andaccordingly attracted no great attention. "The Visionary, " which hasrecently been published in London, has had better luck, having beenaccorded a flattering reception. Of its popular success it is yet tooearly to speak. But even if Jonas Lie were not about to knock at ourgates, I venture to say that I shall earn the gratitude of many a readerby making him acquainted with this rare, complex, and exceedingly modernspirit. 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 aforceful personality of bright perceptions and keen sensations, whichhas chosen to express itself through the medium of the novel. He dwellsin a many-windowed house, with a large outlook upon the world and itsmanifold concerns. In a score of novels of varying degrees of excellencehe has given us vividly realized bits of the views which his windowscommand. But what lends their chief charm to these uncompromisingspecimens of modern realism is a certain richness of temperament on theauthor's part, which suffuses even the harshest narrative with a rosyglow of hope. Though, generally speaking, there is no very close kinshipbetween him and the French realists, I am tempted to apply to him Zola'sbeautiful characterization of Daudet: "Benevolent Nature placed him atthat exquisite point where reality ends and poetry begins. " Before hehad yet written a single book, except a volume of flamboyant verse, Björnson said of him in a public speech: "His friends know that he onlyhas to plunge his landing-net down into himself in order to bring it upfull. " [12] Pronounced _Lee_. The man who, in anticipation of his achievements, impressed Björnson sodeeply with his genius, was, however, by others, who felt themselves tobe no less entitled to an opinion, regarded as an "original, " not to saya fool. That he was decidedly queer, his biography by Arne Garborg amplytestifies. "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. Hisfather, a judge of sterling ability and uprightness, was descended, buta few generations back, from sturdy, blond, Norwegian peasants; whilehis mother was of Finnish, or possibly Gypsy, descent. I remember wellthis black-eyed, eccentric little lady, with her queer ways, extraordinary costumes, and still more extraordinary conversation. It isfrom her Jonas Lie has inherited the fantastic strain in his blood, thestrange, superstitious terrors, and the luxuriant wealth of color whichhe lavished upon his poems and his first novel, "The Visionary. " Fromhis paternal ancestors, who were for three generations judges andjudicial functionaries, he has derived his good sense, his intenseappreciation of detail, and his strong grip on reality. His careerrepresents at its two poles a progression from the adventurousromanticism of his maternal heritage to the severe, wide-awake realismof the paternal--the emancipation of the Norseman from the Finn. "Jonas Lie has a good memory, " writes his biographer. "Thus heremembers--even though it be as through a haze--that he was once in theworld 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 atwork. During this incarnation he must have behaved rather shabbily; forin the next he found himself degraded to a fox--a silver fox--and inthis capacity he was shot one moonlight night on the snow. After thathe emerged, according to his recollection, as Jonas Lauritz Idemil, sonof the lawyer Mons Lie, at Hougsund, in Eker. This took place November6, 1833. " When he was but a few years old his father removed, in various officialcapacities, to Mandal, Söndhordland, and, finally, to the city ofTromsoe, in Nordland. It was here, in the extreme north, that Jonasspent the years of his boyhood, and it was this wild, enchanted regionwhich put the deepest impress upon his spirit. "In Nordland, " he says in "The Visionary, " the hero of which isessentially the Finnish half of himself, "all natural phenomena areintense, and appear in colossal contrasts. There is an endless, stony-gray desert as in primeval times, before men dwelt there; but inthe midst of this are also endless natural riches. There is sun andglory of summer, the day of which is not only twelve hours, but lastscontinuously, day and night, for three months--a warm, bright, fragrance-laden summer, with an infinite wealth of color and changingbeauty. Distances of seventy to eighty miles across the mirror of thesea approach, as it were, within earshot. The mountains clothethemselves up to the very top with greenish-brown grass, and in theglens and ravines the little birches join hands for play, like white, sixteen-year-old girls; while the fragrance of the strawberry andraspberry fills the air as nowhere else; and the day is so hot that youfeel a need to bathe yourself in the sun-steeped, plashing sea, sowondrously clear to the very bottom. .. . Myriads of birds are surgingthrough the air, like white breakers about the cliffs, and like ascreaming snow-storm about their brooding-places. .. . " But "as a contrast there is a night of darkness and terror which lastsnine months. " In this arctic gloom, during which the yellow candle-light struggled allday long through the frost-covered window-panes, the Finn grew big inJonas Lie, and the Norseman shrank and was almost dwarfed. The air wasteeming with superstitions which he could not help imbibing. His fancyfed eagerly on stories of Draugen, the terrible sea-bogie who yellsheartrendingly in the storm, and the sight of whom means death; onblood-curdling tales of Finnish sorcery and all sorts of uncannymysteries; on folk-legends of trolds, nixies, and foul-weather sprites. He had his full share of that craving for horrors which is common toboyhood; and he had also the most exceptional facilities for satisfyingit. Truth to tell, if it had not been for the Norse Jekyll in his naturethe Finnish Hyde might have run away with him altogether. They weremighty queer things which often invaded his brain, taking possession ofhis thought, paralyzing his will, and refusing to budge, no matter howearnestly he pleaded. There were times when he grew afraid of himself;when his imagination got the upper hand, blowing him hither and thitherlike a weather-cock. Then the Norse Jekyll came to his rescue and routedhis uncomfortable yoke-fellow. Hence that very curious phenomenon thatthe same man who has given us sternly and soberly realistic novels like"The Family at Gilje" and "The Commodore's Daughters, " is also theauthor of the collection of tales called "Trold, " in which his fancyruns riot in a phantasmagoria of the grotesquest imaginings. The sameJonas Lie who comports himself so properly in the parlor is quitecapable, it appears, of joining nocturnally the witches' dance at theBrocken and cutting up the wildest antics under the pale glimpses of themoon. Throughout his boyhood he struggled rather ineffectually against hisHyde, who made him kill roosters, buy cakes on credit, go on forbiddenexpeditions by land and sea, and shamefully neglect his lessons. Accordingly, he made an early acquaintance with the rod, and wasregarded as well-nigh incorrigible. He accepted with boyish stoicism thecastigations which fell pretty regularly to his lot, bore no one anygrudge for them, but rarely thought of mending his ways, in order toavoid them. They were somehow part of the established order of thingswhich it was useless to criticise. In his reminiscences from his earlyyears, which he published some years ago, he is so delightfully boy, that no one who has any recollection of that barbaric period in his ownlife can withhold his sympathy. The following, for instance, seems to mecharming: "I can still feel how she (Kvaen Marja, the maid) pulled us, coweringand reluctant, out of our warm beds, where we lay snug like birds intheir nests, between the reindeer skin and the sheepskin covering. Iremember how I stood asleep and tottering on the floor, until I got ashower of cold water from the bathing-sponge over my back and becamewide awake. Then to jump into our clothes! And now for the lessons! Itwas 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 withmother, who sat and poured out tea before the big astral lamp, whiledarkness and snow-drift lay black upon the window-panes. Then up andaway!. .. "There (in the school) I sat and perspired in the sultry heat of thestove, and with a studiously unconcerned face watched with strainedanxiety every expression and gesture of the teacher. Was he ingood-humor to-day? Would that I might escape reciting! He began at thetop. .. . That was a perfect millstone lifted from my breast, though, asyet, nothing could be sure. Now for a surreptitious peep at the end ofthe lesson. " It was Jonas Lie's ambition at that time to become a gunsmith. He had aprofound respect for the ingenuity and skill required for such a curiousbit of mechanism. But his father, who could not afford to have a memberof his family descend into the rank of artisans, promptly strangledthat ambition. Then the sea, which has been "the Norseman's path topraise and power, " no less than the Dane's, lured the adventurous lad;and his parent, who had no exalted expectations regarding him, gave hisconsent to his entering the Naval Academy at Fredericksvaern. But herehe was rejected on account of near-sightedness. Nothing remained, then, but to resume the odious books and prepare to enter the University. Butto a boy whose heroes were the two master-thieves, Ola Höiland and GjestBaardsen, that must have been a terribly arduous necessity. However, hesubmitted with bad grace, and was enrolled as a pupil at the gymnasiumin Bergen. Here his Finnish Hyde promptly got him into trouble. Havingby sheer ill luck been cheated of his chances of a heroic career, hebegan to imagine in detail the potentialities of greatness for the lossof which Fate owed him reparation. And so absorbed did he become in thisgame of fancy, and so enamored was he of his own imaginary deeds, thathe lost sight of the fact that they were of the stuff that dreams aremade of. With frank and innocent trustfulness he told them to hisfriends, both young and old, and soon earned a reputation as a mostunblushing liar. But if any one dared call him that to his face, he hadto reckon with an awe-inspiring pair of fists which were wielded withequal precision and force. The youth, being at variance with the world, lived in a state of intermittent warfare, and he gave and receivedvaliant blows, upon which he yet looks back with satisfaction. In spite of his distaste for books Jonas Lie managed, when he waseighteen years old, to pass the entrance examination to the University. Among his schoolmates during his last year of preparation at Heltberg'sGymnasium, in Christiania, were Björnstjerne Björnson and Henrik Ibsen. The former took a great interest in the odd, _naīve_, near-sightedNordlander who walked his own ways, thought his own thoughts, andaccepted ridicule with crushing indifference. "I was going about there in Christiania, " he says in a published letterto Björnson, "as a young student, undeveloped, dim, and unclear--a kindof poetic visionary, a Nordland twilight nature--which after a fashionespied what was abroad in the age, but indistinctly in the dusk, asthrough a water telescope--when I met a young, clear, full-born force, pregnant with the nation's new day, the blue steel-flash ofdetermination in his eyes and the happily found nationalform--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 fantastichaze--something to fashion into poetry. .. . From the first hour you knewhow to look straight into this strange twilight of mine, and you espiedflashes of the aurora there when no one else did, like the true andfaithful friend you are. You helped and guided and found grains ofgold, 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 impressedupon me, again and again, that I had to seek in myself for whatever Imight possess of sentiment and simplicity--and that it was out of this Iwould have to build my fiction. " This bit of confession is extremely significant. The Finnish Hyde wasevidently yet uppermost. Björnson taught Lie to distrust the tinselglitter of mere rhetoric, and the fantastic exuberance of invention inwhich the young Nordlander believed that he had his _forte_. But thematter had even a more serious phase than this. It was about this timethat Lie disappeared for a period of three months from his friends, andeven his parents, and when again he emerged into the daylight, he couldgive no account of himself. He had simply sauntered about, moping anddreaming. He had been Hyde. The cold shudders which lurked in his bloodfrom the long, legend-haunted arctic night could break into open terroron unforeseen occasions. Grown man though he was, he was afraid of beingalone in the dark--a peculiarity which once got him into a comicalpredicament. It was his habit when travelling to place his big top-boots at nightwithin easy reach, so that he might use them as weapons against anyghost 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 arousedfrom his sleep and saw indistinctly a white phenomenon fluttering to andfro along the opposite wall. Instantly he grabs a boot and hurls it withferocious force at the goblin. A roar was heard followed by a salvo ofblue profanity. It was a fellow-traveller--a lumber-dealer--who was tooccupy the other bed in the room. He had undressed and was disportinghimself in nocturnal attire before reposing, when Jonas Lie's well-aimedmissile 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, forhe could never quite rid himself of the idea that it moved. All that laybeyond the range of the senses drew him with an irresistible, half-shuddering attraction; and he resented all attempts to explain itby ordinary mundane laws. As his first novel abundantly proves, hepossesses in a marked degree the "sixth sense" that gropes eagerly andwith a half-terrified fascination in the dusk that lies beyond thedaylight of the other five. The verses which Jonas Lie began about this time to produce are mostlywritten for patriotic and other festive occasions, and therefore arouseno creepy sensations. But they are so overladen with confusing imagerythat 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 thoughtswhich fly to the beloved one's breast. " His versification is gnarledand twisted, and a perpetual strain upon the ear. As Mr. Nordahl Rolfsenhas remarked, one need not be a princess in order to be troubled by thepeas in his verse. [13] Browning himself could scarcely have perpetratedmore unmelodious lines than Jonas Lie is capable of. Nevertheless thereis often in his patriotic songs a most inspiriting bugle-note, which isfound nowhere in Browning, unless it be in the "Cavalier Tunes. " Thecuriosities of his prosody are (according to his biographer)attributable to the Nordland accent in his speech. They would sound allright, 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 twocollections of "Poems" (1867 and 1889) (the latter being an expurgatedbut enlarged edition of the earlier), to which the present criticismsparticularly apply. Both editions contain notable things amid occasionalbits of what scarcely rises above doggerel. The sailor songs, thoughrough, are true in tone and have a catching nautical swing; but of fardeeper ring and more intensely felt are the poems which deal with thenocturnal sides of nature. These have at times a strange, shiveringresonance, like an old violin whose notes ripple down your spine. Irefer 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. Itis by no means sure that the world has not lost a poet in Jonas Lie; butprobably a lesser one than the novelist that it gained. As Jonas had been voted by his kin the family dullard, it was decided tomake a clergyman of him. But to this the young man objected, chiefly, according to his own story, because the clerical gown looks too muchlike a petticoat. At all events, after having equipped himself with aset of theological tomes, and peeped cursorily into them, he grew sodiscouraged that he went to the bookseller and exchanged them for a setof law-books. Not that the law had any peculiar attraction for him; herather accepted it as a _pis aller_; for, of course, he had to studysomething. In due time he was graduated, but with such poor standingthat he concluded to put in another year and try again. And this time hemanaged to acquit himself creditably. He then began (1859) the practiceof the law in the little town of Kongsvinger, the centre of the richestlumber districts in Norway. But in the meanwhile he had had anexperience of another kind which is worth recounting. From his boyhood he had been a worshipper of the fair sex. Marriages (ofother people) had been among the most tragic events in his life; and herarely failed to shed tears at the thought that now this lovely charmer, too, was removed from the number of his possible selections. If thingswent 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 nameThomasine Lie, appeared upon his horizon, sailed within speakingdistance, and presently a great deal nearer. In fact, though they werecousins, it took a remarkably short time for the two young people todiscover that they loved each other; and when that discovery was made, they acted upon it with laudable promptitude. They became engaged; andwere subsequently married. And from that day the Finnish Hyde in Jonaswas downed and reduced to permanent subjection. He never raised his headagain. The more sober-minded, industrious, and sensible Norse Jekylltook command and steered with a steady hand, in fair weather and foul, and often through dangerous waters, the barque Jonas Lie, which came tocarry more and more passengers the longer it proceeded on its voyage. Truth to tell, I know among contemporary men of letters no morecomplete, happy, and altogether beautiful marriage than that of Jonasand Thomasine Lie. The nearest parallel to it that I can think of isthat 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 theverge of idolatry. He will leave himself but little merit, but with anair of candid conviction he attributes even his authorship to hisThomasine. "Her name ought to stand next to mine on the title-pages ofmy books, " he has repeatedly declared. And again, "If I have writtenanything that is good, then my wife deserves as much credit for it asmyself . .. Without her nothing would have come of it except nonsense. " Even though that may be an exaggeration, pure delusion it is not. ForMrs. Lie is, in a certain way, the complement to her husband. Shepossesses what he has not; and he possesses what she, in her modestself-extinction, would never dream of laying claim to. The spirit oforder, adjustment, and lucidity is strong in her; while he, in hisfanciful exuberance, is often overwhelmed by his material, and is unableto get it into shape. Then she quietly steps in and separates the dryland from the water in his seething and struggling chaos. She is one ofthose rare women who, while apparently only listening, can give you backyour own thoughts clarified. Mr. Garborg relates most charmingly how shestraightens out the tangles in her husband's plots, and unobtrusivelydraws him back, when, as frequently happens, he has switched himself offon a side-line and is unable to recover his bearings. And this occurs asoften in his conversation as in his manuscripts, which he neverdespatches to the publisher without her revision. She helps himcondense. She knows just what to omit. Yet she does not pretend to be inthe least literary. Her proper department, in which she is also ashining success, is the care of her children and the superintendence ofher household. She understands to perfection the art of economy and hasa keen practical sense, which makes her admirably competent in all themore difficult situations in life. And he, feeling her competence andhis own deficiency, frankly leans on her. Hence a certain motherlinesson her part (most beautiful to behold) has tinged their relation; and onhis an admiring and affectionate dependence. Each prizes in the otherwhat he himself lacks; and the husband's genius loses none of itsbrightness to the wife, because it is herself who trims the wick andadjusts the reflectors which send its light abroad. I have again anticipated, because the subsequent career of Jonas Liecould not be properly understood without a full appreciation of the newfactor which from this time enters into it. He developed signal abilityas a lawyer during the years of his practice at Kongsvinger; becameprosperous and influential, bought a considerable estate (calledSigridnaes) and began to dabble in politics. He still wrote occasionalpoems, and was the soul of all conviviality in the town. He entertainedcelebrities, wrote political leaders in the papers, earned a great dealof money, lived high, and unfolded a restless and widely ramifiedactivity. Then came the great financial crisis of 1867-68, which sweptaway so many great fortunes in Norway. Lie became involved (chiefly byendorsement of commercial paper) to the extent of several hundredthousand dollars. He gave up everything he had, and moved toChristiania, resolved to pay the enormous debt, for which he hadincurred legal responsibility, to the last farthing. Quixotic as it mayseem, it was his intention to accomplish this by novel-writing. And tohis honor be it said that for a long series of years he kept sendingevery penny he could spare, above the barest necessities, to hiscreditors, refusing to avail himself of the bankruptcy law and accept acompromise. But it was a bottomless pit into which he was throwing hishard-earned pennies, and in the end he had to yield to the persuasionsof his family and abandon the hopeless enterprise. In Christiania he spent some hard and penurious years, trying to make alivelihood as a journalist and man of letters. Some of his friendssuspected that the Lie family were subsisting on very short rations; butthey were proud, and there was no way to help them. The ex-lawyerdeveloped ultra-democratic sympathies, and time and again his Thomasineled the dance at the balls of the Laborers' Union with Mr. EilertSundt. [14] A position as teacher of Norwegian in Heltberg's Gymnasium helost because he only made orations to his pupils, but taught them norhetoric. His volume of "Poems" (1867) had attracted no particularattention; 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'spublishing-house in Copenhagen a novel, entitled "The Visionary" (_DenFremsynte_), by Jonas Lie. To analyze the impression which this strangebook makes at the first reading is difficult. I thought, as I satrejoicing in its vivid light and color, twenty-four years ago: "ThisJonas Lie is a sort of century-plant, and 'The Visionary' is his oneblossom. It is the one good novel which almost every life is said tocontain. Only this is so strikingly good that it is a pity it will haveno successors. " It was evidently himself, or rather the Finnish part of himself, theauthor was exploring; it was in the mine of his own experience he wasdelving; it was his own heart he was coining. That may, in a sense, betrue of every book of any consequence; but it was most emphatically trueof "The Visionary. " It is not to the use of the first person that thisautobiographical note is primarily due; but to a certain beautifulintimacy in the narrative, and a _naīve_ confidence which charms thereader and takes him captive. With a lavish hand Lie has drawn upon thememories of his boyhood in the arctic North; and it was the newness ofthe nature which he revealed, no less than the picturesque force of hislanguage, which contributed in no small degree to the success of hisbook. But, above all, it was the sweetness and pathos of the exquisitelove story. Susanna, though as to talents not much above thecommonplace, is ravishing. To have breathed the breath of such warm andliving life into a character of fiction is no small achievement. It isthe loveliness of love, the sweetness of womanhood, the