ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{Master-Spirits 1873}

(Scandinavian Studies continued)

                                                                                                                                                             247

III.

BJÖRNSON’S MASTERPIECE.

WHILE German literature darkens under the malignant star of Teutonism, while French Art, sickening of its long disease, crawls like a Leper through the light and wholesome world, while all over the European continent one wan influence or another asserts, its despair-engendering sway over books and men, whither shall a bewildered student fly for one deep breath of pure air and wholesome ozone? Goethe and Heine have sung their best—and worst. Alfred de Musset is dead, and Victor Hugo is turned politician. Grillparzer is still a mystery, thanks partly to the darkening medium of Carlyle’s hostile criticism. From the ashes of Teutonic transcendentalism rises Wagner like a phœnix,—a bird too uncommon for ordinary comprehension, but to all intents and purposes an anomaly at best. One tires of anomalies, one sickens of politics, one shudders at the petticoat literature first created at Weimar; and looking east and west, ranging with a true invalid’s hunger the literary horizon, one searches for something more natural, for some form of indigenous and unadorned loveliness, wherewith ‘to fleet the time pleasantly, as ²⁴⁸ they did in the golden world.’ That something may be found, without travelling very far. Turn northward, in the footsteps of Teufelsdrochk, traversing the great valleys of Scandinavia, and not halting until, like the philosopher, you look upon ‘that slowly heaving Polar Ocean, over which in the utmost north the great Sun hangs low.’ Quiet and peaceful lies Norway yet, as in the world’s morning. The flocks of summer tourists alight upon her shores, and scatter themselves to their numberless stations, without disturbing the peaceful serenity of her social life. Towns are few and far between; railways scarcely exist. The government is a virtual democracy, such as would gladden the heart of Gambetta; the Swedish monarch’s rule over Norway being merely titular. There are no hereditary nobles. There is no ‘gag’ on the press. Science and poetry alike flourish on this free soil. The science is grand as Nature herself, cosmic as well as microscopic. The poetry is fresh, light, and pellucid, worthy of the race, and altogether free from Parisian taint.
     It is quite beyond our present purpose to attempt a sketch of modern Scandinavian poetry, interesting and useful as such a sketch would be. Our object is much simpler,—to treat of a single work by one of the most eminent of living Norwegian authors. A number of years ago, when we first began to interest ourselves in Scandinavian literature, we had the pleasure of introducing to public notice the works of a poet whose name has since then become tolerably familiar in this country as a writer of charming pastoral tales. The lovely idyls of ²⁴⁹ ‘Arne’ and ‘Övind’ have of late years been rendered by more than one hand into English; and who that has read them can forget the wild little songs with which they are broken here and there—songs such as ‘Ingerid Sletten of Willow Pool,’ light as the gleam of sunrise on the mountains, and pure as the morning dew? But Björnson is something more than even the finest pastoral taleteller of this generation. He is a dramatist of extraordinary power. He does not possess the power of imaginative fancy shown by Wergeland (in such pieces as ‘Jan van Huysums Blomsterstykke’), nor Welhaven’s refinement of phrase, nor the wild melodious abandon of his greatest rival, the author of ‘Peer Gynt;’ but, to our thinking at least, he stands as a poet in a far higher rank than any of these writers. Many of his countrymen, however, prefer Ibsen.
     Of the dramatic works from Björnson’s pen with which we are familiar ‘Mellem Slagene,’ ‘Halte Hulde,’ ‘Kong Sverre,’ and ‘Marie Stuart i Skotland’—one is of such extreme superiority that we propose to confine our attention, during the present article, to it alone. It has seemed to us that to give as briefly and as vividly as we can a sketch of the subject, with here and there a glimpse of the characters and the dialogue, will better than any amount of mere criticism enable the uninformed reader to gain a proper conception of Björnson’s dramatic quality. A complete translation would doubtless be best, but that being neither expedient nor profitable to the translator, must be resigned to some more favoured mortal. The play in question is entitled ‘Sigurd ²⁵⁰ Slembe;’ it was published at Copenhagen in 1863; ¹ and it is, besides being the masterpiece of its author, a drama of which any living European author might be justly proud.
     ‘Sigurd Slembe,’ or ‘Sigurd the Bastard,’ lived in Norway (according to the dramatist) in the stormy days of the twelfth century, when the kingdom was troubled with numberless petty dissensions, when every chieftain fought for his own hand, and every youth of spirit had the chance of ending his days as a petty king. The first part of the play—entitled ‘Sigurd’s First Flight’—opens in Stavanger Church, and as the scene begins, Sigurd enters, casts down his cap, and kneels at the altar, before the image of St. Olaf. ‘Now shalt thou hearken, O holy Olaf!’ he exclaims triumphantly. ‘I have this day overthrown Bejntejn! Bejntejn was the strongest man in the country; and now—’tis I!’ Then, after enumerating the advantages of such a championship, he adds, with delightful naïveté:—

