Arne; A Sketch of Norwegian Country Life Part 1

Arne; A Sketch of Norwegian Country Life.

by Bjornstjerne Bjornson.

PREFACE.

The story which is here first presented in an English form, is one of Herr Bjornson's best works. In the original, it has already attained a very wide circulation throughout Northern Europe, and is there generally recognized as one of the truest and most beautiful representations of Norwegian life. At the present time, when there is among us a constantly increasing interest in all things pertaining to the Scandinavian nations, this work possesses great claims to attention, not only through its intrinsic merits, but also from the fact that it is one of the very few works which can, in the fullest sense, be termed Norwegian. During the long political union of Norway with Denmark, Norwegian literature was so deeply imbued by Danish thought and feeling, that it could not be considered national. After those political changes in 1814, which placed Norway among the free nations, she strove to take an independent position; and she produced several gifted writers who endeavored to create a national literature; but she had for many years no great works unimpressed with the old Danish stamp. Not till 1857, when a young and comparatively unknown writer published a book called "Synnove Solbakken," can the distinct literary life of Norway be considered to have commenced. That young writer was Bjornstjerne Bjornson. Since the appearance of "Synnove Solbakken," he has produced the present story, a few other short sketches, and several dramatic works. All these productions are, both in subject and style, thoroughly representative of the grand old nation whence they sprang; and they are, moreover, so full of original poetic beauty and descriptive power, that they have stamped their author as one of the greatest writers in Northern Europe.

While presenting this work from one who so well deserves to be known and honored by all, we very much wish we could also present a sketch of his history. But, so far as we have been able to ascertain, there is very little material; for, happily, Herr Bjornson is yet young, and in the midst of his literary career; and therefore only a small part of his life-story can yet be told. We have, however, obtained a few interesting details, princ.i.p.ally from a little sketch in the Danish of Herr Clemens Petersen.

Herr Bjornson is the son of a clergyman; and was born in 1832, at Kvikne, a lonely parish on the Dovre Fjeld. In his earliest years, he was so far from being marked by any unusual degree of mental development, that he was even regarded as "stupid:" he seems to have been at that time merely a strong-limbed, happy, playful little fellow. Whenever he was at home, he constantly made the quiet parsonage a scene of confusion and uproar through his wild play.

"Things," says Herr Petersen, "which had within the memory of man never been moved, were flung down; chairs and tables spun round; and all the girls and boys in the place ran about with him in noisy play; while his mother used to clasp her hands in fright, and declare he must soon be sent off to sea." When, in his twelfth year, he went to school, he appears to have been just as little characterized by any unusual mental development, and just as much by physical activity. He was placed on the lowest form to learn with the little boys. But when he got out-doors into the playground, he was at once among the leaders, and feared n.o.body: on one occasion he soundly thrashed the strongest boy in the whole school. Although, however, no one else at this time saw any promise of his future greatness, he had himself a presentiment of it: deep in the heart of the rough Norwegian school-boy, who seemed to think of little but play, was hidden a purpose to become an author, and even the greatest of all authors.

At the University, Herr Bjornson was as little distinguished by intellectual attainments as at school; and he never pa.s.sed the second part of his examination. He seems, indeed, never to have been a very earnest student of any writings save those "ma.n.u.scripts of G.o.d"

contained in the great volumes of Nature and human society. _These_, few have studied more earnestly, or translated with greater force and beauty.

While studying at the University, Herr Bjornson's literary purposes still remained; and during this time he produced his first drama, "Valburg," though he had then never read one dramatic work through, or been at a theatre more than twice in his life. He sent "Valburg"

to the managers of the theatre at Christiana; and it was accepted.

But as soon as he had been to the theatre a few times, he decided that, in its present state, it was not a fit medium for the expression of his inner life; and he therefore took his piece back before it had been played. For a while afterwards, he devoted a great part of his time to dramatic criticism. He attacked some of the prevalent errors in theatrical affairs with so much force and boldness that he greatly exasperated the orthodox actors and managers, and thus brought down much annoyance upon himself. His criticisms were, however, the means of greatly improving the Norwegian drama, especially by partly releasing it from the undue Danish influence which prevented it from becoming truly national.

