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Tales of Two Countries

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TALES OF TWO COUNTRIES
BY ALEXANDER KIELLAND
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN BY WILLIAM ARCHER
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY H. H. BOYESEN




CONTENTS.

PHARAOH
THE PARSONAGE
THE PEAT MOOR
"HOPE'S CLAD IN APRIL GREEN"
AT THE FAIR
TWO FRIENDS
A GOOD CONSCIENCE
ROMANCE AND REALITY
WITHERED LEAVES
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO



INTRODUCTION.

In June, 1867, about a hundred enthusiastic youths were vociferously
celebrating the 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 dither 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 Malloch'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" (from which the present
collection is chiefly made up), 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 Hall Mood") without
detecting the revolutionary note which 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
the conventional romanticism in its satirical contributing of the
pre-matrimonial and the pos-tmatrimonial 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, _à
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 it light sketch of
his mental physiognomy, from which, perhaps, his horoscope might be
cast and his literary future predicted.

Though an aristocrat 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, twelve years ago, its tendency puzzled me considerably,
remembering, as I did, with the greatest vividness, the fastidious
and elegant 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; 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 drafts 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 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.
Superficially speaking, there is perhaps a reminiscence of Zola in
this book, not in the manner of treatment, but in the subject,
which is the corrupting influence of the higher classes upon the
lower. There is no denying that in spite of the ability, which it
betrays in every line, _Laboring People_ is unpleasant reading. It
frightened away a host of the author's early admirers by the
uncompromising vigor and the glaring realism with which it depicted
the consequences of vicious indulgence. It showed no consideration
for delicate nerves, but was for all that a clean and wholesome book.

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 it was a concise, and well constructed story, full of beautiful
scenes and admirable portraits. The theme is akin to that of
Daudet's _L'Evangéliste_; 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
towards life have many points in common. The charm of style, the
delicacy of touch and felicity of phrase, is 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 Torvested, 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.

The beautiful story _Elsie_, which, though published separately, is
scarcely a full-grown novel, is intended to impress society with a
sense of responsibility for its outcasts. While Björnstjerne
Björnson is fond of emphasizing the responsibility of the
individual to society, Kielland chooses by preference to reverse
the relation. The former (in his remarkable novel _Flags are Flying
in City and Harbor_) selects a hero with vicious inherited
tendencies, redeemed by wise education and favorable environment;
the latter portrays in Elsie a heroine with no corrupt predisposition,
destroyed by the corrupting environment which society forces upon
those who are born in her circumstances. Elsie could not be good,
because the world is so constituted that girls of her kind are not
expected to be good. Temptations, perpetually thronging in her way,
break down the moral bulwarks of her nature. Resistance seems in
vain. In the end there is scarcely one who, having read her story,
will have the heart to condemn her.

Incomparably clever is the satire on the benevolent societies,
which appear to exist as a sort of moral poultice to tender
consciences, and to furnish an officious sense of virtue to its
prosperous members. "The Society for the Redemption of the
Abandoned Women of St. Peter's Parish" is presided over by a
gentleman who privately furnishes subjects for his public
benevolence. However, as his private activity is not bounded by the
precincts of St. Peter's Parish, within which the society confines
its remedial labors, the miserable creatures who might need its aid
are sent away uncomforted. The delicious joke of the thing is that
"St. Peter's" is a rich and exclusive parish, consisting of what is
called "the better classes," and has no "abandoned women." Whatever
wickedness there may be in St. Peter's is discreetly veiled, and
makes no claim upon public charity. The virtuous horror of the
secretary when she hears that the "abandoned woman" who calls upon
her for aid has a child, though she is unmarried, is both comic and
pathetic. It is the clean, "deserving poor," who understand the art
of hypocritical humility--it is these whom the society seeks in
vain in St. Peter's Parish.