glorious fermentof the blood in the human springtide which are celebrated in "TheVisionary. " The thing is beautifully done. I do not know where younglove has been more touchingly portrayed, unless it be in some of theRussian tales of Tourguéneff. [15] The second-sight with which the hero, David Holst, is afflicted, introduces an undertone of sadness--a pensiveminor key--and seems to necessitate the tragic _dénouement_. [15] Spring Floods, Liza, Faust. The immediate success of "The Visionary" changed Jonas Lie's situationand prospects. He was first sent with a public stipend to Nordland forthe purpose of studying the character, manners, and economic conditionof the dwellers within the polar zone; and, like the conscientious manhe is, he made an exhaustive report to the proper department, detailingwith touching minuteness the results of his observations. The Norwegiangovernment has always taken a strong (and usually very intelligent)interest in rising artists, musicians, and men of letters, and hasendeavored by stipends and salaries to compensate them for the smallnessof the public which the country affords. Jonas Lie was now asufficiently conspicuous man to come into consideration in thedistribution of the official _panem et circenses_. The state awardedhim a largess of $400 for one year (twice renewed), in order to enablehim to go to Italy and "educate himself for a poet;" and he was alsomade a beneficiary of the well-known Schafer legacy for the training ofartists. In the autumn of 1871 he started with his wife and fourchildren for Rome. It was in a solemnly festal frame of mind that he nowresolved to devote the rest of his life to his real vocation, which atlast he had found. This was what they had all meant--his gropings, trials, and failures. They had all fitted him for the life-work whichwas now to be his. The world lay before him as in the shining calm afterstorm. He took his artistic training, as everything else, with extremeseriousness. With the utmost conscientiousness he started out with hisThomasine, morning after morning, to study the Vatican and theCapitoline collections. "Happy is the man, " says Goethe, "who learnsearly 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 saythat the secret of classical art has never been unlocked to him. It liesprobably rather remote from the sphere of his sensations. His genius isso profoundly Germanic that only an ill-wisher would covet for him thatexpansion of vision which would enable him to perceive with any degreeof artistic realization and intimacy the glorious serenity of the JunoLudovisi and the divine distinction of the Apollo Belvedere. The two books which were the first-fruits of the Roman sojourn were adisappointment to his friends, though in the case of the unpretentiouscollection called "Tales and Sketches from Nordland" (1872) there is noreason why it should have been. The public found that it was not on alevel with "The Visionary, " and by "The Visionary" Jonas Lie was boundto be judged, whether he liked it or not. That is the penalty of havingproduced a masterpiece, that one is never permitted to follow theexample of _bonus Homerus_, who, as every one knows, sometimes nods. Jonas Lie was far from nodding in "The Barque Future" (1872). There wasan abundance of interest in the material, and a delightful picturesquevigor in the descriptions of nature. But of romantic interest of thekind which the ordinary novel-reader craves, there was very little. _Āpropos_ of "The Barque Future" let me quote a bit of generalcharacterization which applies to nearly all the subsequent works ofJonas Lie. "It is in this particular that Jonas Lie most distinctly diverges fromall romanticism and romance-writing: His interest in practical affairs, his ability to see poetry in that which is contemporary. The sawdust inthe rivers has never offended him, nor the Briton's black cloud ofcoal-smoke. The busy toil of office and shop is not prose to him. Hepenetrates to the bottom of its meaning--its significance tocivilization. "[16] [16] Arne Garborg: Jonas Lie, p. 172. "The Barque Future" is, as regards its problem, Gustav Freytag's _Sollund Haben_ ("Debit and Credit") transferred to Nordland. Instead of thenoble house of Rothsattel we have the ancient and highly esteemedcommercial firm of Heggelund, whose chief falls into the toils of thescoundrel, Stuwitz, very much as Baron Rothsattel was dragged to ruin bythe Jew Veitel Itzig. But no more than Freytag can find it in his heartto award the victory to the Hebrew usurer, can Lie violate theproprieties of fiction by permitting Stuwitz to fatten on his spoil. Hecould not, like the German novelist, conjure up a noble gentleman ofdemocratic sympathies and practical ability (like von Finck) and makehim 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 whichhe fulfils. In Norway there is no nobility; and Lie, therefore, had tomake his able and industrious plebeian, Morten Jonsen (the equivalent ofAnton Wohlfahrt in _Soll und Haben_) the inheritor of the future. Heaccordingly awards to him the hand of Miss Edele Heggelund; but notuntil he has put Jacob to shame by the amount and character of the workby which he earns his Rachel. The reception of "The Barque Future" was far from satisfactory to itsauthor. He grew apprehensive about himself. He could not afford anotherfailure; nay, not even a _succčs d'estime_. Accordingly he waited twoyears, and published in 1874 "The Pilot and his Wife, " which made itsmark. It is an every-day story in the best sense of the word, thehistory of a marriage among common folk. And yet so true is it, sopermeated with a warm and rich humanity, that it holds the reader'sattention from beginning to end. Then, to add to its interest, it hassome bearing upon the woman question. Lie maintains that no truemarriage can exist where the wife sacrifices her personality, andsubmits without a protest to neglect and ill-treatment. Happily we arenot particularly in need of that admonition on our side of the ocean. The wife of the pilot, Salve Christensen, had once broken her engagementwith him, having become enamored of the handsome naval lieutenant, Beck;but she recovers her senses and marries Christensen, whom she reallyloves. After her marriage she tries to do penance for the wrong she hasdone him by being, as she fancies, a model wife. But by submission andself-extinction, so alien to her character, she arouses his suspicionthat she has something on her conscience; and, in his feeling ofoutrage, he begins to neglect and abuse her. When, at last, hismaltreatment reaches a climax, she arises in all the dignity of herwomanhood, 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 thewealth 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 servedto define his position in Norwegian literature. He had at first beenassigned a definite corner as the "poet of Nordland, " but his ambitionwas not satisfied with so narrow a province. In all his tales, so far, he has surpassed all predecessors in his descriptions of the sea; andthe critics, when favorably disposed, fell into the habit of referringto him as "the novelist of the sea, " "the poet of the ocean, " etc. TheNorwegian 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 readsuch tales as "Press On" (_Gaa Paa_) and "Rutland" without agreeing thatthe title is well merited. I know of no English novelist since Smollett, who produces so deep a sense of reality in his descriptions of maritimelife. Mr. Clark Russell, who knows his ship from masthead to keel asthoroughly as Jonas Lie, and writes fully as clever a story, seems to meto have a lower aim, in so far as the novel of adventure, _cæterisparibus_, belongs on a lower level than the novel of character. In the year 1874 the Norwegian Storthing conferred upon Jonas Lie anannual "poet's salary" of about six hundred dollars. This is supposed tosupply a warranty deed to a lot on Parnassus. It removes any possibleflaw in the title to immortality. Lie was now lifted into theillustrious triumvirate in which Björnson and Ibsen were hispredecessors. Great expectations were entertained of his literaryfuture. But, oddly enough, this official recognition did not have afavorable effect upon Lie. He felt himself almost oppressed by a senseof obligation to yield full returns for what he consumed of the publicrevenues. In 1875 he published a versified tale, "Faustina Strozzi, "dealing with the struggle for Italian liberty. In spite of manyexcellences it fell rather flat, and was roughly handled by the critics. Even a worse fate befell its successor, "Thomas Ross" (1878), a novel ofcontemporary life in the Norwegian capital. It is a pale, and ratherlabored story, in which a young girl, of the Rosamond Vincy type, isheld up to scorn, and the atrocity of flirtation is demonstrated by themost tragic consequences. There is likewise an air of triviality about"Adam Schrader" (1879); and Lie became seriously alarmed about himselfwhen he had to register a third failure. Like its predecessor, this bookis full of keen observations, and the sketches of the social futilitiesand the typical characters at a summer watering-place are surely goodenough to pass muster. But, somehow, the material fails to combine intoa sufficiently coherent and impressive picture; and the total effectremains rather feeble. In a drama, "Grabow's Cat" (1880), he sufferedshipwreck once more, though he saved something from the waves. The playwas performed in Christiania and Stockholm, and aroused interest, butnot 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 instantattention, but were gradually discovered by the thoughtful few who bytheir appreciation spread the poet's fame among the thoughtless many. Itwas not in this way that Jonas Lie's failures conduced to his finalsuccess. "Thomas Ross, " "Adam Schrader, " and "Grabow's Cat" have notgrown perceptibly in the estimation either of the critics or of thepublic since their first appearance. But they supplied their author ahard but needed discipline. They warned him against over-confidence androutine work. He had passed through a soul-trying experience, in itseffect not unlike the one which Keats describes _ā propos_ of"Endymion:" "In 'Endymion' I leaped headlong into the sea and thereby have becomebetter acquainted with the soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks thanif I had stayed upon the green shore, took tea and comfortable advice. Iwas never afraid of failure--would rather fail than not be among thegreatest. " Jonas Lie reconquered at one stroke all that he had lost, by thedelightful sea-novel "Rutland" (1881), and reinstated himself still moresecurely in the hearts of an admiring public by the breezy tale, "PressOn" (1882). But after so protracted a sea-voyage he began to long forthe shore, where, up to date he had suffered all his reverses. It couldnot be that he who had lived all his life on _terra firma_, and was soprofoundly interested in the problems of modern society, should bebanished 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 anotherfailure. Accordingly in 1883 appeared "The Life Prisoner"(_Livsslaven_), which deserved a better fate than befell it. The criticsfound it depressing, compared it to Zola, and at the same time scoldedthe author because he lacked indignation and neglected to denounce theterrible conditions which he described. He replied to their arraignmentsin 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 remindsone in its tone more of Dostoyevski's "Crime and Punishment" than of"L'Assommoir. " For to my mind Dostoyevski is a greater exponent ofnaturalism 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 orignored. The author had taken a plunge into the great dumb deep of thenethermost social strata, which he has explored with admirableconscientiousness and artistic perception. Few men of letters wouldobject to being the father of so creditable a failure. Lie, beingconvinced that his book was a good one, no matter what the wielders ofcritical tomahawks might say to the contrary, resolved to persevere inthe 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 atGilje. " That is a book which is taken, warm and quivering, out of thevery heart of Norway. The humor which had been cropping out tentativelyin Lie's earlier tales comes here to its full right, and his shy, beautiful pathos gleams like hidden tears behind his genial smile. It isclose wrought cloth of gold. No loosely woven spots--no shoddy woof ofcheaper material. Captain Jaeger and his wife, Inger-Johanna, Jörgen, Grip, nay, the whole company of sober, everyday mortals that cometrooping through its chapters are so delightfully human that you feelthe blood pulse under their skin at the first touch. It is a triumphindeed, to have written a book like "The Family at Gilje. " From this time forth Jonas Lie's career presents an unbroken series ofsuccesses. "A Maelstrom" (1884), "Eight Stories, " "Married Life" (_EtSamliv_), (1887), "Maisa Jons" (1888), "The Commodore's Daughters" and"Evil Powers" (1890), which deal with interesting phases of contemporarylife, are all extremely modern in feeling and show the same effort todiscard all tinsel and sham and get at the very heart of reality. He had by this series of novels established his reputation as arelentless realist, when, in 1892, he surprised his admirers by thepublication of two volumes of the most wildly fantastic tales, entitled"Trold. " It was as if a volcano, with writhing torrents of flame andsmoke, had burst forth from under a sidewalk in Broadway. It was thesuppressed Finn who, for once, was going to have his fling, even thoughhe were doomed henceforth to silence. It was the "queer thoughts" (whichhad accumulated in the author and which he had scrupulously imprisoned)returning to take vengeance upon him unless he released them. The mostgrotesque, weird, and uncanny imaginings (such as Stevenson woulddelight in) are crowded together in these tales, some of which arederived 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 distinctlyindividual and vigorous manner of utterance, though a trifle rough, perhaps, abrupt, elliptic, and conversational. Mere decorativeadjectives and clever felicities of phrase he scorns. All scientific andsocial phenomena--all that we include under the term modernprogress--command his most intense and absorbed attention. Having since1882 been a resident of Paris (except during his annual summerexcursions to Norway or the mountains of Bavaria) he has had theadvantage of seeing the society which he describes at that distancewhich, if it does not lend enchantment, at all events unifies thescattered impressions, and furnishes a convenient critical outpost. Hedoes not permit himself, however, like so many foreigners in the Frenchcapital, to lapse into that supercilious cosmopolitanism which deprivesa 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 (tothe gratification of his countrymen) on a recent occasion. At thefuneral of the late Professor O. J. Broch--a famous Norwegian who diedin Paris--the chaplain of the Swedish legation made an oration in whichhe praised the departed statesman and scientist, referring to himconstantly as "our countryman. " When he had finished, Jonas Lie, withoutanybody's invitation, stepped quietly up to the coffin and in the nameof Norway bade _his_ countryman a last farewell. "The spirit came overLie, " says his biographer, "and he spoke with ravishing eloquence. " But why did he do such an uncalled-for thing, you will ask? Becausethere is a systematic effort on the part of Sweden to suppress the veryname of Norway, and to give the impression, throughout the world, thatthere is no such nationality as the Norwegian. Therefore every Norseman(unless he chooses to be a party to this suppression) is obliged toassert his nationality in season and out of season. But Jonas Lie has, indeed, in a far more effective way borne aloft the banner of hiscountry. His books have been translated into French, German, English, Dutch, Swedish, Finnish, Italian, Russian, and Bohemian; and throughoutEurope the literary journals and magazines are beginning to discuss himas 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 asolitary phenomenon in the literature of the world. Superficial criticshave compared him with the Brothers Grimm; they might with equalpropriety have compared him with Voltaire or with the man in the moon. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm were scientific collectors of folk-lore, andrendered as faithfully as possible the simple language of the peasantsfrom whose lips they gathered their stories. It was the ethnological andphilological value of the fairy-tale which stimulated their zeal; itspoetic value was of quite secondary significance. With Andersen the casewas exactly the reverse. He was as innocent of scientific intention asthe hen who finds a diamond on a dunghill is of mineralogy. It was thepoetic phase alone of the fairy-tale which attracted him; and what ismore, he saw poetic possibilities where no one before him had everdiscovered them. By the alchemy of genius (which seems so perfectlysimple until you try it yourself) he transformed the common neglectednonsense of the nursery into rare poetic treasure. Boots, who kills theogre and marries the princess--the typical lover in fiction from theremotest Aryan antiquity down to the present time--appears in Andersenin a hundred disguises, not with the rudimentary features of the oldstory, but modernized, individualized, and carrying on his shield anunobtrusive little moral. In "Jack the Dullard" he comes nearest to hisprimitive prototype, and no visible effort is made to refine him. In"The Most Extraordinary Thing" he is the vehicle of a piece of socialsatire, and narrowly escapes the lot which the Fates seem especially tohave prepared for inventors, viz. , to make the fortune of someunscrupulous clown while they themselves die in poverty. In "ThePorter's Son" he is an aspiring artist, full of the fire of genius, andhe wins his princess by conquering that many-headed ogre with whichevery self-made man has to battle--the world's envy, and malice, andcontempt for a lowly origin. It is easy to multiply examples, but thesemay suffice. In another species of fairy-tale, which Andersen may be said to haveinvented, incident seems to be secondary to the moral purpose, which isyet so artfully hidden that it requires a certain maturity of intellectto detect it. In this field Andersen has done his noblest work andearned his immortality. Who can read that marvellous little tale, "TheUgly Duckling, " without perceiving that it is a subtle, most exquisiterevenge the poet is taking upon the humdrum Philistine world, whichdespised and humiliated him, before he lifted his wings and flew awaywith the swans, who knew him as their brother? And yet, as a child, Iremember reading this tale with ever fresh delight, though I never for amoment suspected its moral. The hens and the ducks and the geese wereall so vividly individualized, and the incidents were so familiar to myown experience, that I demanded nothing more for my entertainment. Likewise in "The Goloshes of Fortune" there is a wealth of amusingadventures, all within the reach of a child's comprehension, which morethan suffices to fascinate the reader who fails to penetrate beneath thesurface. The delightful satire, which is especially applicable to Danishsociety, is undoubtedly lost to nine out of ten of the author's foreignreaders, but so prodigal is he both of humorous and pathetic meaning, that every one is charmed with what he finds, without suspecting howmuch he has missed. "The Little Mermaid" belongs to the same order ofstories, though the pathos here predominates, and the resemblance to Dela Motte Fouqué's "Undine" is rather too striking. But the gem of thewhole collection, I am inclined to think, is "The Emperor's NewClothes, " which in subtlety of intention and universality of applicationrises above age and nationality. Respect for the world's opinion and thetyranny of fashion have never been satirized with more exquisite humorthan in the figure of the emperor who walks through the streets of hiscapital in _robe de nuit_, followed by a procession of courtiers, whoall 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 thenursery. "It was perfectly wonderful, " "You would scarcely have believedit, " "One would have supposed that there was something the matter in thepoultry-yard, but there was nothing at all the matter"--such beginningsare not what we expect to meet in dignified literature. They lack theconventional style and deportment. No one but Andersen has ever dared toemploy them. As Dr. Brandes has said in his charming essay on Andersen, no one has ever attempted, before him, to transfer the vivid mimicry andgesticulation which accompany a nursery tale to the printed page. If youtell a child about a horse, you don't say that it neighed, but youimitate the sound; and the child's laughter or fascinated attentioncompensates you for your loss of dignity. The more successfully youcrow, roar, grunt, and mew, the more vividly you call up the image anddemeanor of the animal you wish to represent, and the more impressed isyour juvenile audience. Now, Andersen does all these things in print: atruly wonderful feat. Every variation in the pitch of the voice--I amalmost tempted to say every change of expression in the story-teller'sfeatures--is contained in the text. He does not write his story, hetells it; and all the children of the whole wide world sit about himand listen with, eager, wide-eyed wonder to his marvellousimprovisations. [18] [18] Brandes: Kritiker og Portraiter, p. 303. In reading Andersen's collected works one is particularly impressed withthe fact that what he did outside of his chosen field is of inferiorquality--inferior, I mean, judged by his own high standard, though initself often highly valuable and interesting. "The Improvisatore, " uponwhich, next to "The Wonder-Tales, " his fame rests, is a kind ofdisguised autobiography which exhibits the author's morbid sensibilityand what I should call the unmasculine character of his mind, [19] Toappeal to the reader's pity in your hero's behalf is a daringexperiment, and it cannot, except in brief scenes, be successful. Aprolonged strain of compassion soon becomes wearisome, and not theworthiest object in the world can keep one's charity interested throughfour hundred pages. Antonio, in "The Improvisatore, " is a milksop whomthe author, with a lavish expenditure of sympathy, parades as a hero. Heis positively ludicrous in his pitiful softness, vanity, and humility. That the book nevertheless remains unfailingly popular, and is even yetfound in the satchel of every Roman tourist, is chiefly due to thepoetic intensity with which the author absorbed and portrayed everyRoman sight and sound. Italy throbs and glows in the pages of "TheImprovisatore"--the old vagabond Italy of pre-Garibaldian days, whenpriests and bandits and pretty women divided the power of Church andState. Story's "Roba di Roma, " Augustus Hare's "Walks in Rome, " and allthe other descriptions of the Eternal City, are but disguisedguide-books, feeble and pale performances, when compared with Andersen'sbeautiful 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 moreglaringly exhibited in "O. T. " and "The Two Baronesses. " In "The Storyof My Life" the same quality asserts itself on every page in the mostunpleasant manner. The author makes no effort to excite the reader'sadmiration, but he makes constant appeals to his sympathy. Neverthelessthis autobiography rivals in historic and poetic worth Rousseau's"Confessions" and Benvenuto Cellini's "Life. " The absolute candor withwhich Andersen lays bare his soul, the complete intentional orunintentional self-revelation, gives a psychological value to the bookwhich no mere literary graces could bestow. I