Herr Bjornson subsequently abandoned his dramatic criticism, left Christiana, and returned to his father's home in the country. Here he a.s.siduously devoted himself to literary work, but without very satisfactory tangible results. Next, he went back to Christiana, and employed himself in writing for various periodicals, where he inserted a series of short sketches which, although far inferior to his subsequent and more mature productions, bore strong indications of genius, and attracted much attention. But, meanwhile, their n.o.ble young author lived a sad and weary life--depressed by the fear that his best hopes would never be realized--hara.s.sed by pecuniary difficulties, and tormented by the most cruel persecution. Next, he went to Upsala, where he still employed himself upon periodical literature, and had an interval of comparative quiet and happiness.

Thence, he travelled to Hamburg, and afterwards to Copenhagen. Here he remained half a year, living a quiet, studious life, and a.s.sociating with some of the most eminent men in the city. "Those days," said he, "were the best I ever had." Certainly, they were very fruitful ones. In them he produced one complete work, parts of several others, and the first half of "Synnove Solbakken," the tale which was destined to place him in the foremost rank of Scandinavian writers. It is a remarkable fact that shortly before he left Copenhagen with all this heap of wealth, he had pa.s.sed through a crisis of such miserable depression that he was just about to abandon literary labor for ever, through a sense of utter unfitness to perform it.

From Copenhagen, Herr Bjornson returned to Norway, and was for two years manager of the theatre at Bergen, occupying most of the time in the training of actors. Thence he went, with his young wife, again to Christiana, where he for some months edited _Aftenbladet_, one of the leading Norwegian journals.

Relative to Herr Bjornson's subsequent life and labors, there is but very little available information.

Of our own part in the following pages, we have but to say we have earnestly endeavored to deal faithfully and reverently with Herr Bjornson's work, and to render nearly every pa.s.sage as fully and literally as the construction of the two languages permits. The only exceptions are two very short, and comparatively very unimportant pa.s.sages, which we have ventured to omit, because we believed they would render the book less acceptable to English readers.

London, June, 1866.

ARNE.

I.

HOW THE CLIFF WAS CLAD.

Between two cliffs lay a deep ravine, with a full stream rolling heavily through it over boulders and rough ground. It was high and steep, and one side was bare, save at the foot, where cl.u.s.tered a thick, fresh wood, so close to the stream that the mist from the water lay upon the foliage in spring and autumn. The trees stood looking upwards and forwards, unable to move either way.

"What if we were to clothe the Cliff?" said the Juniper one day to the foreign Oak that stood next him. The Oak looked down to find out who was speaking, and then looked up again without answering a word.

The Stream worked so hard that it grew white; the Northwind rushed through the ravine, and shrieked in the fissures; and the bare Cliff hung heavily over and felt cold. "What if we were to clothe the Cliff?" said the Juniper to the Fir on the other side. "Well, if anybody is to do it, I suppose we must," replied the Fir, stroking his beard; "what dost thou think?" he added, looking over to the Birch. "In G.o.d's name, let us clothe it," answered the Birch, glancing timidly towards the Cliff, which hung over her so heavily that she felt as if she could scarcely breathe. And thus, although they were but three, they agreed to clothe the Cliff. The Juniper went first.

When they had gone a little way they met the Heather. The Juniper seemed as though he meant to pa.s.s her by. "Nay, let us take the Heather with us," said the Fir. So on went the Heather. Soon the Juniper began to slip. "Lay hold on me," said the Heather. The Juniper did so, and where there was only a little crevice the Heather put in one finger, and where she had got in one finger the Juniper put in his whole hand. They crawled and climbed, the Fir heavily behind with the Birch. "It is a work of charity," said the Birch.

But the Cliff began to ponder what little things these could be that came clambering up it. And when it had thought over this a few hundred years, it sent down a little Brook to see about it. It was just spring flood, and the Brook rushed on till she met the Heather.

"Dear, dear Heather, canst thou not let me pa.s.s? I am so little,"

said the Brook. The Heather, being very busy, only raised herself a little, and worked on. The Brook slipped under her, and ran onwards.

"Dear, dear Juniper, canst thou not let me pa.s.s? I am so little,"

said the Brook. The Juniper glanced sharply at her; but as the Heather had let her pa.s.s, he thought he might do so as well. The Brook slipped under him, and ran on till she came where the Fir stood panting on a crag. "Dear, dear Fir, canst thou not let me pa.s.s? I am so little," the Brook said, fondly kissing the Fir on his foot. The Fir felt bashful and let her pa.s.s. But the Birch made way before the Brook asked. "He, he, he," laughed the Brook, as she grew larger.

"Ha, ha, ha," laughed the Brook again, pus.h.i.+ng Heather and Juniper, Fir and Birch, forwards and backwards, up and down on the great crags. The Cliff sat for many hundred years after, pondering whether it did not smile a little that day.