Still another problem of the most vital consequence Kielland has
attacked in his two novels, _Poison_ and _Fortuna_ (1884). It is,
broadly stated, the problem of education. The hero in both books is
Abraham Lövdahl, a well-endowed, healthy, and altogether promising
boy who, by the approved modern educational process, is mentally
and morally crippled, and the germs of what is great and good in
him are systematically smothered by that disrespect for
individuality
and insistence upon uniformity, which are the curses of a small
society. The revolutionary discontent which vibrates in the deepest
depth of Kielland's nature; the profound and uncompromising
radicalism which smoulders under his polished exterior; the
philosophical pessimism which relentlessly condemns all the flimsy
and superficial reformatory movements of the day, have found
expression in the history of the childhood, youth, and manhood of
Abraham Lvdahl. In the first place, it is worthy of note that to
Kielland the knowledge which is offered in the guise of
intellectual nourishment is poison. It is the dry and dusty
accumulation of antiquarian lore, which has little or no
application to modern life--it is this which the young man of the
higher classes is required to assimilate. Apropos of this, let me
quote Dr. G. Brandes, who has summed up the tendency of these two
novels with great felicity:

"The author has surveyed the generation to which he himself
belongs, and after having scanned these wide domains of
emasculation, these prairies of spiritual sterility, these vast
plains of servility and irresolution, he has addressed to himself
the questions: How does a whole generation become such? How was it
possible to nip in the bud all that was fertile and eminent? And
he has painted a picture of the history of the development of the
present generation in the home-life and school-life of Abraham
Lövdahl, in order to show from what kind of parentage those most
fortunately situated and best endowed have sprung, and what kind of
education they received at home and in the school. This is, indeed,
a simple and an excellent theme.

"We first see the child led about upon the wide and withered common
of knowledge, with the same sort of meagre fodder for all; we see
it trained in mechanical memorizing, in barren knowledge concerning
things and forms that are dead and gone; in ignorance concerning
the life that is, in contempt for it, and in the consciousness of
its privileged position, by dint of its possession of this doubtful
culture. We see pride strengthened; the healthy curiosity, the
desire to ask questions, killed."

We are apt to console ourselves on this side of the ocean with the
idea that these social problems appertain only to the effete
monarchies of Europe, and have no application with us. But, though
I readily admit that the keenest point of this satire is directed
against the small States which, by the tyranny of the dominant
mediocrity, cripple much that is good and great by denying it the
conditions of growth and development, there is yet a deep and
abiding lesson in these two novels which applies to modern
civilization in general, exposing glaring defects which are no less
prevalent here than in the Old World.

Besides being the author of some minor comedies and a full-grown
drama ("The Professor"), Kielland has published two more novels,
_St. John's Eve_ (1887) and _Snow_. The latter is particularly
directed against the orthodox Lutheran clergy, of which the Rev.
Daniel Jürges is an excellent specimen. He is, in my opinion, not
in the least caricatured; but portrayed with a conscientious desire
to do justice to his sincerity. Mr. Jürges is a worthy type of the
Norwegian country pope, proud and secure in the feeling of his
divine authority, passionately hostile to "the age," because he
believes it to be hostile to Christ; intolerant of dissent; a guide
and ruler of men, a shepherd of the people. The only trouble in
Norway, as elsewhere, is that the people will no longer consent to
be shepherded. They refuse to be guided and ruled. They rebel
against spiritual and secular authority, and follow no longer the
bell-wether with the timid gregariousness of servility and
irresolution. To bring the new age into the parsonage of the
reverend obscurantist in the shape of a young girl--the _fiancée_
of the pastor's son--was an interesting experiment which gives
occasion for strong scenes and, at last, for a drawn battle between
the old and the new. The new, though not acknowledging itself to be
beaten, takes to its heels, and flees in the stormy night through
wind and snow. But the snow is moist and heavy; it is beginning to
thaw. There is a vague presentiment of spring in the air.

