tendency to vehemence is even more marked. In the masterly story,
"Absalom's Hair" (than which the author has never written anything more
boldly original) old Harold Kaas literally spanks his young wife in the
presence of his servants. And the matter is in nowise minced, but
described with an unblushing zest which makes the impression of
_naïveté_. It is obvious that in his delight in the exhibition of a
healthy, primitive wrath, Björnson half forgets how such barbarism must
affect his readers. We hear, to be sure, that the servants were filled
with indignation and horror, and that Harold Kaas, having expected
laughter and applause, "went away a defeated and irremediably crushed
man." But for all that the incident is crude, harsh, and needlessly
revolting. In Russia it might have happened; but I am inclined to doubt
if a Norwegian gentleman, even though he were descended from the
untamable Kurts, would have been capable of so outrageous a breach of
decency.
Apart from this incident, "Absalom's Hair" is so interpenetrated with a
sense of reality that we seem to live the story rather than read it. I
verily believe it to be a type of what the fiction of the future will
be, when scientific education shall have been largely substituted for
the classical; and even the novelists will be expected to know something
about the world in which they live and the sublime and inexorable laws
which govern it. At present the majority of them spin irresponsible
yarns, and play Providence _ad libitum_ to their characters. Man's vital
coherence with his environment is but loosely indicated. Chance reigns
supreme. They have observed carefully enough the external phenomena of
life--and chiefly for their picturesque or dramatic interest--but of the
causes which underlie them they rarely give us a glimpse.
It is in this respect that Björnson's last tales offer so grateful a
contrast to conventional fiction. Here is a man who has resolutely
aroused himself from the old romantic doze, cleared his eyes of the film
of dreams, and with a sharp, wide-awake intensity focussed them to the
actual aspect of the actual world. He has sat down with his windows wide
open, and allowed the sounds and sights and smells of reality to pour in
upon him. And the magic spectacles are his which enable him to gauge the
significance of the phenomena and divine the causes which lurk behind
them. Therefore his characterizations are often extremely
unconventional, and amid all their picturesque vigor of phrase hint at
the kind of knowledge which could only be possessed by a family
physician. In "Absalom's Hair" we have no mere agglomeration of
half-digested scientific data, but a scientific view of life. The story
moves, from beginning to end, with a beautiful epic calm and a grand
inevitableness which remind one of Tolstoi, and reaches far toward the
high-water mark of modern realism. Take, for instance, the
characterization of Kirsten Ravn (pp. 11-15), and I wonder where in
contemporary fiction so large and deep a comprehension is shown both of
psychic and of physical forces. Emma, the heroine of Flaubert's "Madame
Bovary" is the only parallel I can recall, as regards the kind and
method of portraiture, though there is no resemblance between the
characters. In the development of the character of Rafael Kaas, there
is the same beautiful respect for human nature, the same unshrinking
statement of "shocking" facts, and the same undeviating adherence to the
logic of reality. The hair by which Rafael, as his prototype, the son of
David, is arrested and suspended in the midst of his triumphant race is
sensuality. His life is on the point of being wrecked, and his splendid
powers are dissipated by his inability to restrain his passions. The
tragic fate which hovers over him from the moment of his birth is
admirably hinted at, but not emphasized, in the sketch of his parents.
The carnal overbalance, supplied by the blood of the Kurts, wellnigh
neutralizes the mechanical genius which is hereditary in the blood of
the Ravns.
It is reported that "Absalom's Hair" has aroused great indignation in
Christiania, because it is claimed that the characters are drawn, with
scarcely an attempt at disguise, from well-known persons in the
Norwegian capital.
The remaining stories of the volume, "An Ugly Reminiscence of
Childhood," "Mother's Hands," and "One Day" betray the same contempt for
romantic standards, the same capacity for making acquaintance with life
at first hand. The first-named is an account of a murder and execution,
and extremely painful. The second is a bit of pathological psychology _à
propos_ of intemperance. Tastes imprisoned, genius cramped and
perverted, joy of life (_joie de vivre_) denied, will avenge themselves.