And for all this, I have myself to thank!
Thou, Olaf, hast not helped me in the least.
I bade thee tell me who my father was,
But thou wert silent.

Therein lies, the bitter wound of Sigurd’s life. He is of mysterious birth, and the people style him base-born. When he would contest with young men of his age at leaping or wrestling, they call him opprobrious names, and bid him depart. He is shame-stricken at every

—    ¹ ‘Sigurd Slembe.’ Af Björnsterne Björnson (Copenhagen, 1863).    —

²⁵¹ step. And for all this, he thinks, Saint Olaf is to blame. All have kinsmen, save only he; yet he is the equal of any man. Only give him lineage and—ships, and he will force himself a kingdom somewhere or other, as the Knight Baldwin and many other similar adventurers had done before him! We have here, at the very beginning of the play, a perfect glimpse of the fierce, proud, untried temper, the simple manliness, and the wonderful physical strength of Sigurd. As the play advances, the leading figure grows imperceptibly upon our attention, until it seems to assume colossal proportions and to exercise an almost supernatural fascination.
     Thora, the mother of Sigurd, enters the church, accompanied by a chieftain, Koll Sœbjörnson. These two chide him for facing the best champion in the land, aver that his pre-eminence will be attended with danger, and that, moreover, all he gets for his pains is, not the usual song of praise, but a nickname. ‘Then name my father,’ he cries, ‘and the song will come!’

     Thora. Thy sire is Adelbrekt!
     Sigurd. I believe it not.
He said in anger, that I was another’s.
     Thora. In anger, yes!
     Sigurd. ’Tis then men speak the truth! . . .
It matters not, since ’tis not infamy!
     Thora. But it is infamy.
     Sigurd. I am no Thrall;
That I can feel; and thou art Saxé’s daughter.
     Thora. Ah, there is other shame than slavish birth!

A stormy scene ensues. Thora pleads and pleads for ²⁵² concealment. Sigurd still insists on knowing her secret, and at last, with fiery determination, threatens to quit home for the sea, and to bury his shame afar. This threat rends the mother’s heart, and she confesses, with many tears and protestations, the terrible secret.

My father from his threshold drave me forth
With thee, who just wert born. My sister stood
At the high casement, casting clothes to us,
With shrieks and curses—and she died of sorrow.
So now, thou know’st it; thou art basely born
In blood-shame!
Thy father, Sigurd, was my sister’s husband!
Was Norway’s king,—he was King Magnus Barefoot!
     Koll (rising). King Magnus!
     Thora.                                      Yea!
     Sigurd (before Saint Olaf’s image—with emphasis): ~
                                         Then are we two aken!

Sigurd receives the intelligence with little or no surprise; albeit, as he expresses it, it ‘opens the whole world to him.’ A moment afterwards he is striding away, when Thora calls him back.

Whither goest thou?
     Sigurd. To the King, my brother!
For he shall straightway give me half the realm.
     Thora. O what a thought!
     Koll. Art thou in thy right reason?
     Sigurd. The King is basely born. His brother also,
With whom he shared the realm, was basely born.
And many Kings; for mark, St. Olaf’s law
Makes no distinctions. I too have the right
To be a King.
     Koll.                    O softly, softly, friend!
     Sigurd. Our patrimony shall be shared between us.                                                        253
     Koll. He who is powerful shares not willingly!
     Sigurd. With Ejntejn shared he, and with Olaf also.
     Koll. But he is aged now, and hath a son!

The scene, a very long one, proceeds with stormy power, Sigurd still insisting on seeing the King and in urging his birthright by fair means or by force; but at last the protestations of Koll and his mother deter him from plunging the country into civil war. ‘My son,’ exclaims Thora, ‘remain here in peace;’ but Sigurd cries wildly, ‘Never! never!’