confess, until I had thepleasure of making Andersen's acquaintance, "The Fairy Tale of My Life"impressed me unpleasantly. After I had by personal intercourse possessedmyself of the clew to the man's character, I judged differently. Andersen remained, until the day of his death, a child. His innocencewas more than virginal; his unworldliness simply inconceivable. Hecarried 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 achild who has a new frock on. He was fidgety and unhappy if anybody buthimself was the centre of attraction; and guilelessly happy when hecould talk and be admired and sympathized with. His conversation wasnearly always about himself, or about the kings and princes and loftypersonages who had graciously deigned to take notice of him. He was atuft-hunter of a rare and curious sort; not because he valued the gloryreflected upon himself by royal acquaintances, but because the pomp andsplendor of a court satisfied his thirst for the marvellous. A kingseemed to him, as to the boy who reads his fairy-tales, something grandand remote; and in invading this charmed sphere he seemed to haveinvaded his own fairy-tales, and to live actually in the fabulous regionof wonders in which his fancy revelled. He conceived of his life as afairy-tale, and delighted in living up to his own ideal of living. Thevery title of his autobiography in Danish (_Mit Livs Eventyr_) showsthis conclusively; and it ought to have been rendered in English "TheFairy-Tale of My Life. " "The Story of My Life, " as Mr. Scudder hastranslated it, would have been in the original "Mit Livs Historie, " avery common title, by the way, for an autobiography, while _Mit LivsEventyr_ 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 thepoet, and he blundered along miserably in his youth, supported andupheld by a dim but unquenchable aspiration. He commiserated himself, and yet felt that there was something great in store for him because ofhis exceptional endowment. Every incident in his career he treated as ifit were a miracle, which required the suspension of the laws of theuniverse for its performance. God was a benevolent old man with a longbeard (just as he was depicted in old Dr. Luther's Catechism) who sat upin the skies and spent his time chiefly in managing the affairs of HansChristian Andersen as pleasantly as possible; and Hans Christian wasduly grateful, and cried on every third or fourth page at the thought ofthe goodness of God and man. Sometimes, for a change, he cried at thewickedness of the latter, and marvelled, with the _naīveté_ of a spoiledchild, that there should be such dreadful people in the world, whoshould persist in misunderstanding and misrepresenting him. Those whowere good to him he exalted and lauded to the skies, no matter how theyconducted themselves toward the rest of humanity. Some of the mostmediocre princes, who had paid him compliments, he embalmed in prose andverse. Frederick VII. Of Denmark, whose immorality was notorious, was, according to Andersen, "a good, amiable king, " "sent by God to Danishland and folk, " than whom "no truer man the Danish language spoke. " Andthis case was by no means exceptional. The same uncritical partialitytoward the great and mighty is perceptible in every chapter of "TheFairy-Tale of My Life. " It was not, however, toward the great and mightyalone that he assumed this attitude; he was uncritical by nature, andhad too soft a heart to find fault with anybody--except those who didnot like his books. Heine's jocose description of heaven as a placewhere he could eat cakes and sweets, and drink punch _ad libitum_, andwhere the angels sat around raving about his poetry, was probably not sovery remote from Andersen's actual conception. His world was the child'sworld, in which there is but one grand division into good and bad, andthe innumerable host that occupies the middle-ground between these polesis ignored. Those who praised what he wrote were good people; those whoridiculed him were a malignant and black-hearted lot whom he was verysorry for and would include in his prayers, in the hope that God mightmake them better. We may smile at this simple system; but we all remember the time when wewere addicted to a similar classification. That it is a sign ofimmaturity of intellect is undeniable; and in Andersen's case it is oneof the many indications that intellectually he never outgrew hischildhood. He never possessed the power of judgment that we expect in agrown-up man. His opinions on social and political questions were_naīve_ 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. Thevitality which in other authors goes toward intellectual development, produced in him strength and intensity of imagination. Everything whichhis fancy touched it invested with life and beauty. It divined thesecret soul of bird and beast and inanimate things. His hens and ducksand donkeys speak as hens and ducks and donkeys would speak if theycould speak. Their temperaments and characters are scrupulouslyrespected. Even shirt-collars, gingerbread men, darning-needles, flowers, and sunbeams, he endowed with physiognomies and speech, fairlyconsistent with their ruling characteristics. This personification, especially of inanimate objects, may at first appear arbitrary; but itis part of the beautiful consistency of Andersen's genius that it neverstoops to mere amusing and fantastic trickery. The character of thedarning-needle is the character which a child would naturally attributeto a darning-needle, and the whole multitude of vivid personificationswhich fills his tales is governed by the same consistent but dimlyapprehended instinct. Of course, I do not pretend that he was consciousof any such consistency; creative processes rarely are conscious. Buthe needed no reflection in order to discover the child's view of its ownworld. He never ceased to regard the world from the child's point ofview, and his personification of an old clothes-press or adarning-needle was therefore as natural as that of a child who beats thechair against which it bumped its head. In the works of more ambitiousscope, where this code of conduct would be out of place, Andersen wasnever wholly at his ease. As lovers, his heroes usually cut a sorryfigure; their milk-and-water passion is described, but it is never felt. They make themselves a trifle ridiculous by their innocence, and areamusing when they themselves least suspect it. Likewise, in hisautobiography, he is continually exposing himself to ridicule by his_naīve_ candor, and his inability to adapt himself to the etiquettewhich prevails among grown-up people. Take as an instance his visit tothe Brothers Grimm, when he asked the servant girl which of the brotherswas the more learned, and when she answered "Jacob, " he said, "Then takeme to Jacob. " The little love affair, too, which he confides seems tohave been of the kind which one is apt to experience during the pinaforeperiod; a little more serious, perhaps, but yet of the same kind. It isin this vague and impersonal style that princes and princesses love eachother in the fairy-tales; everything winds up smoothly, and there arenever any marital disagreements to darken the honeymoon. It is in thishappy, passionless realm that Andersen dwells, and here he reignssupreme. For many years to come the fair creatures of his fancy willcontinue to brighten the childhood of new generations. No rival has everentered 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 theisland Fünen, April 2, 1805. His father was a poor shoemaker, with someerratic ambitions, or, if his son's word may be trusted, a man of arichly gifted and truly poetic mind. His wife was a few years older anda good deal more ignorant than himself; and when they set uphousekeeping together, in a little back room, they rejoiced in beingable to nail together a bridal bed out of the scaffolding which hadrecently supported a dead nobleman's coffin. The black mourning draperywhich 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, andtortured him in the thousand ingenious ways known to their species. Hehad no schooling to speak of; but, for all that, was haunted, likeJoseph, by dreams foreshadowing his future greatness. Guided by thispremonition he started, at the age of fourteen, for Copenhagen, a tall, ugly, and ungainly lad, but resolved, somehow or other, to conquer fameand honor. He tried himself as a dancer, singer, actor, and failedlamentably in all his _débuts_. He could not himself estimate the extentof his own ignorance, nor could he dream what a figure he was cutting. Undismayed by all rebuffs, though suffering agony from his woundedvanity, he wrote poems, comedies, and tragedies, in which heplagiarized, more or less unconsciously, the elder Danish poets. Mr. Jonas Collins, one of the directors of the Royal Theatre, becameinterested in the youth, whose unusual ambition meant either madness orgenius. In order to determine which it might be, Mr. Collins inducedKing Frederic VI. To pay for his education, and after half a dozen yearsat school Hans Christian passed the entrance examination to theUniversity. 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 onequal terms; and his morbid self-introspection was in a measure cured bykindly association, tempered by wholesome fun and friendly criticism. Henow resolved to abandon his University studies and devote his life toliterature. I have no doubt it would have alarmed the gentle poet very much, if hehad been told that he belonged to the Romantic School. To be classifiedin literature and be bracketed with a lot of men with whom you are noteven on speaking terms, and whom, more than likely, you don't admire, would have seemed to him an unpleasant prospect. That he drew much ofhis inspiration from the German Romanticists, notably Heine andHoffmann, he would perhaps have admitted; but he would have thought itunkind of you to comment upon his indebtedness. In his first book, "APedestrian Tour from Holmen Canal to the Eastern Extremity of Amager"(1829), he assumed by turns the _blasé_ mask of the former and thefantastically eccentric one of the latter; both of which ill became hisgood-natured, plebeian, Danish countenance. For all that, the book was asuccess in its day; and no less an authority than the æsthetic GrandMogul, J. L. Heiberg, hailed it as a work of no mean merit. It strikesus to-day as an exhibition of that mocking smartness of youth whichoften hides a childish heart. It was because he was so excessivelysentimental and feared to betray his real physiognomy that he cut theseexcruciating capers. His other alternative would have been mawkishness. His vaudeville, "Love on the Nicholas Tower, " which satirizes the dramaof 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 firstliterary reverse. A second collection of verses, entitled "Phantasiesand Sketches, " was pitilessly ridiculed by Henrik Hertz, in his "Lettersfrom the Dead. " Andersen's lack of style and violations of syntax wererather maliciously commented upon. If Gabriel's trump had sounded fromthe 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 cravingsympathy, and weeping when he failed to find it. "I could say nothing, " he writes in "the Fairy-Tale of My Life, " "Icould only let the big, heavy waves roll over me; and it was the commonopinion that I was to be totally washed away. I felt deeply the wound ofthe sharp knife; and was on the point of giving myself up, as I wasalready given up by others. " This is one of the numerous exhibitions of that over-sensitiveness tocriticism which caused him such long and continued suffering. His mindwas like a bared nerve, quivering with delight or contracting withviolent pain. Utterly devoid, as he was, of self-criticism, he regardedhis authorship as something miraculous, and held God (who apparentlysupervised each chapter) responsible for the fate of his books. "If theLord, " he writes in solemn earnest to a friend, "will take as good careof 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 wasall part of himself, and he could scarcely conceive of any motive forfinding fault with it, except personal malice, envy, animosity. [21] Thisdid not, however, always prevent him from associating with themalevolent critic, as for instance in the case of Hertz, with whom hepresently 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 andfrugality, " he says, "I had saved up a little sum of money, so Iresolved to spend a couple of weeks in North Germany. " The result of this journey was the book "Shadow Pictures, " which wasfollowed in 1833 by "Vignettes on Danish Poets, " and a chaplet of verseentitled "The Twelve Months of the Year. " It is quite true, as heaffirms, that in his "Vignettes, " he "only spoke of that which was goodin them" [the poets]; but in consequence there is a great lack of Atticsalt in the book. In 1833 he went abroad once more, visited Germany, France, Switzerland, and Italy, and sent home the dramatic poem "Agneteand the Merman, " the comparative failure of which was a fresh grief tohim. After his return from Rome (1835) he published his "Improvisatore, "which slowly won its way. It was the reputation this novel gained abroadwhich changed public opinion in Denmark in its favor. A second novel, "Only a Fiddler" (1837), is a fresh variation of his autobiography, andthe lachrymose and a trifle chaotic story, "O. T. " (being the brand ofthe Odense penitentiary) scarcely deserved any better reception than wasaccorded it. It is a curious thing that misconception and adversity never hardenedAndersen or toughened the fibre of his personality. The same lamentablelack of robustness--not to say manliness--which marked his youthremained his prevailing characteristic to the end of his life. And Ifancy, if he had ever reached intellectual maturity, both he himself andthe world would have been losers. For it is his unique distinction tohave expressed a simplicity of soul which is usually dumb--which has, atall events, nowhere else recorded itself in literature. We all have adim recollection of how the world looked from the nursery window; but nobook has preserved so vivid and accurate a negative of that marvellouspanorama as Andersen's "Wonder Tales for Children, " the first collectionof which appeared in 1835. All the jumbled, distorted proportions ofthings (like the reflection of a landscape in a crystal ball) iscapitally reproduced. The fantastically personifying fancy of childhood, where does it have more delightful play? The radiance of an enchantedfairy realm that bursts like an iridescent soap-bubble at the touch ofthe finger of reason, where does it linger in more alluring beauty thanin "Ole Luköie" ("The Sandman"), "The Little Mermaid, " or "TheIce-Maiden"? There is a bloom, an indefinable, dewy freshness about thegrass, the flowers, the very light, and the children's sweet faces. Andso vivid--so marvellously vivid--as it all is. Listen to this from "Fivein 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 "TheSandman:" "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 deliciouswhimsicality of a school-boy's troubled dream. It has the delectableabsurdity of the dream's inverted logic. You feel with what beautifulzest it was written; how childishly the author himself relished it. Theillusion is therefore perfect. The big child who played with his puppettheatre until after he was grown up is quite visible in every line. Heis as much absorbed in the story as any of his hearers. He is all in thegame with the intense engrossment of a lad I knew, who, while playingRobinson Crusoe, ate snails with relish for oysters. Throughout the first series of "Wonder Tales" there is a capital air ofmake-believe, which imposes upon you most delightfully, and makes youaccept the most incredible doings, as you accept them in a dream, as themost natural thing in the world. In the later series, where the didactictale becomes more frequent ("The Pine Tree, " "The Wind's Tale, " "TheBuckwheat"), there is an occasional forced note. The story-tellerbecomes a benevolent, moralizing uncle, who takes the child upon hisknee, in order to instruct while entertaining it. But he is no more inthe game. A cloying sweetness of tone, such as sentimental people oftenadopt toward children, spoils more than one of the fables; and whenoccasionally he ventures upon a love-story ("The Rose-Elf, " "The OldBachelor's Nightcap, " "The Porter's Son"), he is apt to be asunintentionally amusing as he is in telling his own love episode in "TheFairy-Tale of My Life. " However, no man can unite the advantages ofadult age and childhood, and we all feel that there is somethingincongruous in a child's talking of love. It is a curious fact that his world-wide fame as the poet of childhoodnever quite satisfied Andersen. [22] He never accepted it without aprotest. It neither pleased nor sufficed him. He was especially eager towin laurels as a dramatist; and in 1839 celebrated his first dramaticsuccess by a farcical vaudeville entitled "The Invisible at Sprogöe. "Then followed the romantic drama "The Mulatto" (1840), which charmed thepublic and disgusted the critics; and "The Moorish Maiden, " whichdisgusted both. These plays are slipshod in construction, butemotionally effective. The characters are loose-fibred and vague, andhave no more backbone than their author himself. J. L. Heiberg thoughtit high time to chastise the half-cultured shoemaker's son for hisaudacity, and in the third act of "A Soul after Death, " held him up toridicule. Andersen, stabbed again to the heart, hastened away from home, "suffering and disconcerted. " But before leaving he published "APicture-Book without Pictures", (1840), which is attached to theAmerican edition of his "Stories and Tales, " and deserves its place. Themoon's pathetic and humorous observations on the world she looks downupon every evening of her thirty nights' circuit have already becomeclassic in half-a-dozen languages. The little girl who came to kiss thehen and beg her pardon; the ragged street gamin who died upon the throneof France; the Hindoo maiden who burned her lamp upon the banks of theGanges in order to see if her lover was alive; the little maid who waspenitent because she laughed at the lame duckling with a red rag aroundits leg--who does not know the whole inimitable gallery from beginningto end? The tenderest, the softest, the most virginal spirit breathesthrough all these sketches. They are sentimental, no doubt, and a trifletoo sweet. But then they belong to a period of our lives when a littleexcess in that direction does not trouble us. [22] For verification of this statement I may refer to his indignant letter _ā 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 _faįon 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 histravels through nearly all the countries of Europe. In 1844 the drama"The King is Dreaming, " and in 1845 the fairy comedy "The Flower ofFortune. " But his highest dramatic triumph he celebrated in theanonymous comedy "The New Lying-in Room, " which in a measure proved hiscontention that it was personal hostility and not critical scrupleswhich 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 toscorn were the heartiest in their applause, as long as they did not knowthat Andersen was its author. Less pronounced was the success of thelyrical drama "Little Kirsten" (1846); and the somewhat ambitious epic"Ahasverus" comes very near being a failure. The next ventures of theversatile 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 ElderTree Mother" (1851). The comedies "He was not Born" (1864), "OnLangebro" and "When the Spaniards were Here" (1869), complete the cycleof his dramatic labors. But the most amusing thing he did, showing howincapable he was of taking the measure of his faculties, was to write anovel, "To Be or Not to Be" (1857), in which he proposed once andforever to down the giant Unbelief, prove the immortality of the soul, and produce "peace and reconciliation between Nature and the Bible. " Itwas nothing less than the evidences of Christianity in novelistic formwith which he designed to favor an expectant world. "If[24] I can solvethis problem, " he naīvely wrote to a friend, "then the monstermaterialism, devouring everything divine, will die. " But rarely was abigger Gulliver tackled by a tinier Liliputian. The book not only fellflat, but it was only the world-wide renown and the good intention ofits author which saved it from derision. [23] Danish, Ole Luköie. [24] Hansen: Illustreret Dansk Litteratur Historie, ii. P. 560. Though Andersen never attained in Copenhagen an uncontested recognitionof his talent, honors both from at home and abroad were showered uponhim. The fame which undeniably was his commanded respect, but scarcelyapproval. Heiberg made merry at his obscurity in the country of hisbirth and his celebrity beyond its boundaries, and represented him asreading "The Mulatto" to the Sultan's wives and the "Moorish Maiden" tothose who were to be strangled, kneeling in rapture, while the GrandEunuch, crowned his head with laurels. But in spite of obloquy andridicule, Andersen continued his triumphant progress through all thelands of the civilized world, and even beyond it. In 1875 his tale, "TheStory of a Mother, " was published simultaneously in fifteen languages, in honor of his seventieth birthday. A few months later (August 4th) hedied at the villa Rolighed, near Copenhagen. His life was indeed asmarvellous as any of his tales. A gleam of light from the wonderland inwhich he dwelt seems to have fallen upon his cradle and to haveilluminated his whole career. It was certainly in this illuminationthat he himself saw it, as the opening sentence of his autobiographyproves: "My life is a lovely fairy-tale, happy and full of incidents. " The softness, the sweetness, the juvenile innocence of Danishromanticism found their happiest expression in him; but also thesuperficiality, the lack of steel in the will, the lyrical vagueness andirresponsibility. If he did not invent a new literary form he at allevents enriched and dignified an old one, and revealed in it a world ofunsuspected beauty. He was great in little things, and little in greatthings. He had a heart of gold, a silver tongue, and the spine of amollusk. Like a flaw in a diamond, a curious plebeian streak cutstraight across his nature. With all his virtues he lacked that higherself-esteem which we call nobility. CONTEMPORARY DANISH LITERATURE The late Romantic authors of Denmark who lived on the traditions ofOehlenschläger's time and the æsthetical 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 ofstagnation followed the disappearance of the Romanticists. TheSleswick-Holstein war of 1866, and the consequent hostility to Germany, cut off the intellectual intercourse between the two countries which inthe first half of the century had been lively and intimate; and as, fora while, no new ties were formed, a respectable dulness settled upon thelittle island kingdom. People lived for the concerns of the day, earnedtheir bread and butter, amused themselves to the best of their ability, but troubled themselves very little about the battles of thought whichwere being fought upon the great arena of the world. The literaryactivity which now and then flared up spasmodically, like flames over asmouldering ash-heap, flickered and half-expired for want of freshsustenance. A direfully conventional romanticist, H. F. Ewald(1821-1892), wrote voluminous modern and historical novels, the heroinesof which were usually models of all the copy-book virtues, and theheroes as bloodless as their brave and loyal prototypes in "Ivanhoe" and"Waverley. " Instead of individualizing his _dramatis personæ_ thisfeeble successor of Ingemann and Walter Scott gave them a certificate ofcharacter, vouching for their goodness or badness, and trusting thereader to take his word for it in either case. Like many another