They will break out in drunkenness. The hero of "One Day" is afflicted
with the same vice, and apparently for the same reason. The cruel
disillusion which in consequence overtakes the poor little soul-starved
heroine rises almost to the height of tragedy. It is an every-day tale,
full of "deep and blood-veined humanity," and deriving its interest and
significance from the very fact of its commonness.
What distinguishes the Norsemen above other nations is, generally
speaking, an indestructible self-respect and force of individuality. The
old Norse sagas abound in illustrations of this untamable vigor and
ruthless self-assertion. It was the looseness of the social structure,
resulting from this sense of independence and consequent jealousy and
internecine warfare, which destroyed the Icelandic republic and made
Norway for four centuries a province of Denmark. In all the great men of
Norway we recognize something of the rampant individualism of their
Viking forefathers. Ibsen is the modern apostle _par excellence_ of
philosophic anarchism; and Björnson, too, has his full share of the
national aggressiveness and pugnacity. For all that there is a radical
difference between the two. The sense of social obligation which Ibsen
lacks, Björnson possesses in a high degree. He fights, not as a daring
guerilla, but as the spokesman and leader of thousands. He is the
chieftain who looms a head above all the people. He wields a heavy
sword, and he deals mighty blows. The wrath that possesses him is,
however, born of love. He fights man in the name of humanity. It is not
for himself, primarily, that he demands larger liberties, securer
rights, more humanizing conditions of life; but it is for his
fellow-men. The many, the small and down-trodden, the dumb millions,
whom Ibsen despises, Björnson loves. As Dr. Brandes[11] has so happily
said:
[11] Det Moderne Gjennembruds Maend, p. 60.
"Ibsen is a judge, stern as the old judges of Israel. Björnson is a
prophet, the hopeful herald of a better day. Ibsen is, in the depth of
his mind, a great revolutionist. In 'The Comedy of Love,' 'A Doll's
House,' and 'Ghosts,' he scourges marriage; in 'Brand,' the State
Church; in the 'Pillars of Society,' the dominant bourgeoisie. Whatever
he attacks is shivered into splinters by his profound and superior
criticism. Only the shattered ruins remain, and we are unable to espy
the new social institutions beyond them. Björnson is a conciliatory
spirit who wages war without bitterness. April sunshine glints and
gleams through all his works, while those of Ibsen, with their sombre
seriousness, lie in deep shadow. Ibsen loves the idea--the logical and
psychological consistency which drives Brand out of the church and Nora
out of the marital relation. To Ibsen's love of the idea corresponds
Björnson'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 the
more important English translations; but would warn my readers not to
judge Björnson's style by that of his translators. _Arne_: Translated by
Augusta Plesner and S. R. Powers (Boston, 1872). _The Happy Boy_:
Translated by H. R. G. (Boston, 1872). _The Railroad and the
Churchyard_, _The Eagle's Nest_, and _The Father_ are contained in the
volume to which Goldschmidt's _The Flying Mail_ gives the title (Sever,
Francis & Co., Boston and Cambridge, 1870). The following volumes are
translated by Professor R. B. Anderson, and published in a uniform
edition by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. (Boston, 1881): _Synnöve Solbakken_,
_Arne_, _A Happy Boy_, _The Fisher Maiden_, _The Bridal March_,
_Magnhild_, _Captain Mansana and other Stories_. _Sigurd Slembe_: A
Dramatic Trilogy: Translated by William Morton Payne (Boston and New
York, 1888). _Arne_ and _The Fisher Lassie_: Translated, with an
Introduction, by W. H. Low (Bohn Library, London). _Pastor Sang (Over
Aevne)_: Translated by Wm. Wilson (London, 1893). _In God's Way_
(Heinemann's International Library, London, 1891). _The Heritage of the
Kurts_, 1892. _A Gauntlet_. A Play. London, 1894. A new translation of
all Björnson's novels and tales has just been announced by Messrs.
Macmillan & Co., and the first volume, _Synnöve Solbakken_ (New York and
London, 1895), has appeared. The translation is rather slipshod.