What, shall I begging stand at mine own board!
What, shall I waiting stand in mine own court!
Shall I the stirrup for my brother hold,
And stand aside, while he rides proudly forth
I’ the hunt, and for dismissal his swift steed
Besprinkles me with mire? . . . O cursed thoughts!
Still whirling, like the dust-cloud round his helm—
They choke, they smother me,—I see them rise! . . .
O mother, mother, wherefore did’st thou speak?

He hides his face and casts himself on the floor. At that moment the voices of Pilgrims are heard, singing within the Church:—

         The earth is beauteous,
         Beauteous is God’s heaven,
Beauteous the Soul as it fares along;
         Through the blessed
         Earthly kingdoms,
Go we to Paradise with song. ¹

—    ¹ The original song is by Ingemann, and is rhymed or unrhymed as in the translation. It is impossible to reproduce in English its peculiar lyric charm.     —

²⁵⁴ The song comes to Sigurd like a voice from Heaven. Ever impulsive and ready to act on the inspiration of the moment, he springs up, crying, ‘To Jerusalem!’ He, too, taking the path whereby Tancred, Baldwin, and Robert came to glory, will go crusading to Palestine. Very striking here is Sigurd’s mood, as an illustration of the purely business-like spirit which sent so many forth on pilgrimage. The Cross is a shelter for his indomitable pride, that is all; he has no delicate religious feeling.

Hark, the Mass washes o’er the church’s walls,
The Bishop at the altar lifts the Host,
The Priests hold forth the consecrated Cross!

Sigurd rushes forth to join them, leaving Thora in piteous lamentation,—for her child, she dreams, is lost to her for ever. A short scene ensues; and then we again catch sight of Sigurd, standing on a height near the sea, while the Pilgrim-ships lie in a bight below, ready to hoist sail. The man’s heart is full of wild exultation. He has the command of a ship, he is about to sail away, and now for the first time he lives indeed. Sadly the mother enters. He runs to her, garrulously expressing his delight.

Look at the dawn which shines around us—see!
With colours clear it paints my leave-taking,
And giveth promise of a glorious day.
What fragrance sheddeth here the morning weather,
How fresh the lift ¹ is and how high the heaven,

—    ¹ Luft in the original; whence, indeed, the exquisite word so common in our own ballads.     —

And never do I mind me of a day                                                                                        255
When I could see so far out on the Deep!
The breeze which blows thro’ all and strikes my cheek
So softly, saith it not into mine ear,
From air, from sea, from dawn, from the sweet weather:
Luck to thy journey, Sigurd Magnusson!

It is clear enough that no mere domestic affection could fetter a soul like this. Sigurd has a boy’s heart, is full of headstrong and sanguine spirit. He kisses her and departs, leaving her seated on the rock, weeping. Here the curtain falls on Sigurd’s First Flight.
     There is a lapse of five years. The curtain rises on another scene: Katanoes (or Caithness) in Scotland. A change takes place in the form of the dialogue. The opening act is written in blank verse, not much more polished than that of our translation; but all the following scenes are in prose—that strong simple Prose, full of short natural sentences, which Björnson wields with such effect in his tales, and which here, as elsewhere, is much more effective than Verse of any kind.
     Two women are seated in a lofty hall, sewing, and hearkening to the roar of a storm. One is Helga, mother to Harald, Earl of Caithness, ‘also (as the list of characters explains) Earl of a portion of the Orkneys, but driven out from the latter possessions by his Co-regent and brother.’ The other is Frakark, aunt of Harald and sister of Helga: an evil woman, as will be seen in the sequel. Frakark is at work on a red shirt or jerkin, embroidered with gold and gems. ‘To-day,’ says Helga, in the pause of the wind; ‘to-day, Svenn ²⁵⁶ Viking comes from Orkney.’ ‘What tidings,’ asks Frakark, ‘dost thou think he will bring?’ ‘No good,’ answers Helga. The scene continues:—