It was clear the Cliff did not wish to be clad. The Heather felt so vexed that she turned green again, and then she went on. "Never mind; take courage!" said the Heather.

The Juniper sat up to look at the Heather, and at last he rose to his feet. He scratched his head a moment, and then he too went on again, and clutched so firmly, that he thought the Cliff could not help feeling it. "If thou wilt not take me, then I will take thee," said he. The Fir bent his toes a little to feel if they were whole, lifted one foot, which he found all right, then the other, which was all right too, and then both feet. He first examined the path he had come, then where he had been lying, and at last where he had to go.

Then he strode onwards, just as though he had never fallen. The Birch had been splashed very badly, but now she got up and made herself tidy. And so they went rapidly on, upwards and sidewards, in suns.h.i.+ne and rain. "But what in the world is all this?" said the Cliff, when the summer sun shone, the dew-drops glittered, the birds sang, the wood-mouse squeaked, the hare bounded, and the weasel hid and screamed among the trees.

Then the day came when the Heather could peep over the Cliff's edge.

"Oh, dear me!" said she, and over she went. "What is it the Heather sees, dear?" said the Juniper, and came forwards till he, too, could peep over. "Dear me!" he cried, and over he went. "What's the matter with the Juniper to-day?" said the Fir, taking long strides in the hot sun. Soon he, too, by standing on tiptoes could peep over.

"Ah!"--every branch and p.r.i.c.kle stood on end with astonishment. He strode onwards, and over he went. "What is it they all see, and not I?" said the Birch, lifting up her skirts, and tripping after. "Ah!"

said she, putting her head over, "there is a whole forest, both of Fir and Heather, and Juniper and Birch, waiting for us on the plain;"

and her leaves trembled in the suns.h.i.+ne till the dew-drops fell.

"This comes of reaching forwards," said the Juniper.

II.

A CLOUDY DAWN.

Arne was born upon the mountain plain.

His mother's name was Margit, and she was the only child at the farm, Kampen. In her eighteenth year she once stayed too long at a dancing party. The friends she came with had left, and then she thought the way homewards would be just the same whether she stayed over another dance or not. So it came to pa.s.s that she was still sitting there when the fiddler, Nils, the tailor, laid aside his violin and asked another man to play. He then took out the prettiest girl to dance, his feet keeping as exact time as the music to a song, while with his bootheel he kicked off the hat of the tallest man there. "Ho!" he said.

As Margit walked home that night, the moonbeams played upon the snow with such strange beauty, that after she had gone up to her bedchamber she felt she must look out at them once more. She took off her bodice, but remained standing with it in her hand. Then she felt chilly, undressed herself hastily, and crouched far down beneath the fur coverlet. That night she dreamed of a great red cow which had gone astray in the corn-fields. She wished to drive it out, but however much she tried, she could not move from the spot; and the cow stood quietly, and went on eating till it grew plump and satisfied, from time to time looking over to her with its large, mild eyes.

The next time there was a dance in the parish, Margit was there. She sat listening to the music, and cared little for the dancing that night; and she was glad somebody else, too, cared no more for it than she did. But when it grew later the fiddler, Nils, the tailor, rose, and wished to dance. He went straight over and took out Margit, and before she well knew what she was doing she danced with him.

Soon the weather turned warmer, and there was no more dancing. That spring Margit took so much care of a little sick lamb, that her mother thought her quite foolish. "It's only a lamb, after all," said the mother. "Yes; but it's sick," answered Margit.

It was a long time since Margit had been to church; somebody must stay at home, she used to say, and she would rather let the mother go. One Sunday, however, later in the summer, the weather seemed so fine that the hay might very well be left over that day and night, the mother said, and she thought both of them might go. Margit had nothing to say against it, and she went to dress herself. But when they had gone far enough to hear the church bells, she suddenly burst into tears. The mother grew deadly pale; yet they went on to church, heard the sermon and prayers, sang all the hymns, and let the last sound of the bells die away before they left. But when they were seated at home again, the mother took Margit's face between her hands, and said, "Keep back nothing from me, my child!"

When another winter came Margit did not dance. But Nils, the tailor, played and drank more than ever, and always danced with the prettiest girl at every party. People then said, in fact, he might have had any one of the first girls in the parish for his wife if he chose; and some even said that Eli Boen had himself made an offer for his daughter, Birgit, who had quite fallen in love with him.

But just at that time an infant born at Kampen was baptized, and received the name, Arne; but Nils, the tailor, was said to be its father.