connection--a mediator and interpreter of foreign thought in such a form
as to appeal to the Danish temperament and be capable of assimilation by
the Danish intellect. Such a man was Georg Brandes. He undertook to put
his people _en rapport_ with the nineteenth century, to open new avenues
for the influx of modern thought, to take the place of those which had
been closed. We have seen that he interpreted to his countrymen the
significance of the literary and social movements both in England and in
France. But a self-satisfied and virtuous little nation which regards
its remoteness from the great world as a matter of congratulation is not
apt to receive with favor such a champion of alien ideas. The more the
Danes became absorbed in their national hallucinations, the more
provincial, nay parochial, they became in their interests, the less did
they feel the need of any intellectual stimulus from abroad; and when
Dr. Brandes introduced them to modern realism, agnosticism, and
positivism they thanked God that none of these dreadful isms were
indigenous with them; and were disposed to take Dr. Brandes to task for
disturbing their idyllic, orthodox peace by the promulgation of such
dangerous heresies. When the time came to fill the professorship for
which he was a candidate, he was passed by, and a safer but inferior man
was appointed. A formal crusade was opened against him, and he was made
the object of savage and bitter attacks. I am not positive, but am
disposed to believe, that it was this crusade, not against his opinions
only, but against the man himself, which drove Dr. Brandes from
Copenhagen, and induced him, in October, 1877, to settle in Berlin. Here
he continued his literary activity with unabated zeal, became a valued
contributor to the most authoritative German periodicals, and gained a
conspicuous position among German men of letters. But while he was
sojourning abroad, the seed of ideas which he had left at home began to
sprout, and in 1882 his friends in Copenhagen felt themselves strong
enough to brave the antagonism which his æsthetical and religious
heresies had aroused. At their invitation he returned to Denmark, having
been guaranteed an income of four thousand crowns ($1,000) for ten
years, with the single stipulation that he should deliver an annual
course of public lectures in Copenhagen. Since then his reputation has
spread rapidly throughout the civilized world; his books have been
translated into many languages, and he would have won his way to a
recognition, as the foremost of contemporary critics, if he had not in
his later publications discredited himself by his open sympathy with
anarchism.
In order to substantiate this it is only necessary to call attention to
the fifth volume of his lectures entitled "Young Germany" (_Det unge
Tydskland_, 1890), which betrays extraordinary intellectual acumen but
also a singular confusion of moral values. All revolt is lauded, all
conformity derided. The former is noble, daring, Titanic; the latter is
pusillanimous and weak. Conjugal irregularities are treated not with
tolerance but with obvious approval. Those authors who dared be a law
unto themselves are, by implication at least, praised for flinging down
their gauntlets to the dull, moral Philistines who have shackled
themselves with their own stupid traditions. That is the tone of
Brandes's comment upon such relations as that of Immermann to Eliza von
Lützow.
But nowhere has he unmasked so Mephistophelian a countenance as in his
essays on Luther and on an obscure German iconoclast named Friedrich
Nietschke (_Essays: Fremmede Personligheder_, pp. 151-244). It is
difficult to understand how a man of well-balanced brain and a logical
equipment second to none, can take _au sérieux_ a mere philosophical
savage who dances a war-dance amid what he conceives to be the ruins of
civilization, swings a reckless tomahawk and knocks down everybody and
everything that comes in his way. There must lie a long history of
disappointment and bitterness behind that endorsement of anarchy pure
and simple. And it is the sadder to contemplate because it casts a
sinister light upon Dr. Brandes's earlier activity and compels many an
admirer of his literary art to revise his previous opinion of him. Can a
man ever have been a sound thinker who at fifty practically hoists the
standard of anarchy? A ship is scarcely to be trusted that flies such
compromising colors.