     Helga. It is this day nigh three years since we were forth-driven . . . We have no one to help us!
     Frakark. Daily the Vikings are coming home from their summer cruise. With so many brave men somethig could be carried out.
     Helga. But they have no leader!
     Frakark. A word in thine ear: during the last few days I have bethought me of one. (The sisters look at each other.) What cravest thou in a leader?
     Helga. High birth.
     Frakark. That I think he hath.
     Helga. He must be a stranger.
     Frakark. Wherefore?
     Helga. A leader with full power might be dangerous; he must therefore stand free, without kinsmen, without friends.
     Frakark. So stands he, and so did I think.
     Helga. Hast thou moreover the means whereby we can win him to us?
     Frakark. There is only one bond which holds fast—gain!
     Helga. He could gain more by treachery; for Earl Paul hath more treasure than Harald.
     Frakark. Knowest thou any other means?
     Helga. That do I.—But knowest thou the Man?
     Frakark. What thinkest thou of the Man who came here fourteen days ago?
     Helga. From Scotland?
     Frakark. Yes.
     Helga. Good.
     Frakark. Him mean I!
     Helga. I have thought the same since the first day I saw him; but I would not be the first to say so. (Rises.)
²⁵⁷ Frakark (also rising). What sign did’st thou take, Helga?
     Helga. I have never before been so afraid of any man!

We know by instinct that they are speaking of Sigurd. After proceeding to describe his proud bearing and solitary ways, they determine that he is a man of high birth, worth winning, and Frakark proposes to sound him forthwith. Here Helga interferes with an objection—that they must first consult her son the Earl. At this moment an old retainer enters with startling intelligence. ‘Your niece Audhild is still abroad. . . . She went out yesterday; a day has now passed. Despite the storm hath she not come home; her maidens dared say nought, but waited; old Kaare has since gone forth with many men, but she is not found.’ In the midst of the piteous exclamations to which the news gives rise, Audhild herself appears. Her entrance is characteristic. She walks in silently, and to all the questions of her mother and aunt, answers in monosyllables. ‘Where hast thou been?’ ‘Out.’ ‘Where didst thou sleep last night?’ ‘I did not sleep.’ They warn her eagerly against the danger of so exposing herself to the attacks of the wild Vikings who overrun the country. But she smiles, and holds up a little knife with a picture of the Holy Virgin on the blade. ‘She can win the stranger,’ cries Helga to Frakark, and the two women proceed forthwith to sound the girl’s feelings. We are not long left in doubt that Audhild has already admired the stranger from a distance.
     After a short scene between Helga and Frakark, in ²⁵⁸ which we have still darker glimpses of the character of the latter, Earl Harald enters, accompanied by a boy, Svenn Aslejvsson, who is his invariable companion. The character of Harald is singularly original, though in one or two of its touches it reminds us of Hamlet. A big, simple-hearted, peace-loving man, sick of the machinations for ever weaving around him, preferring the light prattle of Svenn and the barking of his hounds to the company of men; such is Harald the Earl. He appears characteristically; sending first Svenn to peep and ascertain if the two women are gone, and then entering with one loathing look at the retreating figure of Frakark. He compares his aunt to a captive wolf, and Svenn vows the resemblance would be perfect if the wolf ‘had a head-dress on.’ From childhood upwards, he has ever found the counsels of that woman to be fraught with evil. They have corrupted the heart of his mother, alienated him from his brother, plunged his people again and again into wretched intestine broils. He would kill her, if he could, he thinks; and he listens darkly while Svenn details the various means of killing and torturing ‘the wolf’ they have captured, for the beast is to him an image of the evil woman. The scene proceeds:

     Harald. What is that? Is it the storm?
     Svenn. No, it is shouting. (Climbs up to the window.) It is Svenn Viking with all his men! Now he is come!
     Harald. That’s it! The stranger has his place at bed and board—there will be blows at the court, Svenn.
     Svenn. Who’ll win, think you?
²⁵⁹ Harald. Svenn Viking will win. I cannot bear the stranger;—and thou?
     Svenn. I hate all here.
     Harald. Well, let them both be slain, and we shall be quit of both . . . Lovest thou Svenn Viking?
     Svenn. Nay, nay!
     Harald. Nor I either . . . O Svenn, if I dared!
     Svenn. What would’st thou do?
     Harald. Never mind. But one thing methinks I shall dare to do, if this lasts long.
     Svenn. What is that?
     Harald. Die!
     Svenn. But,—dear Jarl!
     Harald (seated). Tell me of Sigurd Jorsalfarer!
     Svenn. For ever harping on him!
     Harald. He is a great leader, Svenn.
     Svenn. He was; but now he is mad.
     Harald. By what means, thinkest thou, grew he mad?
     Svenn. There came a Fish to him in the bathing tub.
     Harald. Hm, hm!—Know’st thou what Fish it was?
     Svenn. Fish?
     Harald. ’Tis an evil thought, through which one cannot sleep.
     Svenn. Think no more of that, Jarl. Let us do something else—let us sing.
     Harald. Yes, little Svenn, let us sing.
     Svenn. Of the king without land and queen, &c. . . . Jarl, there comes thy mother.
     Harald. So! I shall find peace no longer!

