Essays on Scandinavian Literature | Page 4

and spruce and birch of
the Norwegian highlands.
It had been the fashion in Norway since the nation regained its
independence to interest one's self in a lofty, condescending way in the
life of the peasantry. A few well-meaning persons, like the poet
Wergeland, had labored zealously for their enlightenment and the
improvement of their economic condition; but, except in the case of
such single individuals, no real and vital sympathy and fellow-feeling
had ever existed between the upper and the lower strata of Norwegian
society. And as long as the fellow-feeling is wanting, this zeal for
enlightenment, however laudable its motive, is not apt to produce
lasting results. The peasants view with distrust and suspicion whatever
comes to them from their social superiors, and the so-called "useful
books," which were scattered broadcast over the land, were of a
tediously didactic character, and, moreover, hardly adapted to the
comprehension of those to whom they were ostensibly addressed.
Wergeland himself, with all his self-sacrificing ardor, had but a vague
conception of 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 and instruct them. It hardly occurred to him that the culture of
which he and his colleagues were the representatives was itself a
foreign importation, and could not by any violent process be ingrafted
upon the national trunk, which drew its strength from centuries of
national life, history, and tradition. That this peasantry, whom the
bourgeoisie and the aristocracy of culture had been wont to regard with
half-pitying condescension, were the real representatives of the Norse
nation; that they had preserved through long years of tyranny and

foreign oppression the historic characteristics of their Norse forefathers,
while the upper classes had gone in search of strange gods, and bowed
their necks to the foreign yoke; that in their veins the old strong
saga-life was still throbbing with vigorous pulse-beats--this was the
lesson which Björnson undertook to teach his countrymen, and a very
fruitful lesson it has proved to be. It has inspired the people with
renewed courage, it has turned the national life into fresh channels, and
it has revolutionized national politics.
To be sure all this was not the result of the idyllic little tale which
marked the beginning of his career. But this little tale, although no trace
of what the Germans call "tendency" is to be found in it, is still
significant as being the poet's first indirect manifesto, and as such
distinctly foreshadowing the path which he has since followed.
First, in its purely literary aspect, "Synnöve Solbakken" was strikingly
novel. The author did not, as his predecessors had done, view the
people from the exalted pedestal of superior culture; not as a subject for
benevolent preaching and charitable condescension, but as a concrete
phenomenon, whose raison d'étre was as absolute and indisputable as
that of the bourgeoisie or the bureaucracy itself. He depicted their
soul-struggles and the incidents of their daily life with a loving
minuteness and a vivid realism hitherto unequalled in the literature of
the North. He did not, like Auerbach, construct his peasant figures
through laborious reflection, nor did he attempt by anxious
psychological analysis to initiate the reader into their processes of
thought and emotion. He simply depicted them as he saw and knew
them. Their feelings and actions have their immediate, self-evident
motives in the characters themselves, and the absence of analysis on the
author's part gives an increased energy and movement to the story.
Mr. Nordahl Rolfsen relates, à propos of the reception which was
accorded Björnson's first book, the following amusing anecdote:
"'Synnöve Solbakken' was printed, and its author was anxious to have
his friends read it. But not one of them could be prevailed upon. At last
a comrade was found who was persuaded to attack it on the promise of
a bottle of punch. He entered Björnson's den, got a long pipe which he

filled with tobacco, undressed himself completely--for it was a hot
day--flung himself on the bed, and began to read. Björnson sat in the
sofa, breathless with expectation. Leaf after leaf was turned; not a smile,
not a single encouraging word! The young poet had good reason to
regard the battle as lost. At last the pipe, the bottle, and the book were
finished. Then the merciless Stoic rose and began to dress, and the
following 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 not
have been consciously modelled after the saga style, to which, however,
it bears an obvious resemblance. In his early childhood, while he lived
among the peasants, he became familiar