popularnovelist, he varnished them with the particular tint of excellence ordepravity that might suit his purpose, stuffed their heads with bran andtheir bellies with sawdust, but troubled himself little about what laybeneath the epidermis. There was something _naīve_ and juvenile in hisview of life which appealed to the large mass of half-educated people;and the very absence of any subtle literary art tended further toincrease his public. Many of his books, notably "The Youth of ValdemarKrone" (_Valdemar Krone's Ungdomshistorie_), "The Swedes at Kronborg"(_Svenskerne paa Kronborg_), have achieved an extraordinary success. Theformer deals with contemporary life, while the latter expurgates andembellishes history after the manner of Walter Scott. Two subsequentnovels, "The Family Nordby" and "Johannes Falk, " are, like all ofEwald's writings, pervaded by a robust optimism and a warm Danishsentiment, which in a large measure account for their popularity withthe public of the circulating libraries. A lesser share of the same kind of popularity has fallen to the lot ofan author of a much higher order--Wilhelm Bergsöe (born 1835). Hisvoluminous novel "Fra Piazza del Popolo" (1860) made a sensation in itsday, and "From the Old Factory" (1869), which constructively is amaturer book, is likewise full of fascination. The description of thedoings of the artistic guild in Rome, which occupies a considerableportion of the former work, is delightful, though intermingled with adeal of superfluous mysticism and romantic entanglements which were thenheld to be absolutely indispensable. "In the Sabine Mountains" (1871), the scene of which is laid in Genazzano during the struggle for Italianindependence, is a trifle too prolix; and its effect is lessened by theold-fashioned epistolary form. Signor Carnevale, the revolutionaryapothecary, is, however, a very amusing figure, and would be stillbetter if he were not caricatured. The tendency to screw the charactersup above the normal--to tune them up to concert pitch as itwere--interferes seriously with the pleasure which the book otherwisemight yield. The conception of art as something wholly distinct from and above natureanimates all Bergsöe's productions. The theory of fiction which R. L. Stevenson has so eloquently propounded has found an able practitioner inhim. For all that, I am indebted to Bergsöe's two Italian romances fora 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 asmuch what he himself supplies as that which the author has depositedtherein. Each word is a key which unlocks a store of imprisonedemotions. The very word Italy has a magic which imparts to it a charmeven in the geography. And Bergsöe, though he works, without suspicionof its decrepitude, the ancient machinery of Italian romance, isunaffectedly eloquent and unsophistically entertaining. The historicwhisperings which he catches from the names, the ruins, the facialtypes, and the very trees and grass of Genazzano invest his letters fromthat picturesque neighborhood with a certain beautiful glow of color anda dusky richness of decay. The autobiographical form imposes, to besure, an increasing strain on the reader's credulity, as the plotthickens, and we find ourselves, half-unexpectedly, involved in a luridtale of monks, priests, disguised revolutionists, cruel, mercenaryfathers, etc. , and the Danish author playing his favorite _rôle_ of_deus ex machina_. Still more incredible is the part of benevolentProvidence which he assigns to himself in "The Bride of Rörvig, " wherehe saves the heroine's life by restoring to her a ring given to herlover, and thus assuring her that he is alive when she believes himdead. The autobiographical story (especially when the writer is a mereconvenient supernumerary, designed, like the uncle from America in theold-fashioned melodrama, to straighten out the tangled skein), is apt toinvolve other difficulties than the mere embarrassment of having todistrust the author's assertion, or censure his indiscretions. Theillusion is utterly spoiled by that haunting _arričre pensée_ that thisor that writer, whom you know perhaps at first or second-hand, or whosefeatures, at all events, are familiar to you from pictures, never couldor would have played the more or less heroic _rôle_ with which he heredelights to impose upon you. Altogether the best book which Bergsöe has written is theautobiographical romance "From the Old Factory, " the scene of which islaid in Denmark. This book evidently contains a great deal of genuinereminiscence, and is therefore devoid of that air of laboriouscontrivance and artificial intrigue which brings the foregoing novelsinto such unpleasant relationship with Wilkie Collins and his _genre_. The incidents of the hero's boyhood in the old porcelain factory, andhis uncle's agitating experiments for the rediscovery of a lost processof glazing are saner and soberer and lie closer to the soil of commonexperience than the exploits of monks and pirates and revolutionists. Among the notable men of the expiring Danish romanticism Meyer AaronGoldschmidt (1819-1886) holds a leading position. A comic paper, _Corsaren_, which he edited (1840-1846) made a tremendous stir in itsday; and its scathing wit and satire were not without influence uponcurrent events. His two novels, _En Jöde_ (1845), _Hjemlös_ (1857), anda 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 (Bostonand Cambridge, 1870) but attracted no particular attention. For allthat, Goldschmidt, in spite of occasional prolixity, stands the test oftime remarkably well. His Jewish stories, notably _Maser, Aron ogEsther_, and _En Jöde_, contain a higher order of work, though lessdramatically effective, than that of Sacher-Masoch, and Emil Franzos, and the later Ghetto romancers. Goldschmidt's double nationality, as aDanish-born Jew, indicates his position and the source from which hedrew his weakness and his strength. As a Jew he saw and judged theDanish character, and as a Dane he saw and judged the Jewish characterwith a liberality and insight of which no autochthon would have beencapable. For all that his tales aroused anything but friendly feelingsamong his own people. They felt it to be a profanation thus to exposethe secluded domestic and religious life of the children of Israel. Itis to this sentiment that Dr. Brandes has given utterance in his protestagainst "perpetually serving up one's grandmother with sauce piquante. " An author who is born into an age of transition, when old faiths arepassing away and new ones are struggling for recognition, is placed ina serious dilemma. Where he makes his choice by mere temperamental bias, he is apt to miss that element of growth which is involved in everyspiritual struggle. But if, as is so frequently the case, he finds hischoice in a measure made for him, his education, kinships, and worldlyadvantage identifying him with the established order, it takes atremendous amount of courage and character to break away from oldmoorings and steer, without other compass than a sensitive conscience, toward the rosy dawn of the unknown. There was a desperate need of suchmen in Denmark in the seventies, when the little kingdom was sinkingdeeply and more deeply into a bog of patriotic delusion and spiritualstagnation. An infusion of new blood was needed--a re-establishment ofthat circulation of thought which keeps the whole civilized world invital connection and makes it akin. No country can cut itself off fromthis universal world-life without withering like a diseased limb. Theman who undertook to bring Denmark again into _rapport_ with Europe wasDr. 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_) whichimpelled me, some years ago, to make the acquaintance of the threeauthors who represent whatever there is of promise in contemporaryDanish literature, viz. , Sophus Schandorph, Holger Drachmann, and J. P. Jacobsen. The last named, who died (1884) in the flower of his youngmanhood, is, perhaps, not in the strictest sense contemporary. But he isindispensable to the characterization of the group. Widely different as these three men are in almost everything, they havethis in common, that they have deeply breathed the air of the nineteenthcentury; and they all show more or less the influence of Brandes. Thatthis influence has been direct and personal seems probable from therelation which they have sustained to the revolutionary critics. Of thisI am, however, by no means sure. Mr. Jacobsen, who was by profession abotanist, and translated Darwin into Danish, no doubt came by his"advanced views" at first hand. In the case of Schandorph it is moredifficult to judge. He is an excellent linguist, and may have had accessto the same sources from which Brandes drew his strength. Drachmann isso vacillating in his tendencies that he refuses to be permanentlyclassified in any school of art or thought. Of the three, Schandorphseems altogether the maturest mind and furnishes the most finished andsatisfactory work. In his novel "Without a Centre" (_Uden Midtpunkt_)the reader feels himself at once face to face with an interesting andconsiderable personality. He has that sense of surprise and delightedexpectation which only the masters of fiction are apt to evoke. It is astory of a Danish national type--the conversational artist. In nocountry 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 aspolitical opposition is sure to prove futile, there is nothing left todo but to talk--not only politics, but art, poetry, religion, in fact, everything under the sun. At the time, however, when Albrecht, the heroof "Without a Centre, " plied his nimble tongue, the country had a moreliberal Government, and criticism of the Ministry was not yet hightreason. But centuries of repression and the practical exclusion of thebourgeoisie from public life were undoubtedly the fundamental causes ofthis abnormal conversational activity. There is something soft andemotional in the character of the Danes, which distinguishes them fromtheir 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 thisrespect Albrecht is typical, and the songs in which he gives vent to hislyrical moods have such a rapturous melody that they keep humming in thebrain long after the reader has closed the book. It almost follows as apsychological necessity that a man so richly endowed with the gift ofspeech is feeble and halting in action. Like Tourguéneff's "Rudin, " whosuffered from the same malady, he gains by the brilliancy and novelty ofhis speech the love of a noble young girl, who, taking his phrases attheir face value, believes his heart to be as heroic as his tongue. Like him, too, he fails in the critical moment; nay, restrained by pettyscruples, he even stays away from the rendezvous, and by his cowardiceloses what by his eloquence he had won. A second novel, "Common People, " which deals with low life in its mostvaried phases, shows the same admirable truthfulness and exactness inthe character drawing, the same refreshing humor and universal sympathyand comprehension. "The Story of Thomas Friis" undertakes to show, inthe career of a Danish youth who is meant to be typical, the futility ofthe vainglorious imaginings with which the little nation has inflateditself to a size out of proportion to its actual historic _rôle_. In"The Old Pharmacy" the necessity of facing the changed reality of themodern world, instead of desperately hugging an expiring past, isenforced in a series of vivid and vigorous pictures of provincial life. "The Forester's Children, " which is one of the latest of this author'snovels, suffers by comparison with its predecessors, but is yet full ofcleverness and smacks of the soil. Schandorph's naturalism is not pathological; not in the nature of anautopsy or a diagnosis of disease. It is full-blooded and vigorous--notparticularly squeamish--but always fresh and wholesome. His shortertales and sketches ("From the Province, " "Five Stories, " "Novelettes")are of more unequal merit, but are all more or less stronglycharacterized by the qualities which fascinate in his novels. Of hispoems "_Samlede Digte_, " (1882) I have not the space to speak, and canonly regret that they are written in a language in which they willremain as hidden from the world as if they had been imprinted incuneiform inscriptions upon Assyrian bricks. They are largely occasionaland polemical; and more remarkable for vigor of thought than sweetnessof melody. J. P. Jacobsen, the second in the group to which I have referred, was acolorist of a very eminent type, both in prose and verse; but his talentlacked that free-flowing, spontaneous abundance--that charming air ofimprovisation--with which Schandorph captivates his reader, takes himinto his confidence, and overwhelms him with entertainment. Jacobsenpainted faces better than he did souls; or, rather, he did not seem tothink the latter worth painting, unless they exhibited some abnormalmood or trait. There is something forced and morbid in his people--alack of free movement and natural impulse. His principal work, "MistressMarie Grubbe, " is a series of anxiously finished pictures, carefullyexecuted in the minutest details, but failing somehow to make a completeimpression. Each scene is so bewilderingly surcharged with color that, as in the case of a Gobelin tapestry, one has to be at a distance beforeone discovers the design. There is something almost wearisome in thefar-fetched words with which he piles up picturesque effects, returningevery now and then to put in an extra touch--to tip a feather withlight, to brighten the sheen of his satins, to polish the steely lustreof swords and armors. Yet, if one takes the time to linger over theseunusual words and combinations of words, one is likely to find that theyare strong and appropriate. All conventional shop-work he disdained; thetraditional phrases for eyes, lips, brow, and hair were discarded, notnecessarily because they were bad, but because by much use they havelost their freshness. They have come to be mere sounds, and no longercall up vivid conceptions. An author who has the skill and the courageto undertake this repolishing and resharpening of the tools of languageis, indeed, a public benefactor; but it requires the finest linguistictaste and discrimination to do it with success. Most authors aresatisfied if they succeed in giving currency to one happy phraseinvolving a novel use of the language, or to an extremely limitednumber; I know of no one who has undertaken the renovation of hismother-tongue on so extensive a scale as Jacobsen. To say that he has inmost cases done it well is, therefore, high praise. "Mistress MarieGrubbe" is not, however, easy reading; and the author's novelettes, entitled "Mogens and Other Stories, " seem to be written, primarily, forliterary connoisseurs, as their interest as mere stories is scarcelyworth considering. They are, rather, essays in the art of saying thingsunusually and yet well. They do not seem to me, even in this respect, asuccess. There are single phrases that seem almost an inspiration; thereare bits of description, particularly of flowers and moods of nature, which are masterly; but the studious avoidance of the commonplaceimparts to the reader something of the strain under which the author haslabored. He begins to feel the sympathetic weariness which oftenovercomes one while watching acrobatic feats. In Jacobsen's third book, "Niels Lyhne, " we have again the story of aDanish Rudin--a nature with a multitude of scattered aspirations, squandering itself in brilliant talk and fantastic yearnings. It is thesame coquetting with the "advanced" ideas of the age, the same lack ofmental stamina, the same wretched surrender and failure. It is thecomplexion of a period which the author is here attempting to give, andhe takes pains to emphasize its typical character. One is almost temptedto believe that Shakespeare, by a gift of happy divination, made hisPrince of Denmark conform to this national type, though in his day itcould not have been half as pronounced as it is now. Whether the Dane ofthe sixteenth century was yet the eloquent mollusk which we areperpetually encountering in modern Danish fiction is a question which, at this distance, it is hard to decide. The type, of course, isuniversal, and is to be found in all countries. Only in the Englishrace, on both sides of the Atlantic, it is comparatively rare. That avigorous 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 alreadyremarked, almost a psychological necessity. Holger Drachmann, in his capacity of lyrist, has also a strain of theHamlet nature; although, in the case of a poet, whose verses are inthemselves deeds, the assertion contains no reproach. I am not even surethat the Protean quality of Drachmann's verse--its frequent voicing ofnaturally conflicting tendencies--need be a matter of reproach. A poethas the right to sing in any key in which he can sing well; andDrachmann sings, as a rule, exceedingly well. But, like most people witha fine voice, he is tempted to sing too much; and it thus happens thatverses of slipshod and hasty workmanship are to be found in his volumes. In his first book of "Poems" he was a free oppositional lance, whocarried on a melodious warfare against antiquated institutions andopinions, and gave a thrust here and a thrust there in behalf ofsocialists, communists, and all sorts of irregular characters. Sincethat 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 halfsymbolically indicated in the title, "Tempered Melodies. " Nor is it tobe denied that his melodies have gained in beauty by this process oftempering. There is a wider range of feeling, greater charm ofexpression, and a deeper resonance. Half a dozen volumes of verse whichhe has published since ("Songs of the Ocean, " "Venezia, " "Vines andRoses, " "Youth in Verse and Song, " "Peder Tordenskjold, " "Deep Chords")are of very unequal worth, but establish beyond question their author'sright to be named among the few genuine poets of the latter half of thenineteenth century; nay, more than that, he belongs in the foremost rankof those who are yet surviving. His prose, on the other hand, seemsaimless and chaotic, and is not stamped with any eminentcharacteristics. A volume of short stories, entitled "Wild and Tame, "partakes very much more of the latter adjective than of the former. Thefirst of the tales, "Inclined Planes, " is a discursive family chronicle, showing the decadence of a fishing village under the influence of cityboarders. The second, "Love and Despatches, " inculcates a double moral, the usefulness of economy and the uselessness of mothers-in-law; and thethird, "The Cutter Wild Duck, " is a shudderingly insipid compositionabout a village lion who got drunk on his birthday, fell overboard, andcommitted no end of follies. A later volume of "Little Tales" is, indeed, so little as scarcely to have any excuse for being. The storieshave all more or less of a marine flavor; but the only one of them thathas a sufficient _motif_, rationally developed, is one entitled "How thePilot Got his Music-box. " The novel, "A Supernumerary, " is also a ratherweak performance, badly constructed, and overloaded with chaoticincidents. [25] Since this was written Drachmann has undergone a fresh transformation, and is said to have returned to the radical camp. _Völund Smed_ (1895) is a cycle of spirited poems dealing with thetragic fate of Weland the Smith, who took such a savage vengeance uponthe King for having maimed and crippled him. The legend is invested withan obvious symbolic significance, and seems to have been intended as apoetic declaration of independence--a revolutionary manifestosignalizing the Drachmann's re-espousal of the radical opinions of hisyouth, in his allegiance to which he had, perhaps, out of regard forworldly advantages been inclined to waver. GEORG BRANDES It is a greater achievement in a critic to gain an international famethan in a poet or a writer of fiction. The world is always more ready tobe amused than to be instructed, and the literary purveyor of amusementhas opportunities for fame ten times greater than those which fall tothe lot of the literary instructor. The epic delight--the delight infable and story--to which the former appeals, is a fundamental trait inhuman nature; it appears full grown in the child, and has small need ofcultivation. But the faculty of generalization to which the criticappeals is indicative of a stage of intellectual development to whichonly a small minority even of our so-called cultivated public attains. It is therefore a minority of a minority which he addresses, theintellectual _élite_ which does the world's thinking. To impress theseis far more difficult than to impress the multitude; for they arealready surfeited with good writing, and are apt to reject with ashoulder-shrug whatever does not coincide with their own tenor ofthought. 