ALEXANDER KIELLAND
In June, 1867, about a hundred enthusiastic youths were vociferously
celebrating their attainment of the baccalaureate degree at the
University of Norway. The orator on this occasion was a tall, handsome,
distinguished-looking young man named Alexander Kielland, from the
little coast town of Stavanger. There was none of the crudity of a
provincial either in his manners or his appearance. He spoke with a
quiet self-possession and a pithy incisiveness which were altogether
phenomenal.
"That young man will be heard from one of these days," was the unanimous
verdict of those who listened to his clear-cut and finished sentences,
and noted the maturity of his opinions.
But ten years passed, and outside of Stavanger no one ever heard of
Alexander Kielland. His friends were aware that he had studied law,
spent some winters in France, married, and settled himself as a
dignitary in his native town. It was understood that he had bought a
large brick and tile factory, and that as a manufacturer of these useful
articles he bid fair to become a provincial magnate, as his fathers had
been before him. People had almost forgotten that great things had been
expected of him, and some fancied perhaps that he had been spoiled by
prosperity. Remembering him, as I did, as the most brilliant and notable
personality among my university friends, I began to apply to him
Mallock's epigrammatic damnation of the man of whom it was said at
twenty that he would do great things, at thirty that he might do great
things, and at forty that he might have done great things.
This was the frame of mind of those who remembered Alexander Kielland
(and he was an extremely difficult man to forget), when in the year 1879
a modest volume of "Novelettes" appeared, bearing his name. It was, to
all appearances, a light performance, but it revealed a sense of style
which made it, nevertheless, notable. No man had ever written the
Norwegian language as this man wrote it. There was a lightness of touch,
a perspicacity, an epigrammatic sparkle, and occasional flashes of wit
which seemed altogether un-Norwegian. It was obvious that this author
was familiar with the best French writers, and had acquired through them
that clear and crisp incisiveness of utterance which was supposed,
hitherto, to be untransferable to any other tongue.
As regards the themes of these "Novelettes," it was remarked at the time
of their first appearance that they hinted at a more serious purpose
than their style seemed to imply. Who can read, for instance, "Pharaoh"
(which in the original is entitled "A Ball Mood") without detecting the
revolutionary note that trembles quite audibly through the calm and
unimpassioned language? There is, by the way, a little touch of
melodrama in this tale which is very unusual with Kielland. "Romance and
Reality," too, is glaringly at variance with conventional romanticism in
its satirical contrasting of the prematrimonial and the postmatrimonial
view of love and marriage. The same persistent tendency to present the
wrong side as well as the right side--and not, as literary good manners
are supposed to prescribe, ignore the former--is obvious in the charming
tale, "At the Fair," where a little spice of wholesome truth spoils the
thoughtlessly festive mood; and the squalor, the want, the envy, hate,
and greed which prudence and a regard for business compel the performers
to disguise to the public, become the more cruelly visible to the
visitors of the little alley-way at the rear of the tents. In "A Good
Conscience" the satirical note has a still more serious ring; but the
same admirable self-restraint which, next to the power of thought and
expression, is the happiest gift an author's fairy godmother can bestow
upon him, saves Kielland from saying too much--from enforcing his lesson
by marginal comments, _á la_ George Eliot. But he must be obtuse indeed
to whom this reticence is not more eloquent and effective than a page of
philosophical moralizing.
"Hope's Clad in April Green" and "The Battle of Waterloo" (the first
and the last tale in the Norwegian edition) are more untinged with a
moral tendency than any of the foregoing. The former is a mere _jeu
d'esprit_, full of good-natured satire on the calf-love of very young
people, and the amusing over-estimate of our importance to which we are
all, at that age, peculiarly liable.
As an organist with vaguely melodious hints foreshadows in his prelude
the musical _motifs_ which he means to vary and elaborate in his fugue,
so Kielland lightly touched in these "Novelettes" the themes which in
his later works he has struck with a fuller volume and power. What he
gave in this little book was a light sketch of his mental physiognomy,
from which, perhaps, his horoscope might be cast and his literary future
predicted.