This note of promise and suspense with which the book 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 that 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, however, scarcely perceptible in his last
book, _Jacob_, 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.
The peasant lad Wold, who, like all Norse peasants, has been
brought up on the Bible, has become deeply impressed with the story
of Jacob, and God's persistent partisanship for him, in spite of
his dishonesty and tricky behavior. The story becomes, half
unconsciously, the basis of his philosophy of life, and he
undertakes to model his career on that of the Biblical hero. He
accordingly cheats and steals with a clever moderation, and in a
cautious and circumspect manner which defies detection. Step by
step he rises in the regard of his fellow-citizens; crushes, with
long-headed calculation or with brutal promptness (as it may suit
his purpose) all those who stand in his way, and arrives at last at
the goal of his desires. He becomes a local magnate, a member of
parliament, where he poses as a defender of the simple,
old-fashioned orthodoxy, is decorated by the King, and is an object
of the envious admiration of his fellow townsmen.

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 as to 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
from which it will never recover. Our attitude towards the universe
is changing with the change of its attitude towards us. What the
thinking part of humanity is now largely engaged in doing is to
readjust itself towards the world and the world towards it. Success
is but a complete adaptation to environment; and success is the
supreme aim of the modern man. The authors who, by their fearless
thinking and speaking, help us towards 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 now occupies a
conspicuous position.

HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN.
NEW YORK, May 15, 1891.



PHARAOH.

She had mounted the shining marble steps with without mishap,
without labor, sustained by her great beauty and her fine nature
alone. She had taken her place in the salons of the rich and great
without laying for her admittance with her honor or her good name.
Yet no one could say whence she came, though people whispered that
it was from the depths.

As a waif of a Parisian faubourg, she had starved through her
childhood among surroundings of vice and poverty, such as those
only can conceive who know them by experience. Those of us who get
our knowledge from books and from hearsay have to strain our
imagination in order to form an idea of the hereditary misery of a
great city, and yet our most terrible imaginings are apt to pale
before the reality.

It had been only a question of time when vice should get its
clutches upon her, as a cog-wheel seizes whoever comes too near the
machine. After whirling her around through a short life of shame
and degradation, it would, with mechanical punctuality, have cast
her off into some corner, there to drag out to the end, in sordid
obscurity, her caricature of an existence.

But it happened, as it does sometimes happen, that she was
"discovered" by a man of wealth and position, one day when, a child
of fourteen, she happened to cross one of the better streets. She
was on her way to a dark back room in the Rue des Quatre Vents,
where she worked with a woman who made artificial flowers.

It was not only her extraordinary beauty that attracted her patron;
her movements, her whole bearing, and the expression of her
half-formed features, all seemed to him to show that here was an
originally fine nature struggling against incipient corruption.
Moved by one of the incalculable whims of the very wealthy, he
determined to try to rescue the unhappy child.

It was not difficult to obtain control of her, as she belonged to
no one. He gave her a name, and placed her in one of the best
convent schools. Before long her benefactor had the satisfaction of
observing that the seeds of evil died away and disappeared. She
developed an amiable, rather indolent character, correct and quiet
manners, and a rare beauty.

When she grew up he married her. Their married life was peaceful
and pleasant; in spite of the great difference in their ages, he
had unbounded confidence in her, and she deserved it.

Married people do not live in such close communion in France as
they do with us; so that their claims upon each other are not so
great, and their disappointments are less bitter.

She was not happy, but contented. Her character lent itself to
gratitude. She did not feel the tedium of wealth; on the contrary,
she often took an almost childish pleasure in it. But no one could
guess that, for her bearing was always full of dignity and repose.
People suspected that there was something questionable about her
origin, but as no one could answer questions they left off asking
them. One has so much else to think of in Paris.

She had forgotten her past. She had forgotten it just as we have
forgotten the roses, the ribbons, and faded letters of our youth--
because we never think about them. They lie locked up in a drawer
which we never open. And yet, if we happen now and again to cast a
glance into this secret drawer, we at once notice if a single one
of the roses, or the least bit of ribbon, is wanting. For we
remember them all to a nicety; the memories are ran fresh as ever--
as sweet as ever, and as bitter.

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