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 aninterpreter of a civilization and a representative of a school ofthought who sheds new light upon old phenomena--men like Lessing, Matthew Arnold, and Taine. The latest candidate for admission to thiscompany, whose title, I think, no one who has read him will dispute, isthe Dane, Georg Brandes. Dr. Brandes was born in Copenhagen in 1842, and is accordinglyfifty-three years of age (1895). At the age of seventeen he entered theUniversity of his native city, devoting himself first to jurisprudence, and occupying himself later with philosophical and æsthetical studies. In 1862 he gained the gold medal of the University by an essay on"Fatalism among the Ancients, " which showed a surprising brilliancy ofexpression and maturity of thought; and soon after he passed hisexamination for the doctorate of philosophy with the highestdistinction. It is told that the old poet Hauch, who was then Professorof Æsthetics at the University, was so much impressed by the youngdoctor's ability that he hoped to make him his successor. And towardthis end Dr. Brandes began to bend his energies. During the next five orsix years he travelled on the Continent, spending the winter of 1865 inStockholm, that of 1866-67 in Paris, and sojourning, moreover, forlonger or shorter periods in the principal cities of Germany. He becamea most accomplished linguist, speaking French and German almost asfluently as his mother-tongue; and, being an acute observer as well asan earnest student, he acquired an equipment for the position to whichhe aspired which distanced all competitors. But in Denmark, aselsewhere, cosmopolitan culture does not constitute the strongest claimto a professorship. In his book, "The Dualism in Our Most RecentPhilosophy" (1866), Brandes took up the dangerous question of therelation of science to religion, and treated it in a spirit whicharoused 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 itsattitude toward religion is approximately that of Herbert Spencer andStuart Mill. The constellation under which Brandes was born into theworld of thought was made up of the stars Darwin, Comte, Taine, andMill. These men put their stamp upon his spirit; and to the tendencywhich they represent he was for many years faithful. Mill's book on "TheSubjection of Women" he has translated into Danish (1869), and he haswritten besides a charmingly sympathetic essay, containing personalreminiscences, 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 æsthetical subjects("Æsthetic Studies, " 1868, "Criticisms and Portraits, " 1870, and "FrenchÆsthetics at the Present Day"), are full of pith and winged felicitiesof phrase. It is a delight to read them. The passage of Scripture oftenoccurs to me when I take up these earlier works of Brandes: "Herejoiceth like a strong man to run a race. " He handles language with thezest and vigor of conscious mastery. There is no shade of meaning whichis so subtle as to elude his grip. Things which I should have said, _apriori_, were impossible to express in Danish he expresses with scarcelya sign of effort; and however new and surprising his phrase is, it isnever awkward, never cumbrous, never apparently conscious of itsbrilliancy. I do not mean to say that these linguistic excellences arecharacteristic only of Dr. Brandes's earlier works; but, either becausehe has accustomed us to expect much of him in this respect, or becausehe has come to regard such brilliancy as of minor consequence, it is afact that two of his latest hooks ("Impressions of Poland" and"Impressions of Russia") contain fewer memorable phrases, fewer wingedwords, fewer _mots_ with a flavor of Gallic wit. Intellectually these"Impressions" are no less weighty; nay, they are more weighty thananything from the same pen that has preceded them. They show a facultyto enter sympathetically into an alien civilization, to seize upon itscharacteristic phases, to steal into its confidence, as it were, andcoax from it its intimate secrets; and they exhibit, moreover, anacuteness of observation and an appreciation of significant trifles (orwhat to a superficial observer might appear trifles) which no previouswork 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 thematter, rather than the manner, which he has at heart; and he apparentlytakes a curb bit between his teeth in the presence of the Kremlin ofMoscow and the palaces of St. Petersburg, in order to restrain merepictorial expression. Having violated chronology in speaking of these two works out of theirorder, I shall have to leap back over a score of years and contemplateonce more the young doctor of philosophy who returned to Copenhagen in1872 and began a course of trial lectures at the University on modernliterature. The lecturer here flies his agnostic colors from beginningto end. He treats "The Romantic School in Germany" as Voltaire treatedRousseau--with sovereign wit, superior intelligence, but scant sympathy. At the same time he penetrates to the fountains of life which infusedstrength into the movement. He accounts for romanticism as the chairmanof a committee _de lunatico inquirendo_ might account for a case ofreligious mania. The second and third courses of lectures (printed, like the first, andtranslated into German by Strodtmann) dealt with "The Literature of theFrench Emigrés" and "The Reaction in France. " Here the critic is lessunsympathetic, not because he regards the mental attitude of thefugitives from the Revolution with approbation, but because he has anintellectual bias in favor of everything French. Besides having acertain constitutional sympathy with the clearness and vigor of styleand thought which distinguish the French, Dr. Brandes is so largelyindebted to French science, philosophy, and art that it would be strangeif he did not betray an occasional _soupįon_ of partisanship. Histreatment of Chateaubriand, Benjamin Constant, Madame de Staël, Oberman, Madame de Krüdener, and all the queer saints and scribbling sinners ofthat period is as entertaining as it is instructive. It gives one thespiritual complexion of the period in clear lines and vivid colors, which can never be forgotten. Nearly all that makes France France is tobe found in these volumes--its wit, its frivolity, its bright daylightsense, contrasting so strikingly with the moonshiny mysticism of Germanromanticism. And yet France has its romanticism too, which finds vent ina supercredulous religiosity, in a pictorial sentimentalizedChristianity, such as we encounter in Chateaubriand's "Génie duChristianisme" and "Les Martyrs. " It is with literary phenomena of thisorder that "The Reaction in France" particularly deals. The fourth course of lectures, entitled "Byron and his Group, " though noless entertaining than the rest, appears to me less satisfactory. It isa clever presentation of Byron's case against the British public; butthe case of the British against Byron is inadequately presented. It isthe 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 rebelthat he fails to do justice to the motives of society in protectingitself against him. It is not to be denied that the iconoclast may be inthe right and society in the wrong; but it is by no means a foregoneconclusion that such is the case. If society did not, with the fierceinstinct of self-preservation, guard its traditional morality againstsuch assailants as Byron and Shelley, civilization would suffer. Theconservative bias of the Philistine (though not so outwardly attractive)is no less valuable as a factor in civilization than the iconoclasticzeal of the reformer. If the centrifugal force had full sway in humansociety, without being counteracted by a centripetal tendency, anarchywould soon prevail. I cannot (as Dr. Brandes appears to do) discover anystartling merit in outraging the moral sense of the community in whichone lives; and though I may admit that a man who was capable of doingthis was a great poet, I cannot concede that the fact of his being agreat poet justified the outrage. Nor am I sure that Dr. Brandes meansto imply so much; but in all of his writings there is manifested a deepsympathy with the law-breaker whose Titanic soul refuses to be bound bythe obligations of morality which limit the freedom of ordinary mortals. Only petty and pusillanimous souls, according to him, submit to theserestraints; the heroic soul breaks them, as did Byron and Shelley, because he has outgrown them, or because he is too great to recognizethe right of any power to limit his freedom of action or restrain him inthe free assertion of his individuality. This is the undertone ineverything Dr. Brandes has written; but nowhere does it ring out moreboldly than in his treatment of Byron and Shelley, unless it be in thefifth course of his "Main Currents" dealing with "Young Germany. " These four courses of lectures have been published under the collectivetitle "The Main Literary Currents in the Nineteenth Century"(_Hovedströmningerne i det Nittende Aarhundredes Litteratur_). TheGerman translation is entitled _Hauptströmungen in der Litteratur desNeunzehnten Jahrhunderts_. Barring the strictures which I have made, Iknow no work of contemporary criticism which is more luminous in itsstatements, more striking in its judgments, and more replete withinteresting information. It reminds one in its style of Taine's"Lectures on Art" and the "History of English Literature. " Theintellectual bias is kindred, if not the same; as is also the pictorialvigor of the language, the subtle deductions of psychical from physicalfacts, and a certain lusty realism, which lays hold of external naturewith a firm grip. In Dr. Brandes's "Impressions of Poland" I found an observation whichillustrates his extraordinary power of characterization. Thetemperament of the Polish people, he says, is not rational butfantastically heroic. When I recall the personalities of the variousPoles I have known (and I have known a great many), I cannot conceive ofa phrase more exquisitely descriptive. It makes all your haphazardknowledge about Poland significant and valuable by supplying you with akey to its interpretation. It is this faculty Dr. Brandes has displayedin an eminent degree in his many biographical and critical essays whichhave appeared in German and Danish periodicals; as also in his moreelaborate biographies of Benjamin Disraeli (1878), Esaias Tegnér (1878), Sören Kierkegaard (1877), Ferdinand Lassalle (1882), and Ludwig Holberg. The first of these was translated into English, and was also publishedin the United States. A second volume, entitled "Eminent Writers of theNineteenth Century, " was translated some years ago by Professor R. B. Anderson. The greater number of these highly finished essays wereselected from the Danish volumes "The Men of the New Transition" (1884)and "Men and Works in Recent European Literature" (1883), and one or twofrom "Danish Poets" (1877). They give in every instance the keynote tothe personality with which they deal; they are not so much studies ofbooks as studies of the men who are revealed in the books. Take, forinstance, the essay on Björnstjerne Björnson, which I regard as one ofthe finest and most vital pieces of critical writing in recent times. What can be more subtly descriptive of the very innermost soul of thispoet than the picture of him as the clansman, the Norse chieftain, whofeels with the many and speaks for the many; and what more beautifullyindicative of his external position than this phrase: "To mention hisname is like running up the flag of Norway"? It seems peculiarly appropriate to follow up this essay with one onIbsen, who is as complete an antithesis to his great and popular rivalas could well be conceived. There is no bugle-call in the name HenrikIbsen. 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 whenyou say Björnstjerne Björnson. This difference in sound seems symbolic. Ibsen is the solitary man, a scathing critic of society, a delver in thedepths of human nature, sceptical of all that men believe in and admire. He has not, like Björnson, any faith in majorities; nay, he believesthat the indorsement of the majority is an argument against the wisdomof a course of action or the truth of a proposition. The summary of thispoet's work and personality in Dr. Brandes's book is a masterpiece ofanalytical criticism. It enriches and expands the territory of one'sthought. It is no less witty, no less epigrammatic, than Sainte-Beuve athis best; and it has flashes of deeper insight than I have ever found inSainte-Beuve. The last book of Dr. Brandes's that has been presented to the Americanpublic is his "Impressions of Russia. " The motto of this work (which inthe Danish edition is printed on the back of the title-page) is "BlackEarth, " the significance of which is thus explained in the concludingparagraph: "Black earth, fertile soil, new soil, wheat soil . .. The wide, rich, warm nature . .. The infinite expanses, which fill the soul withmelancholy and with hope . .. The impenetrable, duskily mysterious . .. The mother-womb of new realities and new mysticism . .. Russia, thefuture. " The prophetic vagueness of this paragraph, big with dim possibilities, conveys the very impression to which all observations and experiences inRussia finally reduce themselves. It is the enduring residue whichremains when all evanescent impressions have lapsed into the background. It expresses, too, the typical mental attitude of every Russian, be heever so Frenchified and denationalized. The word "Virgin Soil" was afavorite phrase with Tourguéneff when speaking of his country, and heused it as the title of his last novel. It seemed to him to explaineverything in Russian conditions that to the rest of the world appearedenigmatical. The whole of Dr. Brandes's book is interpenetrated withthis consciousness of the vast possibilities hidden in the virgin bosomof the new earth, even though they may be too deeply hidden to sprout upinto the daylight for centuries to come. The Russian literature, whichis at present enchaining the attention of the civilized world, is abrilliant variation of this theme, an imaginative commentary on thistext. The second half of Dr. Brandes's "Impressions" is devoted to theconsideration of Puschkin, Gogol, Lermontoff, Dostojevski, Tourguéneff, and Tolstoī; of each of whom he gives, as it appears to me, a betteraccount than M. De Vogüé in his book "Le Roman Russe, " which gave him aseat among the Forty Immortals. The significance of Dr. Brandes's literary activity, which has nowextended over a quarter of a century, can hardly be estimated from ourside of the Atlantic. The Danish horizon was, twenty years ago, hedgedin on all sides by a patriotic prejudice which allowed few foreign ideasto enter. As previously stated, the people had, before the twoSleswick-Holstein wars, been in lively communication with Germany, andthe intellectual currents of the Fatherland had found their way up tothe Belts, and had pulsated there, though with some loss of vigor. Butthe disastrous defeat in the last war aroused such hostility to Germanythat the intellectual intercourse almost ceased. German ideas becamescarcely less obnoxious than German bayonets. Spiritual stagnation wasthe result. For no nation can with impunity cut itself off from thegreat life of the world. New connections might, perhaps, have beenformed with France or England; but the obstacles in the way of suchconnections appeared too great to be readily overcome. Racialdifferences and consequent alienism in habits of thought made a_rapprochement_ seem hopeless. It seemed, for awhile, as if the war hadcut down the intellectual territory of the Danes even more than it hadcurtailed their material area. They cultivated their little domesticvirtues, talked enthusiastic nonsense on festive occasions, indulged invain hopes of recovering their lost provinces, but rarely allowed theirpolitical reverses to interfere with their amusements. They let theworld roar on past their gates, without troubling themselves much as towhat interested or agitated it. A feeble, moonshiny late-romanticism waspredominant in their literature; and in art, philosophy, and politicsthat sluggish conservatism which betokens a low vitality, incident uponintellectual isolation. What was needed at such a time was a man who could re-attach the brokenconnection--a mediator and interpreter of foreign thought in such a formas to appeal to the Danish temperament and be capable of assimilation bythe Danish intellect. Such a man was Georg Brandes. He undertook to puthis people _en rapport_ with the nineteenth century, to open new avenuesfor the influx of modern thought, to take the place of those which hadbeen closed. We have seen that he interpreted to his countrymen thesignificance of the literary and social movements both in England and inFrance. But a self-satisfied and virtuous little nation which regardsits remoteness from the great world as a matter of congratulation is notapt to receive with favor such a champion of alien ideas. The more theDanes became absorbed in their national hallucinations, the moreprovincial, nay parochial, they became in their interests, the less didthey feel the need of any intellectual stimulus from abroad; and whenDr. Brandes introduced them to modern realism, agnosticism, andpositivism they thanked God that none of these dreadful isms wereindigenous with them; and were disposed to take Dr. Brandes to task fordisturbing their idyllic, orthodox peace by the promulgation of suchdangerous heresies. When the time came to fill the professorship forwhich he was a candidate, he was passed by, and a safer but inferior manwas appointed. A formal crusade was opened against him, and he was madethe object of savage and bitter attacks. I am not positive, but amdisposed to believe, that it was this crusade, not against his opinionsonly, but against the man himself, which drove Dr. Brandes fromCopenhagen, and induced him, in October, 1877, to settle in Berlin. Herehe continued his literary activity with unabated zeal, became a valuedcontributor to the most authoritative German periodicals, and gained aconspicuous position among German men of letters. But while he wassojourning abroad, the seed of ideas which he had left at home began tosprout, and in 1882 his friends in Copenhagen felt themselves strongenough to brave the antagonism which his æsthetical and religiousheresies had aroused. At their invitation he returned to Denmark, havingbeen guaranteed an income of four thousand crowns ($1, 000) for tenyears, with the single stipulation that he should deliver an annualcourse of public lectures in Copenhagen. Since then his reputation hasspread rapidly throughout the civilized world; his books have beentranslated into many languages, and he would have won his way to arecognition, as the foremost of contemporary critics, if he had not inhis later publications discredited himself by his open sympathy withanarchism. In order to substantiate this it is only necessary to call attention tothe fifth volume of his lectures entitled "Young Germany" (_Det ungeTydskland_, 1890), which betrays extraordinary intellectual acumen butalso a singular confusion of moral values. All revolt is lauded, allconformity derided. The former is noble, daring, Titanic; the latter ispusillanimous and weak. Conjugal irregularities are treated not withtolerance but with obvious approval. Those authors who dared be a lawunto themselves are, by implication at least, praised for flinging downtheir gauntlets to the dull, moral Philistines who have shackledthemselves with their own stupid traditions. That is the tone ofBrandes's comment upon such relations as that of Immermann to Eliza vonLützow. But nowhere has he unmasked so Mephistophelian a countenance as in hisessays on Luther and on an obscure German iconoclast named FriedrichNietschke (_Essays: Fremmede Personligheder_, pp. 151-244). It isdifficult to understand how a man of well-balanced brain and a logicalequipment second to none, can take _au sérieux_ a mere philosophicalsavage who dances a war-dance amid what he conceives to be the ruins ofcivilization, swings a reckless tomahawk and knocks down everybody andeverything that comes in his way. There must lie a long history ofdisappointment and bitterness behind that endorsement of anarchy pureand simple. And it is the sadder to contemplate because it casts asinister light upon Dr. Brandes's earlier activity and compels many anadmirer of his literary art to revise his previous opinion of him. Can aman ever have been a sound thinker who at fifty practically hoists thestandard of anarchy? A ship is scarcely to be trusted that flies suchcompromising colors. That all development, in order to be rational, must have its roots inthe past--must be in the nature of a slow organic growth--is certainly afundamental proposition of the Spencerian sociology. It is the more tobe wondered at that an evolutionist like Dr. Brandes, in his impatienceat the tardiness of social progress, should lose his philosophic temperand make common cause with a crack-brained visionary. The kind ofexplosive radicalism which Nietschke betrays in his cynical questionsand explanations is no evidence of profundity or sagacity, but is theequivalent of the dynamiter's activity, transferred to the world ofthought. His pretended re-investigation of the foundations of the moralsentiments reminds one of the mud geysers of the Yellowstone, whichbreak out periodically and envelop everything within reach in anindeterminate shower of mud. To me there is more of vanity than ofphilosophic 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. Theyhave 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 theEphesian Diana, aspire to that of Herostratos, who destroyed it. Toadmire these men is as compromising as to be admired by them. In the essay on "Martin Luther on Celibacy and Marriage" Dr. Brandesderides 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 thrustsare not the reformer's, but the essayist's own. Fundamentally, I fancy, this is an outbreak of that artistic paganism which is so prevalentamong the so-called "advanced" Hebrews. The idea that obedience to lawis degrading; that conformity to traditional morals is soul-cripplingand unworthy of a free spirit; that only by giving sway to passion willthe individual attain that joy which is his right, and thatself-development which should be his highest aim, has found one of itsablest and most dangerous advocates in Georg Brandes. ESAIAS TEGNÉR The genius of the Scandinavian north has never found a more complete andbrilliant incarnation than the Swedish poet Esaias Tegnér. Strong, cheerful, thoroughly wholesome, with a boyish delight in prowess, adventure, and daring deeds, he presents a most agreeable contrast tothe moonshine singers and graveyard bards of the phosphoristic school, who were his contemporaries. To Tegnér, in his prime, life was a briskand exhilarating sail, with a fresh breeze, over sunny waters; and hehad no patience with those who described it as a painful and troublousgroping through the valley of the shadow of death. There was, in otherwords, a certain charming juvenility in his attitude toward existence, which presented to him no riddles that a man with a strong arm and anhonest heart might not solve with comparative ease. All problems were tohim soluble with the sword; and Alexander, when he cut the Gordian knot, must have appeared to him wiser, as he was surely more admirable, thaneither Plato or Socrates. This scorn of all metaphysical subtleties, andreliance upon strength and Swedish manhood, are, perhaps (from anadvanced European point of view), indicative of a little intellectualimmaturity; but they are thoroughly characteristic of the Scandinaviannationalities. The love of brave words and brave deeds, the exaltationof the man of action above the man of thought, the pleasure in recklessgallantry and foolhardy adventure, are, however, not confined to Swedesand Norwegians, but are characteristic of the boyhood of every nation. In the Scotchman, Robert Louis Stevenson, this jaunty juvenility, thisrich enjoyment of bloody buccaneers and profane sea-dogs, is carried tofar greater lengths, and the great juvenile public of England andAmerica, both young and old, rises up and calls him blessed. There is, however, a vast difference between Tegnér's youthfulness andthat of Stevenson. The latter (in spite of the charm of his style, whichis irresistible) strikes me as a sort of mediæval survival--a boyishfeudal sixteenth-century spirit astray in the nineteenth. I am by nomeans insensible to the fascination of his capricious confidences, hisbeautiful insight, and his exquisite humor; but for all that, he alwaysleaves me with a vague regret at his whimsicality and a certain lack ofrobustness in his intellectual equipment. In Tegnér, on the other hand, it is primarily the man who is impressive; and the author is interestingas the revelation of the man. He has no literary airs and graces, butspeaks with a splendid authority, _e plena pectore_, from the fulness ofhis manly conviction. He seems a very personification of the nationalgenius--fair, vigorous, and beautiful--with the glow of health in hischeeks and the light of courage in his eye. His vision of the world isbright and vivid, and he swims with a joyous ease in the high-tide ofthe moment, like a beautiful fish in the luminous summer sea. As a specimen of magnificent manhood Tegnér had few equals in his day. Tall, robust, and finely proportioned as he was, with a profile ofalmost classic purity, he was equally irresistible to men and women. There was a breezy, out-of-door air about him, and a genialstraightforwardness and affability in his manner which took all heartscaptive. His was not only the beauty of perfect health, but a certainsplendid virility in his demeanor and appearance heightened the charm ofhis personality. It is a matter of wonder that a man in whom the race-type had reachedsuch perfection was but two generations removed from the soil. Tegnér'sgrandfathers on both sides were peasants; and his father, EsaiasLucasson, was a peasant lad who by industry and ambition had obtained aneducation and become a clergyman. He owed his aristocratic name to thecustom, prevalent in those days, to Latinize all vulgar appellations. Esaias Lucasson, of Tegnaby (the little Småland village where he wasborn), became, in the Latin school, Esaias Tegnerus. He married in thecourse of time a clergyman's daughter, Sara Maria Seidelius, who borehim a large family of sons and daughters. The fifth son, named Esaiasafter his father, first saw the light of day in the parsonage ofKyrkerud, in Wermland, November 13, 1782. When he was nine years old hisfather died, leaving behind him poverty and sorrow. Happily a friend ofthe family, the Assessor Branting, took a fancy to the handsome andclever boy and offered him a home in his house. Esaias wrote a veryclear, good hand, and soon got a desk and a high three-legged stool inthe assessor's office. So far from rebelling against this tediousdiscipline, he applied himself with zeal to his task, and became, in ashort time, an excellent clerk. And a clerk he might have remained ifhis patron had not had the wit to discover that very unusual talentsslumbered in the lad. Being fond of his society, Mr. Branting got intothe habit of taking him along on his official journeys; and from theback seat of his chaise Esaias made the acquaintance of the beautifulrivers, heights, and valleys of Wermland. The unconscious impressionswhich a boy absorbs at this period of his life are apt to play adecisive part in fashioning his future. Nature, however picturesque, never yet made a poet of a dullard; but many a time has she aroused topoetic consciousness a soul which without this stimulating influencemight never have discovered its calling, might never have felt thatstrange, tremulous exaltation which demands utterance in song. Esaias Tegnér stored his mind during these journeys with that wealth ofimagery, drawn from the scenery of his native land, which constitutesthe most national element in his verse. He also contracted, during hisresidence in Branting's house, an inordinate love of books. Once duringthe harvest-time he was placed on guard at an open gate, so as toprevent the cattle from breaking into the adjoining field. To the greatchagrin of his patron, however, the cows made their way unhindered andunnoticed into the forbidden territory, while their watchman was lyingon his belly in the grass, deeply absorbed in a book. Wherever hehappened to be, his idea of happiness was to hide himself away with acherished volume. Sometimes he was found sitting on the top rung of aladder, sometimes on the roof of a turf-thatched cottage, oblivious ofthe world about him, plunged up to his ears in some historic ormythological tale. He was voracious, nay, omnivorous, in his reading. Abook was a book to him; no matter what was its subject, whether it werepoetry, history, heraldry, or horticulture, he was always likely to findsomething in it to interest him. But his favorite reading was the oldNorse sagas, with their tremendous recitals of war and song and fabulousprowess. It was not, however, his delight in books which made the change in hisdestiny. Professor C. W. Böttiger, Tegnér's son-in-law, quotes, in hislife of the poet, the following incident in the latter's own words: "One evening, as I was travelling homeward with Assessor Branting, fromCarlstad to Högvalta, the stars were bright and my religiousfoster-father seized this opportunity to talk with me about God'somnipotence, and its visible traces throughout nature. I had just beenreading Bastholm's 'Philosophy for Laymen, ' and I began to give anaccount of what I had there learned concerning the movements of theheavenly bodies. This made an impression upon the old man, who, a fewdays later, informed me that he had determined to give me a scholarlyeducation. This had long been my secret desire, though I had never daredto express it. 