     Helga enters, and is received by her son much in the mood of Hamlet the Dane. She shows him a fair cap she has been embroidering for him, and while taking it, he remarks that it would look well on a dead head. ²⁶⁰ Their interview is very long and very sad. Harald finally demands to know why his mother has sought him, for he has come to associate her presence with some secret influence of his aunt. ‘He asks only one little thing to be left in peace!’ She informs him that Svenn Viking has arrived with a message from his brother the Earl, and that he must hear and answer it. He is at first angry. ‘I sent no message to my brother; I have done nothing, I will hear nothing.’ But he yields as usual, and forthwith Svenn Viking appears, accompanied by Frakark. ‘Too many wolves to one hound!’ mutters the Jarl, seated; while the boy Svenn nestles on a footstool at his feet.
     Svenn Viking delivers his message with little ceremony. It proposes a meeting between the two brothers, for the adjustment of all quarrels; and it adds one strong condition,—that Harald must come to the meeting alone, without his mother or his aunt. Frakark storms and Helga pleads, to Harald’s pain and astonishment. ‘Was Thorkel Fostre at hand,’ asks Frakark, sneeringly, ‘when Paul gave this answer?’ ‘From Thorkel it came,’ replies Svenn; adding, ‘He said that Frakark and Helga had for twenty years kept the Orkneys in broil; that through them the Earl’s father had striven after the single dominion, and slain Magnus, Thorkel Fostre’s kinsman; that they, and only they, now kept the brothers asunder, for their only thought was to place the whole sway in the hands of the one.’ Frakark’s comment is ominous—‘So long as Thorkel Fostre lives, there will be no peace.’
²⁶¹   Svenn Viking, having delivered his message, now touches on his own private concerns, and protests that, during his absence as ambassador, the head place at court, usually occupied by him, has been given to a stranger; and he strides forth to adjust the matter in the way best known to men in that stormy period. His meeting with Sigurd takes place without, but is witnessed from the stage. ‘The stranger springs in on him like a cat, throws himself down with him, himself under, and with legs and hands against his breast, whips him over his head, many yards away,—then springs up himself, draws his sword, and holds it at his throat.’ The enthusiasm is great. ‘Audhild,’ says Frakark, to her niece, ‘go forth and call him in;’ adding to Helga, ‘This man was born for a leader; now shall Earl Paul get his answer.’ Meantime, some striking by-play is going on between Earl Harald and the boy. ‘Svenn, fetch the chess-board. Let us play the game where the kings stand still, and the women take the lead.’
     Sigurd enters. Frakark and Helga question him of his birth and antecedents, and offer him the leadership. He is reticent, but his very reticence strengthens the impression. This scene is in the highest degree dramatic; the ‘asides’ of Harald and Svenn, as they play at chess, forming a strange comment on the main dialogue. ‘Now am I sold, little Svenn!’ The Earl rises to go, when they are about to call in the people. ‘Say I am sick; thou wilt not be so far from the truth!’ and accompanied by his little companion, he gloomily retires. It is to be remarked that Helga throughout is ²⁶² anxious not to ignore the wishes of her son, but is constantly over-ruled by the headstrong spirit of Frakark. Before the scene ends, Sigurd shows a letter from David King of Scotland, recommending him to the leadership. ‘Why hast thou not given us this before?’ asks Frakark; and Sigurd’s reply is characteristic: ‘I wished first to know all here—that was not done in a day.’
     The first Act of ‘Sigurd’s Second Flight’ ends with a striking tableau. Frakark, in a brief speech, recommends Sigurd to the rude mob of warriors, and they receive him enthusiastically,—even the discomfited Svenn Viking casting in his vote with the rest. ‘Many here,’ cries an old warrior, ‘have in former days followed the noble chief Magnus Barefoot. Him thou resemblest, as one drop of water resembles another, and therefore do we long to follow thee.’ Another old man exclaims, ‘Aye! he resembles him who bore the wolf on his red jerkin;’ and the men assembled add in chorus, ‘He is a son of Magnus!’
     The second Act opens in Orkney, and finds Sigurd Slembe and Svenn Viking on excellent terms together. Thorkel Fostre has been murdered by the instrumentality of Frakark, and the great heart of Sigurd sickens at such treachery. ‘I will straightway depart!’ cries the Norseman. ‘Remain, rather, and take thy land,’ returns Svenn; adding, that the Orkneys properly belong to Norway, and are the fitting home of Magnus Barefoot’s son. Sigurd indignantly refuses. We have speedily a fine scene between Sigurd and Audhild. The leader has a slight flesh-wound, and the maiden binds and ²⁶³ dresses it. Sigurd apprises her of the murder of Thorkel, and expresses his intention of deserting a cause stained by so foul a crime. Audhild pleads for her kindred,—for Helga and for Harald, who is very sick. Sigurd hesitates, and strides forth to commune with his men. Next, in a wild dialogue, Frakark avows to Helga her responsibility for Thorkel’s assassination; but is interrupted by Audhild, who enters wildly, crying: ‘Helga, Helga, take Harald and fly—the men will not long serve thee—some will to Earl Paul, others will follow Sigurd. . . . When Sigurd entered, they received him as a king. . . . the monks shrieked of fratricide and Hell,—and many cried, Svenn Viking loudest of all, that Sigurd must take the lead!’ ‘My son! my son!’ shrieks Helga, affrighted. Immediately thereupon, Sigurd’s voice is heard without. ‘Ye who watch by the fjörd, mark each sail that comes; ye who stand by the door, let none through, out or in, without my bidding.’ He enters fiercely, facing the women. Sigurd insists on an immediate treaty of peace being concluded with Earl Paul, whose ships are at hand. ‘Hast thou the heart to forget him who sitteth sick in his chamber?’ asks the mother; but Sigurd retorts briefly, ‘Ye have done evil enough!’ He goes to the table to write out the treaty, but suddenly remembering his wounded hand, cries to Audhild, ‘You must help me!’ ‘I?’ exclaims the maiden; ‘I have only been used to write for myself.’ ‘Her handwriting is not good enough to be used,’ says Frakark; but Sigurd, aware of Frakark’s own deficiency in that respect, retorts: ‘Of that one is no fit judge who ²⁶⁴ is herself unable to read!’ He orders the elder women to withdraw, and is left alone with Audhild. Audhild sits down to write.