That all development, in order to be rational, must have its roots in
the past--must be in the nature of a slow organic growth--is certainly a
fundamental proposition of the Spencerian sociology. It is the more to
be wondered at that an evolutionist like Dr. Brandes, in his impatience
at the tardiness of social progress, should lose his philosophic temper
and make common cause with a crack-brained visionary. The kind of
explosive radicalism which Nietschke betrays in his cynical questions
and explanations is no evidence of profundity or sagacity, but is the
equivalent of the dynamiter's activity, transferred to the world of
thought. His pretended re-investigation of the foundations of the moral
sentiments reminds one of the mud geysers of the Yellowstone, which
break out periodically and envelop everything within reach in an
indeterminate shower of mud. To me there is more of vanity than of
philosophic acumen in his onslaught on well-nigh all human institutions.
He would, like Ibsen, no doubt,
"Place 'neath the ark the torpedo most cheerfully;"
but torpedoes of his making would scarcely do the ark much harm. They
have not the explosive power of Ibsen's. There are in every age men who,
unable to achieve the fame of Dinocrates, who built the temple of the
Ephesian Diana, aspire to that of Herostratos, who destroyed it. To
admire these men is as compromising as to be admired by them.
In the essay on "Martin Luther on Celibacy and Marriage" Dr. Brandes
derides with a satyr-like leer all traditional ideas of chastity,
conjugal fidelity, and marital honor.
Though he pretends to fight behind Luther's shield the deftest thrusts
are not the reformer's, but the essayist's own. Fundamentally, I fancy,
this is an outbreak of that artistic paganism which is so prevalent
among the so-called "advanced" Hebrews. The idea that obedience to law
is degrading; that conformity to traditional morals is soul-crippling
and unworthy of a free spirit; that only by giving sway to passion will
the individual attain that joy which is his right, and that
self-development which should be his highest aim, has found one of its
ablest and most dangerous advocates in Georg Brandes.
ESAIAS TEGNÉR
The genius of the Scandinavian north has never found a more complete and
brilliant 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 to
the moonshine singers and graveyard bards of the phosphoristic school,
who were his contemporaries. To Tegnér, in his prime, life was a brisk
and exhilarating sail, with a fresh breeze, over sunny waters; and he
had no patience with those who described it as a painful and troublous
groping through the valley of the shadow of death. There was, in other
words, a certain charming juvenility in his attitude toward existence,
which presented to him no riddles that a man with a strong arm and an
honest heart might not solve with comparative ease. All problems were to
him soluble with the sword; and Alexander, when he cut the Gordian knot,
must have appeared to him wiser, as he was surely more admirable, than
either Plato or Socrates. This scorn of all metaphysical subtleties, and
reliance upon strength and Swedish manhood, are, perhaps (from an
advanced European point of view), indicative of a little intellectual
immaturity; but they are thoroughly characteristic of the Scandinavian
nationalities. The love of brave words and brave deeds, the exaltation
of the man of action above the man of thought, the pleasure in reckless
gallantry and foolhardy adventure, are, however, not confined to Swedes
and Norwegians, but are characteristic of the boyhood of every nation.
In the Scotchman, Robert Louis Stevenson, this jaunty juvenility, this
rich enjoyment of bloody buccaneers and profane sea-dogs, is carried to
far greater lengths, and the great juvenile public of England and
America, both young and old, rises up and calls him blessed.
There is, however, a vast difference between Tegnér's youthfulness and
that of Stevenson. The latter (in spite of the charm of his style, which
is irresistible) strikes me as a sort of mediæval survival--a boyish
feudal sixteenth-century spirit astray in the nineteenth. I am by no
means insensible to the fascination of his capricious confidences, his
beautiful insight, and his exquisite humor; but for all that, he always
leaves me with a vague regret at his whimsicality and a certain lack of
robustness in his intellectual equipment. In Tegnér, on the other hand,
it is primarily the man who is impressive; and the author is interesting
as the revelation of the man. He has no literary airs and graces, but
speaks with a splendid authority, _e plena pectore_, from the fulness of
his manly conviction. He seems a very personification of the national
genius--fair, vigorous, and beautiful--with the glow of health in his
cheeks and the light of courage in his eye. His vision of the world is
bright and vivid, and he swims with a joyous ease in the high-tide of
the moment, like a beautiful fish in the luminous summer sea.
As a specimen of magnificent manhood Tegnér had few equals in his day.