'You can learn nothing more with me, ' he said, 'and Ibelieve you were born for something better. If that is the case, ' headded, '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 aneighbor, where his elder brother, Lars Gustaf, was tutor, and wasinitiated by him into the classical languages. He also taught himselfEnglish by reading McPherson's "Ossian, " which kept ringing in hismemory 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 Connellis keen, " he cut it into his chamber-door, where probably it is yet tobe seen. At the end of fifteen months the elder brother accepted a moreprofitable position as tutor in the family of the greatiron-manufacturer Myhrman, at Rämen, and stipulated that Esaias shouldbe permitted to accompany him. Very charming is the description of this hospitable, patriarchalhousehold, in Böttiger's biography; and doubly interesting it becomeswhen we recognize on every page scenes and incidents which were laterwoven into "Frithjof's Saga. " There was a large library on the estate, consisting of French, Latin, and Greek classics. With great zest Esaiasattacked this storehouse of delight; and scarcely would he grant himselfthe needed sleep, because every hour seemed to him lost which had beenrobbed from his beloved authors. The instruction in Latin and Greekwhich his brother imparted to the young Myhrmans was to him far tooslow. In his eagerness to plunge into Homer's enchanted world, herapidly finished his grammar, and began to read ahead, book after book, so as to get the connection, even though understanding but half thewords. Without knowing it, he had adopted a modern and really mostexcellent method of acquiring the language. For Homer became literatureto him instead of a mere text for excruciating grammatical gymnastics. It was Tegnér's good fortune that his playfellows, the seven youngMyhrmans, were not so fond of Greek as he was. Often, when he wasrevelling in a glorious Homeric passage, these lusty barbarians wouldcome storming into his room and carry him off bodily, compelling him toshare in their sports; for Esaias was a capital hand at inventing newgames, and they willingly accepted his leadership and acted upon hissuggestions. Particularly his Homeric games were greatly enjoyed. Theydivided their troop into Greeks and Trojans and captured Troy. Esaiaswas always Hector, and the other boys became the raging Ajax, theswift-footed Achilles, the wily Ulysses, etc. The youngest daughter ofthe house, Anna Myhrman, must, I should fancy, have played somewhat moreof a part in Tegnér's boyhood than his biographer allows, for thedescriptions of Frithjof's and Ingeborg's childhood in Hilding's houseare 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 Tegnér entered the University of Lund, accompanied by three young Myhrmans, whose father had generouslypromised to share with Assessor Branting the expenses of his academiceducation. His playmate, familiarly called Achilles, had to share hisroom, and thus it came to pass that Hector and his deadly foe becamebedfellows. In fact the bed in question, being intended for but one, afforded the scantiest possible accommodations for two, and oftenthreatened to collapse under their united weight. Aching in every jointfrom the discomfort of their cramped position, they would then get upand spend the remainder of the night in playing chess. At the University Tegnér soon made his mark, and two years later tookhis degree of _Magister Artium_ with great distinction, being, accordingto the extraordinary custom of the country, laurel-crowned in thecathedral as the first of twenty-four candidates. The Swede loves pompand ceremonious display, and rarely misses an opportunity for a finestage effect. I do not mean to insinuate, of course, that Esaias Tegnérwas unworthy of the honor which was conferred upon him; but it seems aterrible cheapening of the laurel to place it annually upon the brows ofa herd of deedless striplings, standing upon the threshold of theircareers. Tegnér was but nineteen years of age when the Muse, contrary toher habit, gave him the crown without the dust, generously rewarding himin advance of performance. But he came very near forfeiting the fruitsof all his fair fame by participating in a hostile demonstration infront of the house of the University's rector, who was justly unpopular. His manly bearing, however, and the friendship of several of theprofessors saved him from the _consilium abeundi cum infamia_, withwhich he was threatened. Instead of that he was appointed _docent_ inæsthetics, Secretary to the Faculty of Philosophy, and AssistantUniversity Librarian. His summer vacations he spent at Rämen with theMyhrmans. His playmate, Miss Anna, was now sixteen years of age, and hadundergone that miraculous transformation, which never loses itsdelightful mystery, from childhood into young womanhood. He went awayone day and bade good-by to an awkward kangaroo-like girl in shortskirts, and returned in a few months to greet a lovely, blushinglydignified young lady, who probably avowed no more her fondness for himwith the same frank heedlessness as of old. But she would have been morethan woman if she could have resisted the wooing of the beautiful youthupon whom nature had showered so many rare gifts. A stone has been foundup in the woods above Rämen which yet shows under its coating of mossthe initials of E. T. And A. M. It requires but little imagination tofill out the story of the brief and happy courtship; and two cantos in"Frithjof's Saga" ("Frithof's Wooing" and "Frithjof's Happiness") supplyan 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-crownčd cave Where oaks bravely stream o'er a warrior's grave. "[27] [27] Strong's translation. But here, happily, Tegnér's life ceased to supply material for that ofhis hero. For Anna Myhrman, instead of pledging her troth to ahigh-born, elderly gentleman, like King Ring, married the youngUniversity instructor, Esaias Tegnér; and when her bridal wreath ofmyrtle failed to arrive from the city, she twined a wreath of wildheather instead; and very lovely she looked on her wedding-day with themodest heather blossoms peeping forth from under her dark locks. His insecure position in life, as one dependent upon the bounty offriends, had hitherto oppressed Tegnér, and at times made him moody anddespondent. He had felt impelled, in justice to himself and to satisfythe expectations of his patrons, to apply himself to his studies with aperseverance and industry which came near undermining his health. Helooked during his student days overworked, and if nature had endowedhim with a less magnificent physique he would, no doubt, have succumbedto the strain of this perpetual over-exertion. But after his marriage ahappy change came over him. The joyous substratum of his nature (what hehimself called his pagan self) broke through its sombre integuments andasserted itself. No sooner had he taken his place among the teachers ofthe University than his clear and weighty personality commandedadmiration and respect. In social intercourse his ready wit and cheerfulconviviality made him a general favorite. His talk, without being in theleast forced, was full of surprises; and there was a charm, in theredundant vigor and virility that seemed to radiate from him. But it mayas well be admitted that he began at this time to show what mayeuphemistically be styled his paganism, in the relish which he evincedfor jests of doubtful propriety. He was indeed as far as possible frombeing a prude; many years later, when he was a bishop and a greatecclesiastical dignitary, he wrote to his friend the poet Franzén: "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 donesome injury to his memory. Not that his fancy had any taint ofuncleanness. It was open and cheerful as the sunlight; and as thesunlight played brightly over all things without fastidiousdiscrimination. There was a rich, and healthy humanity about him whichmanifested itself in an impartial, all-embracing delight in the glow andcolor of mere sensuous existence. There has scarcely ever been a greatpoet (Dante perhaps excepted) who has not had his share of this paganjoy in nudity. Goethe's "Roman Elegies" are undisguisedly Anacreontic, and the most spiritual of modern poets, Robert Browning, is as deep andvaried and bountiful in the expression he gives to life in its sensuousphases as in its highest ascetic transports. Do not imagine, then, that I am apologizing for Tegnér, I am merelytrying to account for him. From his Homer, whom he loved above all otherpoets, he had in a measure derived that artistic paganism whichperceptibly colored his personality. There was nothing of the scholarlyprig or pedant about him. In his lectures he gave himself, his own viewof life, and his own interpretation of his authors. And it was becauseof the greatness of the man, the unhackneyed vigor of his speech, andthe power of his intellect that the students flocked to his lecture-halland listened with enthusiasm to his teaching. I am not by any means sure, however, that much of his popularity wasalso due to what, at this stage of his career, may without disrespectbe called his immaturity. That wholesome robustness in his acceptanceof life which finds utterance in his early songs must have established aquick bond of sympathy between him and his youthful hearers. Theinstincts of the predatory man were yet strong in him. The tribalfeeling which we call patriotism, the juvenile defiance which carries achip on its shoulder as a challenge to the world, the boastfulself-assertion which is always ridiculous in every nation but ourown--impart a splendid martial resonance to his first notable poem, "War-Song for the Scanian Reserves" (1808). There was a charming, frankferocity in this patriotic bugle-blast which found an echo in everySwedish heart. The rapid dactylic metres, with the captivating rhymes, alternating with the more contemplative trochees, were admirably adaptedfor conveying the ebullient indignation and wrath which hurls itsgauntlet into the face of fate itself, [28] checked, as it were, andcooled by soberer reflection and retrospective regret. It is the sorrowfor the yet recent loss of Finland which inspires the elegiac tones inTegnér's war-song; and it is his own ardent, youthful spirit, his owndeep and sincere love of country, which awakes the martial melody withthe throbbing of the drum and the rousing alarum of trumpets. What canbe more delightfully--shall I say juvenile--than this reference to thenumerical 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 ödet sjelf. " It is with no desire to disparage Tegnér 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 thefulness and felicity of its expression. As long as we have wars we musthave martial bards, and with the exception of the German, TheodorKörner, I know none who can bear comparison with Tegnér. Englishliterature can certainly boast no war-poem which would not be drowned inthe mighty music of Tegnér's "Svea, " "The Scanian Reserves, " and thatmagnificent, dithyrambic declamation, "King Charles, the Young Hero. "Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade" is technically a finer poemthan anything Tegnér has written, but it lacks the deep virile bass, thetremendous volume of breath and voice, and the captivating martial liltwhich makes the heart beat willy nilly to the rhythm of the verse. The popularity which Tegnér gained by "The Scanian Reserves" was theimmediate cause of his appointment to a professorship at the Universityof Lund, and his next notable poem, "Svea, " which won him the greatprize of the Swedish Academy, raised him to a height of fame whichnaturally led to further promotion. According to the curious custom ofSweden, a professor may, even though he has never studied theology, takeorders and accept the charge of a parish. He is regarded as being, bydint of his learning, in the regular line of clerical promotion; and theelevation from a professorship (though it be not a theological one) intoa bishopric is no infrequent occurrence. There was therefore nothinganomalous in Tegnér's appointment (February, 1812) as pastor of Stäfvieand Lackalänge, and his subsequent promotion (February, 1824) to thebishopric of Wexiö. His pastorate he was permitted to combine with hisprofessorship of Greek, to which he was simultaneously transferred fromthat of æsthetics, and the office was chiefly valuable to him on accountof the addition which it procured him to his income. The nearness of hisparish to Lund enabled him to preach in the country on Sundays asregularly as he lectured in the city on week-days. His other pastoralduties he could not very well discharge _in absentia_, and they probablyremained in a measure undischarged. He had not sought the parish; it wasthe parish which had sought him; and he exerted himself to the utmost tofill the less congenial office as conscientiously as he did his academicchair. The peasants of Stäfvie and Lackalänge were always welcome at hishospitable board; he gave them freely his advice, and in order to recalland emphasize his own kinship with them, he invited a peasant woman tobecome the godmother of his youngest son, and selected all the sponsorsfrom the same class. This was not the only occasion on which Tegnér demonstrated hissuperiority to all snobbish pretensions. He was not only not ashamed ofhis peasant descent, but he was proud of it. Once (1811) during a visitto Rämen, he took it into his head that he desired to know, from actualexperience, the kind of lives which his ancestors must have lived; andto 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 hisbrothers-in-law, two of whom were army officers and one a governmentclerk, to follow his example. Up hill and down hill they trudged, andarrived late in the afternoon, footsore and with blistered hands, in thetown, where they reported at the office of a commission merchant, soldtheir iron and obtained their receipts. That of Tegnér was made out toEsaias Esaiasson, which would have been his name, if his father hadnever risen from the soil. The four sham peasants now bought seed-cornwith the money they had obtained for their iron, loaded again theirwagons, and started for home. But they had forgotten to take intoaccount the robustness of the rustic appetite, and before they hadproceeded far their bag of provisions was empty. To add to theirdiscomfort the rain began to pour down, but they would not seekshelter. After midnight they arrived at Rämen, hungry and drenched, nothaving slept for two nights, but happy and proud of their feat ofendurance. It was in 1811 that Tegnér's poem "Svea" received the prize of theSwedish Academy; and the fact that it recalled (in single passages atleast) Oehlenschläger's "The Golden Horns, " does not seem to haveweighed in the verdict. It is not in any sense an imitation; but thereis an audible reminiscence which is unmistakable in the metre andcadence of the short-lined verses, descriptive of the vision. Never, Ifancy, had the Swedish language been made to soar with so strong awing-beat, never before had it been made to sing so bold a melody. Tome, I admit, "Svea" is too rhetorical to make any deep impression. Ithas a certain stately academic form, which, as it were, impedes itsrespiration and freedom of movement. When, for all that, I speak ofwing-beat and melody, it must be borne in mind that Sweden had producedno really great poet[29] before Tegnér; and that thus, relativelyconsidered, the statement is true. But Tegnér seems himself to havebeen conscious of the strait-jacket in which the old academic rulesconfined him, for in the middle of the poem he suddenly discards thestilted Alexandrines with which he had commenced and breaks into arapturous 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 ownordination. Here the oratorical note and a certain clerical rotundity ofutterance come very near spoiling the melody. "At the Jubilee in Lund"(1817) is very much in the same strain, and begins with the statement socharacteristic of Tegnér: "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 Béranger (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 theAmerican branch of his denomination would surely have been tried forheresy. Rarely has a deadlier foe of priestly obscurantism and mediævalmysteries worn the episcopal robes. With doctrinal subtleties andingenious hair-splitting he had no patience; conduct was with him themain, if not the only, thing to be considered. The Christian Church, ashe conceived it, was primarily a civilizer, and the expression of thehighest ethical sentiment of the age. "The Church, " he writes, "can surely not be re-established in its formerreligious significance, for the system upon which it rests has sleptaway three centuries of history; and it is of no use that this man orthat man yet pretends to believe in the somnambulist. But the church hasalso a civic significance as an integral part of the social order ofhumanity. If you abandon that to the spirit of laxity and drowsiness, Ican see no reason why the clergy and the whole religious apparatusshould not be, and ought not to be, abolished and their costs coveredinto the treasury. " These are not highly episcopal sentiments; but they are in keeping withTegnér's whole personality and his conception of his duty. His firstconcern was to purge his diocese of drunken clergymen, a task in whichhe encountered many unforeseen difficulties. "It is nowadays less difficult, " he says, "to get rid of a king than adrunken clergyman. " He was, indeed, very moderate in his demands, stipulating only that noshepherd of souls should show himself drunk in public. But the bibulousparsons frequently had influential relatives, who exerted themselveswith the government to thwart the bishop's reformatory schemes. IfTegnér had not been the masterful, tireless, energetic prelate that hewas, his ardor would have cooled; and he would have contented himselfwith drawing the revenues of his office, and left with the lukewarmgovernment the responsibility for frustrating his purposes. But this wascontrary to his nature. He could not calmly contemplate abuses which itwas his duty to remedy; and no discouragement ever sufficed to dampenhis noble zeal. The marked and fanatical pietism which then was muchdiffused among the Småland peasantry he fought with his cheerful gospelof reason and sanity. Just as poetry to him meant the highest bloom oflife, and his radiant lyre resounded with noble music like the statue ofMemnon, when touched by the rays of the dawn; so religion was, in itsessence, perfect sanity of soul, a beautiful equilibrium of mind, andcomplete self-mastery. His Christ was not primarily the bleeding, thescourged, the crucified, but rather a benigner and lovelier PhoebusApollo, the bringer of clearness and light, the dispeller of theunwholesome mists and barbaric gloom that yet brood over the human soul. Like Goethe, he cherished a veritable abhorrence of the mystic symbolismof the mediæval church; and was rather inclined to minimize thesignificance of Christ's death and passion. He had undeniably impartedinto his Christianity a great deal of sunny Hellenic paganism--a factwhich in his familiar correspondence with Franzén he scarcely cares todisguise. Having this conception of the episcopal office, he could not escapeemphasizing his function as the supervisor of the schools of hisdiocese. If he was to be a civilizer on any great scale, the chancewhich was here afforded him to impress his ideals upon the risinggeneration was not one to be neglected. And, as a matter of fact, Tegnérwas indefatigable in his labors as an educator. His many speeches atschool celebrations preached, as ever, a gospel derived from Greecerather than Judæa; 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, whowielded his authority at times somewhat ruthlessly, should make enemies. But, on the other hand, the beautiful beneficence and sincere humanityof the man often obliterated the ill-feeling which his official severityhad aroused. To the widows of deceased clergymen in his diocese he was averitable guardian, to their children a father, to his peasantry afriend, adviser, and monitor. He was an expert at detecting errors inecclesiastical balance-sheets; and woe to the cleric who dared presentto him inaccurate accounts of income and expenditures. By sheer dint ofhis personal superiority and that quality of soul which George Eliotcalls dynamic, he impressed himself strongly upon all with whom he camein contact; and though he was feared, he was also beloved as few. A verydelightful instance of the reverence with which he was regarded isrecorded by Böttiger. One summer evening he arrived at a remote parsonage which had never, inthe memory of man, been visited by a bishop. Some time after his