Though a patrician by birth and training, he revealed a strong sympathy
with the toiling masses. But it was a democracy of the brain, I should
fancy, rather than of the heart. As I read the book, sixteen years ago,
its tendency puzzled me considerably, remembering, as I did, with the
greatest vividness, the fastidious and _distingué_ personality of the
author. I found it difficult to believe that he was in earnest. The book
seemed to me to betray the whimsical _sans-culottism_ of a man of
pleasure who, when the ball is at an end, sits down with his gloves on,
and philosophizes on the artificiality of civilization and the
wholesomeness of honest toil. An indigestion makes him a temporary
communist; but a bottle of seltzer presently reconciles him to his lot,
and restores the equilibrium of the universe. He loves the people at a
distance, can talk prettily about the sturdy son of the soil, who is the
core and marrow of the nation, etc.; but he avoids contact with him,
and, if chance brings them into contact, he loves him with his
handkerchief to his nose.
I may be pardoned for having identified Alexander Kielland with this
type, with which I am very familiar; and he convinced me presently that
I had done him injustice. In his next book, the admirable novel "Garman
and Worse," he showed that his democratic proclivities were something
more than a mood. He showed that he took himself seriously, and he
compelled the public to take him seriously. The tendency which had only
flashed forth here and there in the "Novelettes" now revealed its whole
countenance. The author's theme was the life of the prosperous
_bourgeoisie_ in the western coast towns; and he drew their types with a
hand that gave evidence of intimate knowledge. He had himself sprung
from one of these rich ship-owning, patrician families, had been given
every opportunity to study life both at home and abroad, and had
accumulated a fund of knowledge of the world, which he had allowed
quietly to grow before making literary draughts upon it. The same Gallic
perspicacity of style which had charmed in his first book was here in a
heightened degree; and there was, besides, the same underlying sympathy
with progress and what is called the ideas of the age. What mastery of
description, what rich and vigorous colors, Kielland had at his disposal
was demonstrated in such scenes as the funeral of Consul Garman and the
burning of the ship. There was, moreover, a delightful autobiographical
note in the book, particularly in the boyish experiences of Gabriel
Garman. Such things no man invents, however clever; such material no
imagination supplies, however fertile. Except Fritz Reuter's
Stavenhagen, I know no small town in fiction which is so vividly and
completely individualized, and populated with such living and credible
characters. Take, for instance, the two clergymen, Archdeacon Sparre and
the Rev. Mr. Martens, and it is not necessary to have lived in Norway in
order to recognize and enjoy the faithfulness and the artistic subtlety
of these portraits. If they have a dash of satire (which I will not
undertake to deny), it is such delicate and well-bred satire that no
one, except the originals, would think of taking offence. People are
willing, for the sake of the entertainment which it affords, to forgive
a little quiet malice at their neighbors' expense. The members of the
provincial bureaucracy are drawn with the same firm but delicate touch,
and everything has that beautiful air of reality which proves the world
akin.
It was by no means a departure from his previous style and tendency
which Kielland signalized in his next novel, "Laboring People" (1881).
He only emphasizes, as it were, the heavy, serious bass chords in the
composite theme which expresses his complex personality, and allows the
lighter treble notes to be momentarily drowned. His theme is the
corrupting influence of the upper upon the lower class. He has in this
book made some appalling, soul-searching studies in the pathology as
well as the psychology of vice.
Kielland's third novel, "Skipper Worse," marked a distinct step in his
development. It was less of a social satire and more of a social study.
It was not merely a series of brilliant, exquisitely finished scenes,
loosely strung together on a slender thread of narrative, but was a
concise and well-constructed story, full of beautiful scenes and
admirable portraits. The theme is akin to that of Daudet's
"L'Évangéliste;" but Kielland, as it appears to me, has in this instance
outdone his French _confrère_, as regards insight into the peculiar
character and poetry of the pietistic movement. He has dealt with it as
a psychological and not primarily as a pathological phenomenon. A
comparison with Daudet suggests itself constantly in reading Kielland.
Their methods of workmanship and their attitude toward life have many
points in common. The charm of style, the delicacy of touch, and
felicity of phrase, are in both cases pre-eminent. Daudet has, however,
the advantage (or, as he himself asserts, the disadvantage) of working
in a flexible and highly finished language, which bears the impress of
the labors of a hundred masters; while Kielland has to produce his
effects of style in a poorer and less pliable language, which often
pants and groans in its efforts to render a subtle thought. To have
polished this tongue and sharpened its capacity for refined and incisive
utterance, is one--and not the least--of his merits.