     Sigurd. ‘In the holy Trinity’s name we make the following pact, which we desire to have ratified by the Norse King.’
     Audhild. The Norse King?
     Sigurd. The feudal pact must be sworn again; therein lies the only safety. [Audhild writes.
     Sigurd (aside). But do not these two brethren love each other? I must prove, what the women have ne’er proved; and they have hardly proved that!
     Audhild. ‘The Norse King?’
     Sigurd. ‘We will rule the Isles together, and dwell together in our freehold—with one power.’
     Audhild (half rising). Together, and with one power?
     Sigurd. Apart, they have ever been unlucky. (Audhild looks at him, writes; he continues aside:) But they who only prompt evil must begone,—yea she must begone.
     Audhild. ‘With one power.’
     Sigurd. ‘All who had share in Thorkel Fostre’s death are banished the Isles for ever.’
     Audhild. And Frakark?
     Sigurd. Aye; ’tis she I mean (Audhild writes]. But the mother may remain. She must be wiser now. (Pause.)
     Audhild.—‘for ever.’ No, no, you must not see!
     Sigurd. Indeed, I must see!
     Audhild. But remember, I have hitherto only written for myself.
     Sigurd. Clear and free. Add now: ‘Sigurd of Norway, surnamed the Bastard, is banished the Isles for ever.’
     Audhild. Jesus! but wherefore?
     Sigurd. Both Earls wish it. Without this condition they have no faith in the pact.