arrivalTegnér observed two young ladies, the daughters of the house, comingacross the yard carrying between them a big tub, full of water. When heasked them, in a friendly way, why they subjected themselves to suchhard labor, one of them replied: "Should we not regard it as an honor tobe allowed to water the bishop's horses?" In order to give a clear and coherent idea of Tegnér in his prime, Ihave been obliged to anticipate events. Many literary achievements whichI have left unrecorded belong to the period previous to his assumptionof the bishopric of Wexiö. Unhappily Professor Böttiger's edition isvery chary of dates, and as Dr. Brandes has truly observed, is arrangedwith the obvious purpose of falsifying the sequence of Tegnér's poemsand confusing the reader. The three periods--previous to 1812, 1812-40, and 1840-46--are entirely arbitrary, and plainly devised with a view toconcealing, in so far as they are capable of concealment, the unhappyevents which undermined the strength of the Titan and wrecked hissplendid powers. But such a purpose is utterly futile, as long as thepoems themselves had once escaped into publicity. It was during the period while his sky was yet unclouded that Tegnérenriched Swedish literature with a series of lyrics which in point oflucidity of thought and brilliancy of diction have rarely beensurpassed. It may be admitted, without materially detracting from hismerit, that in some of them the foreign models from which they were in ameasure fashioned shimmer through. Just as the Germans, Gottsched andBodmer, held foreign models to be indispensable, and only disagreed asto which were the best, so the Swedish Academy, which in itspredilections was French, had no scruple in recommending this or thatliterary form for imitation. That degree of literary independence whichGermany reached with Goethe and Schiller, who discarded all models, theScandinavian countries did not reach until a much later period; andTegnér was one of those who stimulated that national self-respectwithout which independence is impossible. A strong spiritual kinship drew him to Schiller, whose splendor ofimagery and impassioned rhetoric were the very gifts which he himself ina superlative degree possessed. The breath of political and religiousliberalism which pervades the writings of the German poet was alsohighly congenial to Tegnér, and last, but not least, they were bothlight-loving, beauty-worshipping Hellenists, and, though externallyconformists, hid joyous pagan souls under imperfect Christian draperies. Small blame it is therefore to Tegnér that Schiller's poems furnishedhim with frequent suggestions and sometimes also with metres. Schillerhad, in "The Gods of Greece, " sung a glorious elegy on the Olympian agewhich stimulated his Swedish rival to write "The Asa Age, " in which heregretted, though in a rather half-hearted way, the disappearance ofOdin, Thor, and Freya. The poem, it must be admitted, falls much belowTegnér 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 Tegnér's "TheEternal, " in which truth, justice, and beauty are substituted. A kindredpoetic creed is far more consciously proclaimed in the famous poem_Sangen_ (Poetry), which was primarily a protest against the gloomy andmorbid view of poetry entertained by the Swedish Romanticists (theso-called Phosphorists). Tegnér here declares that the poet "withheavenly joy embraces life, " that "he knows no weak lament" (at itsmisery), "no dissonance which is not dissolved" (in harmony). His templestands in light and flame; and at its base a fountain gurgles, a draughtfrom which is an elixir of strength and a panacea for all ills. "Well, then, " he continues, "from this fountain will I drink, if I amworthy of such a draught. With healthy eyes will I look about me in thesick world. My golden lyre shall not resound with sorrows which I myselfhave invented. For the poet's sorrows are none; and the sky of song isforever bright. " Peter Amadeus Atterbom, the leader of the Phosphorists, replied withmuch moderation and good sense to the obvious reflections upon hisschool which this poem contained. He intimates plainly enough thatTegnér'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. Tegnér uses the expression, certainly betray a disease of the soul, butthis disease is not peculiar to a temperament which is fostered by apersonal emotional affinity for lugubrious topics and ideas given bybirth and developed by circumstances; but it is inherent in the weakness(which at times doubtless surprises even the strongest . .. ) of desiringto set up its sorrowful view of the world as a theory, and treat it asabsolutely true and fundamentally valid for all. Sorrow, as such, is nomore a diseased state than is joy; both are alike primordial, necessary, indispensable elements and halves of human life. Who would venture toassert that the day might dispense with the night? And does not thelatter's glorious starry sky rival in majesty (though different in kind)the former's bright and dazzling blitheness?" The fact was that Tegnér's cheery sun-worship was as much temperamentalas was Atterbom's sentimental reveries and nocturnal melancholy. ThePhosphorist is unquestionably right, however, in asserting that as atheory of life the one is as limited and imperfect as the other. It wasbecause of the abhorrence of all the darker phases of existence thatTegnér's bright Hellenic muse never struck those notes which thrillwith deepest resonance through the human heart. Tegnér's acquaintancewith suffering during the early part of his career was chiefly aliterary one, and like Goethe he went far out of his way to avoid thesight of it. As there can be no victory without combat--no laurelwithout dust--the Mount of Transfiguration is not reached except throughthe valley of the Shadow of Death. There are, however, many fair flowers to be plucked in Tempe and theblooming vales of Arcady. Goethe had in 1798 published "Hermann andDorothea, " the form of which was Greek, though the theme was Teutonic;and Tegnér's "Children of the Lord's Supper" (1820), which Longfellowhas translated so admirably into English, derived its inspirationprimarily 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 cavillingcritics may say, are delightfully adapted for epic narrative in anyfairly polysyllabic language. And Swedish, which is the most sonorous ofall Germanic tongues, and full of Gothic strength, produces the mostdelectable effects in the long, rolling line of slow-marching dactylsand spondees. The tempered realism of Tegnér, which shuns all that isharsh and trite, accords well with the noble classical verse. He employsit, as it were, to dignify his homely tale, as Raphael draped thefishermen of Galilee in the flowing robes of Greek philosophers. Thedescription of the church, the rustic youth, and the patriarchalclergyman has, however, the note of experience and the touch of earthwhich we miss in the more declamatory passages. If, however, declamationis 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 andedifying; full of sacred eloquence and a grand amplitude of phrase whichis distinctly clerical. The romantic tale of "Axel" (1822), modelled after Byron's narrativepoems, rejoiced in a greater popularity, in spite of the carpingcriticism with which it was received by the _Svensk Litteratur-Tidning, _the organ of the Phosphorists. Though, to be sure, the merits of thepoem are largely ignored in this review, it is undeniable that thefaults which are emphasized do exist. First, the frequent violations ofprobability (which, by the way, ought not to have been so offensive to aromanticist) draw tremendous draughts upon the reader's credulity; andsecondly, the lavish magnificence of imagery rarely adds to thevividness of the situations, but rather obscures and confuses them. Itreminds one of a certain style of barocque architecture in which therage for ornamentation twists every line into a scroll or spiral orarabesque, until whatever design there originally was is lost in a riotof decoration. The metaphors exist for their own sake, and are in nowisesubordinate to the themes which they profess to illustrate. Take, forinstance, 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 Naīad 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 eachother's heels, that they come near treading each other down, andtumbling together in a confused jumble. I claim no originality incalling attention to the fact that it must have been a colossal Naīadwho could wear the evening glow like "a gorgeous rose upon her breast. "Likewise former critics have questioned whether the stars gain in theleast in vividness by being compared to the priests of Egypt, [31] whowere certainly far less familiar to the reader's vision. [31] L. Dietrichson: Indledning i Studiet af Sveriges Litteratur. Kjöbenhavn, 1862. See also Svensk Litteratur-Tidning as quoted in B. E. Malmström: Grunddragen af Svenska Vitterhetens Historia, vol. V. , p. 423. Oerebro. The story of the Swedish officer Axel and his beloved, the CossackAmazon, Maria, has from beginning to end a flavor of Byron, and recallsalternately "the Corsair" and "Lara. " The extravagant sentimentality ofthe tale appealed, however, powerfully to the contemporary taste, andthe dissenting voice of criticism was drowned like the shrill note of asingle fife in the noisy orchestra of praise. The Swedish matrons andmaidens wept over Axel's and Maria's heroic, but tragic love, as thoseof 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 aman in the Russian army (a very odd proceeding by the way, and scarcelyconducive to her purpose) and resolves to kill her rival. She is, however, mortally wounded, and Axel finds her dying upon thebattlefield. "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, ifI had preserved the rhymed couplets. Even Medora's male attire isborrowed by Maria, and much more of this Byronic melodramatic heroism isthere, only a little more conventionally draped and with largerconcessions to the Philistine sense of propriety. But even if Tegnér in"Axel" had coquetted with the Romantic muse, it would be rash toconclude that he contemplated any durable relation. The note which hehad struck in his renowned oration at the festival commemorating theReformation (1817), came from the depth of his heart, and continued toresound through his speech and song for many years to come. I do notmoan to imply, of course, that the Byronic Romanticism was very closelyakin to that of Tieck, the Schlegels, and Novalis; or that Tegnér in theleast compromised his frank and manly liberalism by composing avariation, as it were, on a Byronic theme. How deeply he hated themediæval obscurantism which then, under the auspices of Metternich andhis unholy "Holy Alliance" was spreading over Europe, he showed innumerous private and public utterances concerning the politicalcondition of Europe after the fall of Napoleon. His greeting to the "NewYear, 1816" (which his son-in-law has foolishly excluded from hisedition of the collected works), is overbrimming with bitterness at thetriumph 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 ithad produced the man on horseback who had turned the old order of thingstopsy-turvy in a very unceremonious fashion. Coleridge, Southey, andWordsworth in England, and Klopstock, Schiller, and a horde of lesserlights in Germany, had hailed the French uprising as the bloody dawn ofa new and more glorious day; but the excesses of the Reign of Terrorfrightened them back into the old fastnesses of Conservatism. Tegnér(and to his honor be it said) was one of the few who did not despair ofliberty because a people born and bred in despotism failed to exercisethe wisdom and self-restraint which only liberty can foster. For theonly 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 theterrible birth-pangs of liberty no despotically governed people canescape, unless it chooses to remain in thraldom. This is the spirit that breathes through Tegnér's speeches and poems, during his most vigorous manhood; and even, when the rift in his lutemade its music harsh and uncertain, the strain was yet essentially thesame, though transposed into an alien key. It is very tempting to quotethe many noble sayings of this master of the commanding phrase, but oneor two must suffice. It is a delight to read his publishedcorrespondence, because of this power of strong and luminous utterance, which he wields with such Titanic ease. Then, again, there is noaffectation or cant, but an engaging candor and straightforwardnesswhich 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 herconfederates, or that the progress of the Cossacks is for the advantageof Sweden, may perhaps be in the right; but his views are very differentfrom mine. In the hatred of the Barbarians I am born and bred, and Ihope to die in it, unbewildered by modern sophisms. " (1814. ) "Who can believe in the re-establishment of the European balanceof power or rejoice in the victory of wretched mediocrity over power andgenius. The upheavals of the age will soon affect us all--at least usSwedes. " (1817) "That we are living on an earth yet quaking from the FrenchRevolution is undeniable; and extremely foolish seems to me the speechof those who insist that the Revolution is finished, or even approachingits end. " "Napoleon fell, not on account of his wretched opponents, but becausedespotism is the livery of all strong souls, because his spirit wasopposed to the spirit of the age, with which he wrestled, and which wasstronger than he. "[33] [33] Quoted from G. Brandes: Esaias Tegnér: En Litteraturpsychologisk Studie. Kjöbenhavn, 1878, pp. 87 and 88. Living as he did in an age of general disillusion, Tegnér performed animportant service in endeavoring to stem with the full force of hispersonality the rising tide of reaction. How much he accomplished inthis direction is difficult to estimate, for we can never know what turnSwedish affairs might have taken, if his clarion voice had not beenheard. But it could scarcely fail that such a speech as the one at theFestival of the Reformation (1817), delivered in the presence of a largeassembly 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 Tegnér a hero of liberty, a breaker of human shackles, adeliverer from spiritual bondage and gloom. "Luther was one of those rare historical characters who always, inwhatever they undertake, by their very manner, surprise, and indeliblyimpress themselves upon the memory. There was something chivalrous, Icould almost say adventurous, in his whole personality, in his whole wayof beginning and prosecuting an enterprise. He put upon whatever he didthe stamp of an almost inconceivable greatness--of an almostoverwhelming force. His mere word was half a battle, his deed was awhole one. He was one of those mighty souls which, like certain trees, can only bloom in a storm. His whole great, rich, marvellous life hasalways seemed to me like an epic with its battles and its final victory. Such a spirit must of necessity make room for itself, and decisivelyassert itself in history, in whatever direction its activity may beturned, under whatever circumstances and at whatever time it enters uponits career. The time when Luther came was one of those great historicalepochs when the world-serpent sheds its skin and reappears inrejuvenated shape. .. . A great man, even the very greatest, is always theson of his age--only he is the eldest son; he is the deputy and executorof the age. The age is his, and he administers its substance accordingto his judgment. He finds the scattered elements to his hand, butusually tangled up and struggling in chaotic disorder. To gather andarrange them into a creation, to direct them toward a definite goal, . .. This is his greatness; this is his creative powers. .. . In this . .. SenseLuther created his age. "[34] [34] Esaias Tegnér's Samlade Skrifter, vol. V. , pp. 6, 7, 9, and 10. Dr. Brandes has anticipated me in calling attention to the fact that theorator's characterization of Luther, though highly interesting, isone-sided. But as his admirable monograph on Tegnér is not accessible toEnglish readers, I feel justified in repeating his argument inabbreviated form. There is a great uniformity, he says, in substance, inall Tegnér's heroes. They are all men of action--bold, strong, adventurous heroes, such as boys delight in. They have a striking familyresemblance. With the change of a few attributes Tegnér applies hischaracterization of Luther to such a widely differing personality asKing Gustavus III. Of Sweden, a frivolous, theatrical, Frenchified, infidel monarch. And Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII. Are forced intothe same livery, in spite of their diversity of structure, becauseTegnér admired them all, and had practically but one type which appearedto his frank, open, and somewhat boyish fancy wholly worthy ofadmiration. [35] [35] Georg Brandes: Esaias Tegnér, pp. 17-19. In reading consecutively the whole series of Tegnér's collected works Iam much struck with the force of this criticism. The brave man whodefies the world single-handed, and plunges up to his ears into dangers, without counting the odds against him, is the typical juvenile hero; andit is strange, though by no means incomprehensible, that a man likeTegnér, who could betray such political insight as is shown in hisletters to Franzén and Leopold had not really gotten beyond thisprimitive type of excellence. In a certain sense, perhaps, it was notdesirable that he should. For the tremendous popularity which greeted"Frithjof's Saga" was due in no small measure to this half-juvenilerobustness of its author's genius. As I cannot help regretting in myselfthe loss of my boyish appetite for swashbuckling marauders, andmysterious treasure-diggers, I am, indeed, far from deploring Tegnér'sdelight in the insane prowess of Charles XII. , or the gay and chivalrousgallantry of Gustavus III. There is a sort of fine salubriousness in itwhich makes one, on the whole, like him the more. It might well be said of Tegnér, as he said of Luther, that his word washalf a battle. At all events he accomplished by his speeches a completeoverthrow of his opponents the Phosphorists, without engaging in thebarren polemics to which they invited him. He waited until someappropriate public occasion occurred, and then spoke out of the fulnessof his conviction. And his words spread like undulating waves of lightfrom one end of the land to the other, finding lodgement in thousandsof hearts. Thus his beautiful epilogue at the "magister promotion"[36]in Lund (1820) was a direct manifesto (and a most incisive one) againstthat mystic obscurity which, according to the Phosphorists, wasinseparable 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 tocommand public approval. But it suffers from exactly the same limitationas Tegnér's gospel of joy. It is only relatively (I might almost saytemperamentally) true; and the opposite might be maintained with equalforce, and in fact was so maintained by Atterbom, who declared (in the"Poetical Calendar for 1821") that there can be no such a conception aslight without darkness. Darkness, he says, is the condition of all colorand form. You distinguish the light and all things in it only by thecontrasting effect of shadow--all of which, I fancy, Tegnér would nothave denied. More to the point would have been the query whether inpoetry darkness and indistinctness are synonymous terms. It is only themost commonplace truths which can be made intelligible to all. Much ofthe best and highest thinking of humanity lies above the plane of theordinary untrained intellect. What is light to me may be twilight ordarkness to you. What to you is clear as the daylight, may to me be asdensely impenetrable as the Cimmerian night. Christ himself recognizedthis fact when he said to his disciples: "I have yet many things to sayunto you, but ye cannot bear them now. " For all that, Tegnér's doctrine was in its effect wholesome. Itdiscouraged the writers of the Romantic School, who under the guise ofprofundity gave publicity to much immature and confused thinking. He wasno doubt right in saying that "a poetry which commences withwhooping-cough is likely to end in consumption. " His frequently repeatedmaxim, that poetry is nothing but the health of life, "occasioned by anabounding intellectual vigor, a joyous leap over the barriers ofeveryday life, " applied, however, to his own poetry only so long as hisvigor was unimpaired. His terrible poem "Hypochondria" (_Mjeltsjukan_)is to me no less poetical because it is not "a petrified drop ofheavenly light, " and mocks all the cheerful theories of its author'sprime. Tegnér 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 yearswere the most fruitful in his entire career. He was about forty years ofage when, in 1820, he began to compose the first cantos of "Frithjof'sSaga. " He was living in modest comfort, happy in his marital relation, and surrounded by a family of children to whom he was a mostaffectionate father. He could romp and play with his curly-headed boysand girls without any loss of dignity; and they loved nothing betterthan to invade his study. Next to them in his regard was a black-nosedpug, named Atis, who invariably accompanied him to his lectures andremained sitting at his feet listening with intelligent gravity to hisexplanations of the Greek poets. If by chance his master, in his zealfor his own poetry, forgot the lecture-hour, Atis would respectfullypull him by the tails of his coat. No man at the University of Lund wasmore generally beloved than Tegnér, and all honors which the Universitycould bestow had been offered to him. The office of Rector Magnificus hehad, however, persisted in declining. There was at that time a general revival of interest in the so-calledsaga-age. The Danish poet, Oehlenschläger, had published his old-Norsecycle of poems, "Helge, " which aroused a sympathetic reverberation inTegnér's mind. The idea took possession of him that here was a themewhich lay well within the range of his own voice, and full of alluringpossibilities. Accordingly he chose the ancient "Saga of Frithjof theBold, " and resolved to embody in it all the characteristic features ofthe old heroic life. And what Oehlenschläger had attempted to do, andpartly succeeded in doing, he accomplished with a completeness ofsuccess which was a surprise to himself. No sooner had "Iduna, " theorgan of the Gothic League, published the first nine cantos (1821), thanall Sweden resounded with enthusiastic applause; and even from beyondthe boundaries of the fatherland came voices of praise. When thecompleted poem appeared in book-form, it was translated into allcivilized languages, and everywhere, in spite of the translators'shortcomings, it was hailed with delight. Not only England, France, andGermany hastened to appropriate it, but even in Spain, Greece, andRussia tears were shed over "Ingeborg's Lament, " and tender bosomspalpitated with sympathy for Frithjof's sorrows. I know a dozen Englishtranslations of "Frithjof's Saga" (a friend of mine, who is abibliophile, assures me that the exact number is at present twenty-one), and of German versions the number is not very much less. A Norwegian (orrather Danish) rendering was presented to me on my twelfth birthday; andthe sentiment which then most forcibly appealed to me was, as I vividlyremember, embodied in the following verse, in which Björn chides hisfriend'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 themost in those days; but it was the bluff frankness of the gruff oldviking which then seemed truly admirable. In fact, I am not sure butthat Björn appeared to me a more sympathetic figure than Frithjof. But alittle later it dawned upon me that his utter lack of chivalry wasrather revolting; and I began to marvel at my former admiration. Atfourteen the following verse (which at twelve was