Tall, robust, and finely proportioned as he was, with a profile of
almost classic purity, he was equally irresistible to men and women.
There was a breezy, out-of-door air about him, and a genial
straightforwardness and affability in his manner which took all hearts
captive. His was not only the beauty of perfect health, but a certain
splendid virility in his demeanor and appearance heightened the charm of
his personality.
It is a matter of wonder that a man in whom the race-type had reached
such perfection was but two generations removed from the soil. Tegnér's
grandfathers on both sides were peasants; and his father, Esaias
Lucasson, was a peasant lad who by industry and ambition had obtained an
education and become a clergyman. He owed his aristocratic name to the
custom, prevalent in those days, to Latinize all vulgar appellations.
Esaias Lucasson, of Tegnaby (the little Småland village where he was
born), became, in the Latin school, Esaias Tegnerus. He married in the
course of time a clergyman's daughter, Sara Maria Seidelius, who bore
him a large family of sons and daughters. The fifth son, named Esaias
after his father, first saw the light of day in the parsonage of
Kyrkerud, in Wermland, November 13, 1782. When he was nine years old his
father died, leaving behind him poverty and sorrow. Happily a friend of
the family, the Assessor Branting, took a fancy to the handsome and
clever boy and offered him a home in his house. Esaias wrote a very
clear, good hand, and soon got a desk and a high three-legged stool in
the assessor's office. So far from rebelling against this tedious
discipline, he applied himself with zeal to his task, and became, in a
short time, an excellent clerk. And a clerk he might have remained if
his patron had not had the wit to discover that very unusual talents
slumbered in the lad. Being fond of his society, Mr. Branting got into
the habit of taking him along on his official journeys; and from the
back seat of his chaise Esaias made the acquaintance of the beautiful
rivers, heights, and valleys of Wermland. The unconscious impressions
which a boy absorbs at this period of his life are apt to play a
decisive part in fashioning his future. Nature, however picturesque,
never yet made a poet of a dullard; but many a time has she aroused to
poetic consciousness a soul which without this stimulating influence
might never have discovered its calling, might never have felt that
strange, tremulous exaltation which demands utterance in song.
Esaias Tegnér stored his mind during these journeys with that wealth of
imagery, drawn from the scenery of his native land, which constitutes
the most national element in his verse. He also contracted, during his
residence in Branting's house, an inordinate love of books. Once during
the harvest-time he was placed on guard at an open gate, so as to
prevent the cattle from breaking into the adjoining field. To the great
chagrin of his patron, however, the cows made their way unhindered and
unnoticed into the forbidden territory, while their watchman was lying
on his belly in the grass, deeply absorbed in a book. Wherever he
happened to be, his idea of happiness was to hide himself away with a
cherished volume. Sometimes he was found sitting on the top rung of a
ladder, sometimes on the roof of a turf-thatched cottage, oblivious of
the world about him, plunged up to his ears in some historic or
mythological tale. He was voracious, nay, omnivorous, in his reading. A
book was a book to him; no matter what was its subject, whether it were
poetry, history, heraldry, or horticulture, he was always likely to find
something in it to interest him. But his favorite reading was the old
Norse sagas, with their tremendous recitals of war and song and fabulous
prowess.
It was not, however, his delight in books which made the change in his
destiny. Professor C. W. Böttiger, Tegnér's son-in-law, quotes, in his
life of the poet, the following incident in the latter's own words:
"One evening, as I was travelling homeward with Assessor Branting, from
Carlstad to Högvalta, the stars were bright and my religious
foster-father seized this opportunity to talk with me about God's
omnipotence, and its visible traces throughout nature. I had just been
reading Bastholm's 'Philosophy for Laymen,' and I began to give an
account of what I had there learned concerning the movements of the
heavenly bodies. This made an impression upon the old man, who, a few
days later, informed me that he had determined to give me a scholarly
education. This had long been my secret desire, though I had never dared
to express it. 'You can learn nothing more with me,' he said, 'and I
believe you were born for something better. If that is the case,' he
added, 'do not forget to thank the Giver of all good things.'"