²⁶⁵   Sigurd is struggling between two feelings—love and duty. Aware that the supreme power is his if he likes to take it, he has nevertheless determined to depart—as before, with the pilgrims to Jerusalem. After Audhild has written so far, he falls into a brown study, listening to a still small voice which bids him seize the earldom.

     Audhild. I am ready.
                     [Sigurd looks at the paper and puts his finger on it.
     Audhild. Have I forgot anything?
     Sigurd. Yea—‘surnamed the Bastard;’ but since you have forgotten it, it shall not be written down.

     Sigurd still reiterating his determination to leave the Orkneys, Audhild offers him as a souvenir the little dagger her father brought from Jerusalem. ‘And so may God go with thee,’ she says, moving away.

     Sigurd. Are you going?
     Audhild. Yes . . .
     Sigurd. But not directly?
     Audhild. There is no more to say.
     Sigurd. But after all we have scarce spoken to each other?
     Audhild. ’Tis best, I think, we should not speak together any more.
     Sigurd. What did you say?
     Audhild. Nothing. (Going.)
     Sigurd. Audhild!
     Audhild. Farewell!
     Sigurd. Audhild!
     Audhild. Sigurd! (She leaps two steps towards him, and flings her arms around his neck; then, as if recovering from stupor) What have I done?
     Sigurd. I know not; but I have become in one moment blesseder than I thought possible in life.
²⁶⁶ Audhild. You must depart.
     Sigurd. Not now!
     Audhild. Your brother pilgrims?
     Sigurd. I know them not.
     Audhild. Your plans?
     Sigurd. I remember them not.
     Audhild. God in heaven, then I am happy! {Embrace.)
     Sigurd. Audhild!
     Audhild. Sigurd!
     Sigurd. Once more, Audhild.
     Audhild. Sigurd!—Heavenly powers, thou lovest me!
     Sigurd. Look at me!
     Audhild. I do naught else.
     Sigurd. Thou art weeping.
     Audhild. I cannot help it.
     Sigurd. Let me kiss thee!
     Audhild. Yea! (He kisses her.}
     Sigurd. Can this end?
     Audhild. Nay; while I clasp thee.
     Sigurd. Then loosen thy hair, and bind me.
     Audhild. Is it, then, thee I clasp?
     Sigurd. O yea!
     Audhild. And is it true, thou lovest me?
     Sigurd. As that I think!
     Audhild. ’Tis almost too much to believe. (They embrace.)

     Helga enters, and demands the document. Casting her eye over it, she perceives the stipulation for Frakark’s banishment, but Sigurd insists that it shall be signed as it stands. At this moment the dark side of his nature appears, and his face is stormy enough to startle his beloved. ‘Who art thou, Sigurd?’ asks Audhild, when Helga has withdrawn to get her son’s signature. ‘One who forgets who he is.’ ‘Hast thou committed any ²⁶⁷ crime?’ ‘Nay; but ask not.’ ‘Hast thou ever loved any one before?’ ‘Never.’ ‘How didst thou come, then, to love me?’ ‘In one moment, I think—yea, I know not; but thou me?’ ‘From the moment I saw thee; and now I can say to thee thus much—hadst thou departed, I should have died.’ She adds, after a moment: ‘Thou must be the son of some mighty man!’

     Sigurd. Audhild!
     Audhild. What is it?
     Sigurd. For our future peace: speak so no more!
     Audhild. God!
     Sigurd. Not that look, Audhild! . . . It asks ever: Who art thou, Sigurd?
     Audhild. Then do not look at me. (She hides her face in his breast.)
     Helga (entering from her son’s chamber). Thou must be a wizard, stranger! What hath never gladden’d me for three long years, thou hast achieved; he rose up and sang! When he came to the part about Frakark, he laughed, and called to his boy. Here is his signature—see, what great letters!

     The evil Frakark now enters, and, apprised of the arrangement, laughs mockingly. But now arises a new complication. Bound thus by a new tie to the soil, Sigurd hesitates to carry out his plans for the reconciliation of the brothers, and again longs to seize the earldom. He offers to tear the treaty in twain. A stormy scene ensues; but Audhild herself, intervenes, and Sigurd hands her the paper. The act concludes:—

     Helga. All angels be praised ! It must be straightway sent. It is the only way.
²⁶⁸ Frakark. There is one way more.
     Helga. Tempt me not. Earl Paul shall come.
     Frakark (whispering). But when he comes . . . then shall we give to him the garment at which I have been sewing these three years.
     Helga. Peace! (She goes.)
     Audhild. Sigurd, whither shall we depart?
     Sigurd. Meet me here each morning, ere the others are arisen.
     Audhild. Shall we not depart, then?
     Sigurd. I will tell thee, when Earl Paul comes.