charmingly heroic)caused me to revise my opinion of Björn: "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, Björn with his rough speech and hearty delight in fightingand drinking, is far truer to the spirit of the old heroic age than isFrithjof with his sentimentality and lovesick reveries. This verse, forinstance, is replete with the briny breath of the northern main. Thenorth 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. Forthere is a period in the life of every young Norseman when, untroubledby its anachronism, he glories in Frithjof's melancholy mooning, hispraise of Ingeborg, his misanthropy, and all the manifold moods of loveso enchantingly expressed in Tegnér's melodious verse. When a book acquires this significance as an expression of the typicalexperience in the lives of thousands, the critical muse can but join inthe general chorus, and find profound reasons for the universal praise. In the case of "Frithjof's Saga" this is not a difficult matter. Frombeginning to end the poem has a lyrical intensity which sets the mindvibrating with a responsive emotion. It is not a coldly impersonal epic, recounting remote heroic events; but there is a deeply personal note init, which has that nameless moving quality--_la note émue_, as theFrench call it--which brings the tear to your eye, and sends a deliciousbreeze through your nerves. All that, to be sure, or nearly all of it, evaporates in translation; for no more than you can transfer theexquisite dewy intactness of the lily to canvas can you transfer therapturous melody of noble verse into an alien tongue. The subtlestharmonies--those upon which the thrill depends--are invariably lost. IfLongfellow, instead of giving us two cantos, had translated the wholepoem, we should, at least, have possessed an English version which wouldhave afforded us some conception of the charm of the renowned original. The objections to "Frithjof's Saga" which have been urged by numerouscritics may all be admitted as more or less valid; yet something remainswhich will account for its astounding popularity. Tegnér at the timewhen he was singing of Frithjof's and Ingeborg's love was himselfsuffering from a consuming but unrequited passion. The strong, warmpulse of life which throbs in Frithjof's wrath, defiance, and scorn, andin his deep and manly tenderness is the poet's own. It marks but therhythm of his own tumultuous heart-beat. It is altogether an unhappychapter, which his biographer has vainly striven to suppress. There wasamong his acquaintance in Lund a certain Mrs. Palm, toward whom he feltdrawn with an irresistible half-demonic force. Beyond this fact we knownothing of the lady, except that she was handsome, cultivated, andwell-connected. Whatever approaches Tegnér may have made toward her (andit is not known of what nature they were) she appears to have repelled;and the poet, though fighting desperately against his growinginfatuation, wore out his splendid vitality in the conflict of emotionswhich the unhappy relation occasioned. He became a prey to the mostterrible melancholy, and a misanthropy of the deepest hue spread itssombre veil over the world which hitherto had given to him its brightestsmile. The dread of insanity became an _idée fixe_ with him; and thepathetic cry, "God preserve my reason, " rings again and again throughhis private correspondence. One of his brothers was insane; and hefancied that there must be a taint in his blood which menaced him withthe same tragic doom. Happily, he could as yet conjure the storm. It hung threateningly on thehorizon of his mind, with mutterings of thunder and stray flashes oflightning. But his poetic bark still sped along with full sails, bravelybreasting 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, ofsinging, what he suffered made Tegnér, during this period, master of hissufferings. They did not overwhelm him and ruin his usefulness. On thecontrary, these were the most active and fruitful years of his life. Butit was the deep agitation which possessed him--it was the suppressedtumult of his strong soul which vibrated through "Frithjof" and whichimparted to it that vital quality, that moving ring which arouses thedeeper feelings in the human heart. Archæologically the poem was not correct, and was not meant to be. Tegnér distinctly disclaimed the intention of producing a historicallyaccurate picture of the saga age; and all criticism censuring themodernness of Frithjofs and Ingeborg's sentiments is, therefore, according to his idea, wide of the mark. I do not quite agree with hispoint of view, but will state his argument. For the historical Frithjof, as he is represented in the ancient Norse saga bearing his name, Tegnércared but little. What he wished to do was to give a poetic presentationof the old heroic life, and he chose Frithjof as his representative ofthis 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. " Tegnér fancies he has solved this problem by retaining in Frithjof thefundamental traits of all heroism, viz. , nobility, magnanimity, courage;but at the same time nationalizing them by giving them a distinctlyScandinavian tinge. And this he has done by making his hero almostwantonly defiant, stubborn, pugnacious. As Ingeborg, lamenting hisfierce 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 Tegnér was fully conscious of what he wasdoing. He civilized Frithjof, because he was addressing a civilizedaudience which would have taken little interest in the rude viking ofthe eighth century, if he had been presented to them in all his savageunrestraint. He did exactly what Tennyson did, when he made King Arthurthe model of a modern English gentleman and (by implication) aProtestant a thousand years before Protestantism existed. Ingeborg, too, had to be a trifle modified and disembarrassed of a few somewhat toonaturalistic traits with which the saga endows her, before she becamethe lovely type that she is of the faithful, loving, long-suffering, womanhood of the North, with trustful blue eyes, golden hair, and aheart full of sweet and beautiful sentiment. It was becauseOehlenschläger had neglected to make sufficient concessions to moderndemands that his "Helge" (though in some respects a greater poem than"Frithjof's Saga") never crossed the boundary of Scandinavia, and eventhere made no deep impression upon the general public. Though the story of "Frithjof" is familiar to most readers, I may bepardoned for presenting a brief _résumé_. The general plot, in Tegnér'sversion, coincides in its main outlines with that of the saga. Frithjof, the son of the free yeoman Thorstein Vikingson, is fostered in the houseof the peasant Hilding, with Ingeborg, the daughter of King Belë ofSogn. The King and the yeoman have been life-long friends, and each hasa most cordial regard for the other. "By sword upheld, King Belë 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 dailycompanionship in their foster-father's hall, love each other; andFrithjof, after the death of their fathers, goes to Ingeborg's brothers, Helge and Halfdan, and asks her hand in marriage. His suit is scornfullyrejected, and he departs in wrath vowing vengeance. The ancient KingRing, of Ringerike, having heard of Ingeborg's beauty, sends alsoambassadors to woo her. Her brothers make sacrifices in order toascertain the will of the gods. The omens are inauspicious, and theyaccordingly feel compelled to decline the King's offer. Ingeborg is shut up in Balder's Grove, where the sanctity of the templewould 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 astolen rendezvous with his beloved. The canto called "Frithjof'sHappiness, " which is brimming over with a swelling redundance ofsentiment, is so cloyingly sweet that the reader must himself be in lovein order to enjoy it. It is written in the key of the watch-songs of theGerman minnesingers and the aubades of Provenįal troubadours. The Norsenote 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 Ragnarök, 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'sLament, " 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 splendorof their imagery. Tegnér has accomplished the remarkable feat ofinterveining, as it were, his academic rhetoric with a blood-redhumanity, and making the warm pulse of experience throb through thestately phrases. King Ring, incensed at the rejection of his suit, declares war againstHelge and Halfdan, who in their dire need ask Frithjof's aid, which ispromptly refused. In order to be rid of him they then send him on anexpedition to the Orkneys, to collect a tribute which is due to themfrom Earl Angantyr. He entreats Ingeborg to flee with him; but sherefuses. She sees from Balder's Grove his good ship Ellida breasting thewaves 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 thesaga age that Ingeborg should refuse to defy her brother's authority byfleeing with Frithjof and yet deeply mourn his departure without her. The family feeling, the bond of blood, was exceptionally strong; andsubmission to the social code which made the male head of the house thearbiter of his sister's fate was bred in the bone. It is, therefore, perfectly natural that, when King Ring has beaten her brothers inbattle, and exacted Ingeborg as the prize of victory, she yieldsunmurmuringly to their decree. Frithjof, in the meanwhile, distinguishes himself greatly in the Orkneysby his strength and prowess, gains Earl Angantyr's friendship, andreturns with the tribute. As he sails into the fjord, a sight greets himwhich makes his heart quail. Framnaes, his paternal estate, is burnt tothe ground, and the charred beams lie in a ruined heap under the smilingsky. The kings, though they had pledged their honor that they would notharm his property, had broken faith with him; and Ingeborg, in the hopeof gaining whom he had undertaken the perilous voyage, was wedded toKing Ring. In a white-heat of wrath and sorrow Frithjof starts out tocall her perjured brothers to account. He finds them in the temple inBalder's Grove, preparing for the sacrifice. There he flings the bagcontaining the tribute into King Helge's face, knocking out his frontteeth, and observing on his wife's arm the ring with which he had oncepledged Ingeborg, he rushes at her to recover it. The woman, who hadbeen warming the wooden image of Balder before the fire, drops, in herfright, the idol into the flame. Frithjof seizes her by the arm andsnatches the ring from her. In the general confusion that follows thetemple takes fire, and all attempts to quench the flames are futile. Inconsequence of this sacrilege Frithjof is outlawed at the _Thing_ as a_vargr-i-véum_, _i. E. _, wolf in the sanctuary, and is forced to go intoexile. His farewell to his native land strikes one as being altogetherout of tune. The old Norse viking is made to anticipate sentiments whichare 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 gainsmuch 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 embodythe ethics of Norse warfare at its best, and to present in the mostpoetic light the rampant, untamable individualism of the ancientGermanic paganism. In defiance of his friend Björn's advice, Frithjof, weary of this bootless chase for glory and pelf, resolves to seeIngeborg once more before he dies, and, disguised as a salt-boiler, heenters King Ring's hall. There he sees his beloved sitting in thehigh-seat beside her aged lord; and the sorrow which the years haddulled revives with an exquisite agony. He punishes with fiercepromptitude one of the King's men who insults him; and his answer to theKing's rebuke betrays him as a man of rank and station. He then throwsaway his disguise, without, however, revealing his name, but Ingeborginstantly 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 remainhis guest during the winter, and Frithjof accepts. He makes, however, noapproach to Ingeborg, with whom he scarcely exchanges a single word. During a sleigh-ride on the ice he saves, by a tremendous feat ofstrength, the life of the king and queen. With the coming of the springpreparations 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 andaltogether the most beautiful situation in the poem. The old king, feigning weariness, begs Frithjof to tarry with him alone, while hetakes 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 stolenhis bride; but after a brief struggle he hurls his sword far away intothe 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 inorder not to go to the dark abode of Hela, he cuts death-runes upon hisbreast and ascends to Odin's bright hall. But before dying he givesIngeborg 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 abovehis head upon his shield and proclaims him king. He returns home andrebuilds Balder's temple, whereupon the sentence of outlawry is removed, and he is reconciled to Ingeborg's brothers and marries the beloved ofhis youth. The last canto, called "The Atonement, " is perhaps the most flagrantviolation of historical verisimilitude in the whole epic. A hoary priestof Balder actually performs the wedding ceremony in the restored temple, and pronounces a somewhat unctuous wedding oration, which differs fromthose which Tegnér himself had frequently delivered chiefly in thesubstitution of pagan for the Christian deities. As a matter of fact, marriage was a purely civil contract among the ancient Norsemen, and hadno association with the temple or the priesthood, which, by the way, wasno separate office but a patriarchal function belonging to the secularchieftainship. But Tegnér's public were in nowise shocked byanachronisms of this sort; they probably rejoiced the more heartily inthe 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 Tegnérbecame Bishop of Wexiö. He then removed from Lund and took up hisresidence upon the estate Oestrabo, near the principal town in hisdiocese. The great fame of his poem came to him as a surprise; and heeven undertook to protest against it, declaring with perfect sinceritythat he held it to be undeserved. In letters to his friends he neverwearied of pointing out the faults of "Frithjof" and his ownshortcomings as a poet. In a letter to the poet Leopold (August 17, 1825), who had praised the poem to the skies, he argues seriously toprove 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 Tegnér, with an utterabsence of vanity or illusion, judged his work and found it wanting. There is no mock modesty in his manly deprecation of the honors thatwere showered upon him; but as a father knows best the faults of hischild whom he loves, so he knew the defects of his work, as measured byhis own high standard, and refused to accept any more praise than washis due. Not even the fact that Goethe expressed his admiration of"Frithjof's Saga" could persuade him that he was entitled to theextravagant homage which his enthusiastic countrymen accorded him. Therewere even times when he disclaimed the title of poet. Whether he wasforgotten a little sooner or a little later, he said, was a matter ofsmall moment. "Speaking seriously, " he writes in 1824 (accordingly before thepublication of "Frithjof"), "I have never regarded myself as a poet inthe 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 everyone except himself. It is necessary, however, after the year 1824, tomake due allowance for the terrible strain upon his mind which disposedhim to give violent and hyperbolical expression to the mood of themoment. The unhappy passion which he could at times smother, but neversubdue, 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 Franzén (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 tostand aloof, of course, like a schoolmaster with his chastising rod, andlash the frailties of poor human nature. It is easy to declare withvirtuous indignation that the man who covets his neighbor's wife is atransgressor who has no claim upon our sympathy. And yet who can helppitying this great, noble poet, who fought so bravely against his"barbaric, Titanic self with its hairy arms"? His passionate intensityof soul was, indeed, part of his poetic equipment; and he would not havebeen 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 thattheir separation would have been the extinction of the individualityitself. The fiery furnace of affliction through which he passed warpedand scorched and cracked this mighty compound, but without destroyingit. A glimpse of this experience which transformed the powerful, joyous, bright-visaged singer into a bitter, darkly brooding pessimist, fleeingfrom the sinister shadow which threatened to overtake him, is affordedus 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 consuméd, 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 physiciansmay have been the primary cause of the sufferings here described, andwas no doubt aggravated by the psychical condition to which I havealluded. Now it was supposed to be the liver which was affected; thenagain Tegnér was treated for gall-stones. In the summer of 1833 he madea journey through Germany and spent some months at Carlsbad; but hereturned without sensible relief. His foreign sojourn was, however, ofsome benefit in widening his mental horizon. Tegnér's intellectualaffinities had always been French; and toward Germany he had assumed amore or less unsympathetic attitude. A slight acquaintance with thephilosopher Schleiermacher and the Germanized Norwegian author HenrikSteffens (who was then a professor at the University of Berlin) did not, indeed, reverse his predilections, but it opened his eyes toexcellences in the German people to which he had formerly been blind, and removed prejudices which had obscured his vision. He had everywherethe most distinguished reception, and was honored with an invitation toSans Souci, where he was the guest of the witty Crown Prince of Prussia, later Frederick William IV. But these agreeable incidents of his journeywere a poor compensation for his failure to obtain that which he hadgone in search of. Fame, honor, and distinguished friends, withouthealth, are but a Tantalus feast, the sweets of which are seen but nevertasted. "I fear, " said Tegnér, in his hopelessness, "that my right side, likethat of the Chamber of Deputies, is incurable. " "When this Saul's spirit comes over me I often feel an indescribablebitterness, which endures nothing, spares nothing, in heaven or onearth. It usually finds vent in misanthropic reflections, sarcasms, andideas which I have no sooner written down than I repent of them. " The activity which he unfolded, even in the midst of intolerablesufferings, was phenomenal. He possessed an energy of will and vigor oftemperament which enabled him to rise superior to his physicalcondition, and lure strong music (though sometimes jarred into discords)from the broken lyre. It was in 1829, after his illness had fastened itshold upon him, that he pronounced the beautiful epilogue in hexametersat the graduating festivities at the University of Lund, and crownedthe Dane, Adam Oehlenschläger, 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 from1829 to 1840. He felt the demon of insanity lurking behind him, nowclose at his heels, now farther away; and it was a desperate race, inwhich life and death, nay, worse than death, was at stake. Hisindefatigable exertions afforded him a respite from the thought of histerrible pursuer. We can only regard with respectful compassion theoutbreaks of misanthropic spleen which often disfigure hiscorrespondence from this period of deepening twilight, relieved by abrief interval of brightness. It is especially woman who is the objectof his bitterest objurgation. The venerable _mutabile et varium_ ofVirgil is the theme upon which he perpetually rings the changes. Nooccasion is too inappropriate for a joke at the fickle and faithlesssex; and even the school-boys in the Wexiö gymnasium are treated to someironical advice, _ā propos_ of the beautiful jade, which must havesounded surprising in an episcopal oration. Life with its bright pageantwas oppressive, like a nightmare to the afflicted poet. All charm, allrationality had departed from existence, which was but a meaninglessdance of hideous marionettes. The world was battered and befouled;inexpressibly loathsome. And finally, in 1840, while Tegnér wasattending the Riksdag (of which in his official capacity he was amember), the long-dreaded catastrophe occurred. His insanity manifesteditself in tremendous projects of reform, world-conquests, and outbreaksof wild sensuality. He was sent to a celebrated asylum in Sleswick; andon the way thither wrote a series of "Fantasies of Travel" which haveall the rich harmony of his earlier verse, and are full of delightfulimagery. He fancied that there was a huge wheel of fire revolving withfurious haste in his head, and his sufferings were terrific. Thefollowing fragment from the notes of his attendant, who kept a record ofhis 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 Tegnér, pp. 231-223. Contrary to the expectation of his friends he recovered rapidly, and wasable to return home in May, 1841. He promptly resumed his episcopalfunctions, and even wrote a beautiful rural idyl in hexameters called"The Crowned Bride" (_Kronbruden_), which he dedicated to Franzén. Hewas well aware, however, that his powers were on the wane, and in 1845he 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 hislibrary, surrounded by great piles of books containing a mostmiscellaneous assortment of classics, from Homer to Goethe, intersprinkled with controversial pamphlets and recent novels. He wasgentle and affectionate in his demeanor; and his beautiful face lightedup with a smile whenever any of his children or grandchildren approachedhim. Once or twice a day he drove out in his carriage, and he was evenable to visit his eldest son, who was a clergyman in Scania, and toreceive the sacrament for the last time from his hand. Shortly after hisreturn he was stricken with paralysis, and died November 2, 1846, in thesixty-fourth year of his age. His mind was unclouded and his voice wasclear. When the autumnal sun suddenly burst through the windows andshone upon the dying poet, he murmured: "I will lift up mine hands untothe house and the mountain of God. " These were his last words. He was carried to the grave at night by thelight of lanterns, followed by a long procession of the clergy, citizens, and the school-boys of his diocese. Peasants, from whose rankshe had sprung and to whom he was always a good friend, bore his coffin. The academic tendency which "idealizes" life and shuns earth-scentedfacts, had, through the decisive influence of Tegnér, been victorious inSwedish literature. I am aware that some will regard this as aquestionable statement; for the academicism of Tegnér is not thestately, bloodless, Gallic classicism of the Gustavian age, of whichLeopold was the last representative. It is much closer to the classicismof Goethe in "Iphigenia" and "Hermann and Dorothea, " and of Schiller in"Wallenstein" and "Wilhelm Tell. " Tegnér's poetic creed was exactly thatof Schiller, who saw no impropriety in making the peasant lad, ArnoldMelchthal, when he hears that his father has been blinded, deliver anenraptured 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 bearrayed in the flowing toga before they are held to be presentable. Thisis the academic tendency in Sweden as in France, even though the degreeof euphemistic magniloquence may differ with the age and latitude. TheSwedes have been called the Frenchmen of the North, and there is nodoubt that delight in this toga-clad rhetoric is inherent in both. Itwas because Tegnér, in appealing to this delight, was so deeplyrepresentative that he extinguished the old school and became thenational poet of Sweden. * * * * * Transcriber's notes: Dostoyevski is also spelled Dostojevski and Dostoyefski Tolstoi is also spelled Tostoī. It appears that Fortällinger 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.