The boy, who was now fourteen years old, was sent to the house of a
neighbor, where his elder brother, Lars Gustaf, was tutor, and was
initiated by him into the classical languages. He also taught himself
English by reading McPherson's "Ossian," which kept ringing in his
memory for many years to come. It was during his first enthusiasm for
"Ossian" that, in order to rid himself of the line "the spear of Connell
is keen," he cut it into his chamber-door, where probably it is yet to
be seen. At the end of fifteen months the elder brother accepted a more
profitable position as tutor in the family of the great
iron-manufacturer Myhrman, at Rämen, and stipulated that Esaias should
be permitted to accompany him.
Very charming is the description of this hospitable, patriarchal
household, in Böttiger's biography; and doubly interesting it becomes
when we recognize on every page scenes and incidents which were later
woven into "Frithjof's Saga." There was a large library on the estate,
consisting of French, Latin, and Greek classics. With great zest Esaias
attacked this storehouse of delight; and scarcely would he grant himself
the needed sleep, because every hour seemed to him lost which had been
robbed from his beloved authors. The instruction in Latin and Greek
which his brother imparted to the young Myhrmans was to him far too
slow. In his eagerness to plunge into Homer's enchanted world, he
rapidly finished his grammar, and began to read ahead, book after book,
so as to get the connection, even though understanding but half the
words. Without knowing it, he had adopted a modern and really most
excellent method of acquiring the language. For Homer became literature
to him instead of a mere text for excruciating grammatical gymnastics.
It was Tegnér's good fortune that his playfellows, the seven young
Myhrmans, were not so fond of Greek as he was. Often, when he was
revelling in a glorious Homeric passage, these lusty barbarians would
come storming into his room and carry him off bodily, compelling him to
share in their sports; for Esaias was a capital hand at inventing new
games, and they willingly accepted his leadership and acted upon his
suggestions. Particularly his Homeric games were greatly enjoyed. They
divided their troop into Greeks and Trojans and captured Troy. Esaias
was always Hector, and the other boys became the raging Ajax, the
swift-footed Achilles, the wily Ulysses, etc. The youngest daughter of
the house, Anna Myhrman, must, I should fancy, have played somewhat more
of a part in Tegnér's boyhood than his biographer allows, for the
descriptions of Frithjof's and Ingeborg's childhood in Hilding's house
are obviously personal reminiscences:
"No bird's nest found so high a spot
That he for her could find it not;
The eagle's nest from clouds he sundered,
And eggs and young he deftly plundered.
"However swift, there ran no brook,
But o'er it Ingeborg he took;
How sweet, when roaring torrents frighten,
To feel her soft arms round him tighten.
"The first spring flowers by sunshine fed,
The earliest strawberries turning red,
The first of autumn's golden treasure
He proffered her with eager pleasure."[26]
[26] Translation of Thomas A. E. and Martha A. L. Holcomb, Chicago,
1877. I have taken the liberty to substitute "strawberries," which
is the correct translation of "Smultron," for berries.
At the age of seventeen Tegnér entered the University of Lund,
accompanied by three young Myhrmans, whose father had generously
promised to share with Assessor Branting the expenses of his academic
education. His playmate, familiarly called Achilles, had to share his
room, and thus it came to pass that Hector and his deadly foe became
bedfellows. In fact the bed in question, being intended for but one,
afforded the scantiest possible accommodations for two, and often
threatened to collapse under their united weight. Aching in every joint
from the discomfort of their cramped position, they would then get up
and spend the remainder of the night in playing chess.
At the University Tegnér soon made his mark, and two years later took
his degree of _Magister Artium_ with great distinction, being, according
to the extraordinary custom of the country, laurel-crowned in the
cathedral as the first of twenty-four candidates. The Swede loves pomp
and ceremonious display, and rarely misses an opportunity for a fine
stage effect. I do not mean to insinuate, of course, that Esaias Tegnér
was unworthy of the honor which was conferred upon him; but it seems a
terrible cheapening of the laurel to place it annually upon the brows of
a herd of deedless striplings, standing upon the threshold of their
careers. Tegnér was but nineteen years of age when the Muse, contrary to
her habit, gave him the crown without the dust, generously rewarding him
in advance of performance. But he came very near forfeiting the fruits
of all his fair fame by participating in a hostile demonstration in
front of the house of the University's rector, who was justly unpopular.