Though he has by nature no more sympathy with the pietistic movement
than Daudet, Kielland yet manages to get psychologically closer to his
problem. His pietists are more humanly interesting than those of Daudet,
and the little drama which they set in motion is more genuinely
pathetic. Two superb figures--the lay preacher Hans Nilsen and Skipper
Worse--surpass all that the author had hitherto produced in depth of
conception and brilliancy of execution. The marriage of that delightful,
profane old sea-dog Jacob Worse with the pious Sara Torvestad, and the
attempts of his mother-in-law to convert him, are described not with the
merely superficial drollery to which the subject invites, but with a
sweet and delicate humor which trembles on the verge of pathos. In the
Christmas tale, "Elsie," Kielland has produced a little classic of
almost flawless perfection. With what exquisite art he paints the life
of a small Norwegian coast-town in all its vivid details! While
Björnson, in "The Heritage of the Kurts," primarily emphasizes the
responsibility of the individual to society, Kielland chooses to
emphasize the responsibility of society to the individual. The former
selects a hero with vicious inherited tendencies, redeemed by wise
education and favorable environment; the latter portrays a heroine with
no corrupt predisposition, destroyed by a corrupting environment. Elsie
could not be good, because the world was once so constituted that girls
of her kind were not expected to be good. Temptations, perpetually
thronging in her way, broke down the moral bulwarks of her nature;
resistance seemed in vain. In the end, there is scarcely one who, having
read the book, will have the heart to condemn her.
Incomparably clever is the satire on the benevolent societies which
exist to furnish a kind of officious sense of virtue to their
aristocratic members. "The Society for the Redemption of the Abandoned
Women of St. Peter's Parish" is presided over by a gentleman who is
responsible for the abandoned condition of a goodly number of them.
However, it turns out that those miserable creatures who need to be
redeemed belong to another parish, and accordingly cannot be reached by
St. Peter's. St. Peter's parish is aristocratic, exclusive, and keeps
its wickedness discreetly veiled. The horror of the secretary of the
society, when she hears that "the abandoned woman" who calls upon her
for aid, has a child without being married, is both comic and pathetic.
In fact, there is not a scene in the book which is not instinct with
life and admirably characteristic.
Besides being the author of some minor comedies and a full-grown drama
("The Professor"), Kielland has published several novels, the more
recent being "Poison" (1883), "Fortuna" (1884), "Snow" (1886), and "St.
John's Eve" (1887).
The note of promise and suspense with which "Snow" ends is meant to be
symbolic. From Kielland's point of view, Norway is yet wrapped in the
wintry winding-sheet of a tyrannical orthodoxy, and all he dares assert
is that the chains of frost and snow seem to be loosening. There is a
spring feeling in the air.
This spring feeling is scarcely perceptible in his last book, "Jacob"
(1890), which is written in anything but a hopeful mood. It is rather a
protest against that optimism which in fiction we call poetic justice.
The harsh and unsentimental logic of reality is emphasized with a
ruthless disregard of rose-colored traditions.
From the pedagogic point of view, I have no doubt that "Jacob" would be
classed as an immoral book. But the question of its morality is of less
consequence than the question of its truth. The most modern literature,
which is interpenetrated with the spirit of the age, has a way of asking
dangerous questions--questions before which the reader, when he
perceives their full scope, stands aghast. Our old idyllic faith in the
goodness and wisdom of all mundane arrangements has undoubtedly received
a shock. Our attitude toward the universe is changing with the change of
its attitude toward us. What the thinking part of humanity is now
largely engaged in doing is readjusting itself toward the world and the
world toward it. Success is but adaptation to environment, and success
is the supreme aim of the modern man. The authors who, by their fearless
thinking and speaking, help us toward this readjustment should, in my
opinion, whether we choose to accept their conclusions or not, be hailed
as benefactors. It is in the ranks of these that Alexander Kielland has
taken his place, and occupies a conspicuous position.
JONAS LIE