His manly bearing, however, and the friendship of several of the
professors saved him from the _consilium abeundi cum infamia_, with
which he was threatened. Instead of that he was appointed _docent_ in
æsthetics, Secretary to the Faculty of Philosophy, and Assistant
University Librarian. His summer vacations he spent at Rämen with the
Myhrmans. His playmate, Miss Anna, was now sixteen years of age, and had
undergone that miraculous transformation, which never loses its
delightful mystery, from childhood into young womanhood. He went away
one day and bade good-by to an awkward kangaroo-like girl in short
skirts, and returned in a few months to greet a lovely, blushingly
dignified young lady, who probably avowed no more her fondness for him
with the same frank heedlessness as of old. But she would have been more
than woman if she could have resisted the wooing of the beautiful youth
upon whom nature had showered so many rare gifts. A stone has been found
up in the woods above Rämen which yet shows under its coating of moss
the initials of E. T. and A. M. It requires but little imagination to
fill out the story of the brief and happy courtship; and two cantos in
"Frithjof's Saga" ("Frithof's Wooing" and "Frithjof's Happiness") supply
an abundance of hints which have a charmingly autobiographical tinge:
"He sat by her side and pressed her soft hand,
And he felt a fond pressure, responsive and bland,
Whilst his love-dreaming gaze
Was returned as the sun's in the moon's placid rays.
"They spoke of days bygone, so gladsome and gay,
When the dew was yet fresh on life's new-trodden way;
For on memory's page
Youth traces its roses; its briers old age.
"She brought him a greeting from dale and from wood,
From the bark-graven runes and the brook's silver flood;
From the dome-crownèd 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 of
his hero. For Anna Myhrman, instead of pledging her troth to a
high-born, elderly gentleman, like King Ring, married the young
University instructor, Esaias Tegnér; and when her bridal wreath of
myrtle failed to arrive from the city, she twined a wreath of wild
heather instead; and very lovely she looked on her wedding-day with the
modest heather blossoms peeping forth from under her dark locks.
His insecure position in life, as one dependent upon the bounty of
friends, had hitherto oppressed Tegnér, and at times made him moody and
despondent. He had felt impelled, in justice to himself and to satisfy
the expectations of his patrons, to apply himself to his studies with a
perseverance and industry which came near undermining his health. He
looked during his student days overworked, and if nature had endowed
him with a less magnificent physique he would, no doubt, have succumbed
to the strain of this perpetual over-exertion. But after his marriage a
happy change came over him. The joyous substratum of his nature (what he
himself called his pagan self) broke through its sombre integuments and
asserted itself. No sooner had he taken his place among the teachers of
the University than his clear and weighty personality commanded
admiration and respect. In social intercourse his ready wit and cheerful
conviviality made him a general favorite. His talk, without being in the
least forced, was full of surprises; and there was a charm, in the
redundant vigor and virility that seemed to radiate from him. But it may
as well be admitted that he began at this time to show what may
euphemistically be styled his paganism, in the relish which he evinced
for jests of doubtful propriety. He was indeed as far as possible from
being a prude; many years later, when he was a bishop and a great
ecclesiastical dignitary, he wrote to his friend the poet 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 done
some injury to his memory. Not that his fancy had any taint of
uncleanness. It was open and cheerful as the sunlight; and as the
sunlight played brightly over all things without fastidious
discrimination. There was a rich, and healthy humanity about him which
manifested itself in an impartial, all-embracing delight in the glow and
color of mere sensuous existence. There has scarcely ever been a great
poet (Dante perhaps excepted) who has not had his share of this pagan
joy in nudity. Goethe's "Roman Elegies" are undisguisedly Anacreontic,
and the most spiritual of modern poets, Robert Browning, is as deep and
varied and bountiful in the expression he gives to life in its sensuous
phases as in its highest ascetic transports.