     The third and concluding act of ‘Sigurd’s Second Flight’ opens with a fine ballad, descriptive of an incident in the early life of Helga, sung by an old warrior and a chorus of men, who are on the look-out for Earl Paul’s ships. Then enter Harald the Earl and his boy Svenn. The scene which follows is touching in the extreme, but too long to quote. The poor, sickly, weary Earl, foreseeing still further peril and horror in the secret counsels of his mother and aunt, has made up his mind to die, and he communicates his intention to Svenn figuratively, merely saying that he is going on a long journey. ‘Then I will go with thee,’ exclaims the boy. ‘Whither I go no one can follow.’ He is going, he says, over the great water; the sea-mist will swallow him up. ‘Will thy dogs follow thee?’ asks Svenn. ‘Nay; thou shalt take care of them; they howled last night;—O thou must be kind to them!’ He bids the boy not to weep, for he will visit him ‘in the night in his dreams.’ The interview between these two simple creatures is full of the finest pathos; nothing can be tenderer or more true to human nature.
²⁶⁹   Following the above is an exquisite scene between the lovers, Sigurd and Audhild. Sigurd is troubled and distraught, still with his eye on the Earldom. To them comes Svenn Viking. It is understood that at a given sign the brothers are to be taken prisoners.

     Svenn. Frakark tried again last night to send a message to Caithness. (Smiles.)
     Sigurd (smiling). So!
     Svenn. But he to whom she gave the money, drank it up! (Laughs.)
     Sigurd (laughing also). So!
     Svenn. The Pilgrims weigh anchor this day . . . they believe thou wilt sail with them. (Laughs.)
     Sigurd (laughing also). So!

     The significance of this is unmistakable. Sigurd has listened to the solicitations of Svenn Viking and the others, and means, as the son of Magnus Barefoot, to take possession of the Orkneys, in defiance of the rights of Harald and Paul. But he is not altogether decided. ‘I will down to the Pilgrim-ships,’ he says to himself, ‘for it is still possible that I may depart.’ The stage is clear, and the sisters enter, Frakark bearing the shirt, or tunic, on which she has been so long at work; Helga a diabolic salve with which the interior of the garment is to be smeared. ‘The shirt is tempting to see, bright with gold and gems; he will instantly put it on;’ and the significant stage direction follows—‘They rub on the unguent with a cloth, and they hold it with a cloth.’ The poisoned garment is to be offered to Earl Paul, and if worn must instantly prove fatal. Already trembling ²⁷⁰ at the prospect of punishment, Helga vows to build a new Chapel instead of the old one, which is damaged, and Frakark suggests that, when all is done, Harald shall go on pilgrimage, to expiate his own sins and theirs!
     While they are thus engaged, Harald, ‘in light morning attire,’ enters from his chamber. His eye falls upon the shirt; and he is already forewarned of the hideous purpose for which it is destined. ‘It has taken three years in the making,’ observes Frakark. ‘Three years,’ replies the Earl; ‘much good may be done in three years. How long walked Jesus the Christ about with his disciples? Charles the Great did much in three years. Olaf the Holy baptized all southern Norway. . . . . And in three years I have done nothing; and you have made this shirt.’ He offers to take it, but the women resist. ‘Hark to my hounds, how they are howling, poor beasts!’ he cries; ‘give me the shirt.’ They warn him, but in vain.

     Helga. It will cost thee thy life.
     Harald. Life, mother, life! Three years’ work invite to one hour’s dance;—Paul shall look on from his ship.
     Both. What saith he?
     Harald. Never, that I remember, have I asked thee for aught; but now I ask thee for this shirt. I have conceived a liking to it, as smoke to the breast of the blue, the autumn leaves to the earth, the gloaming dew to the sea, or a wounded hart to a hiding-place.
     Frakark. Is this madness?
     Harald. I hunger for this shirt. ’Tis not its colour, for that reminds me of blood; nor its pearls, for they speak to me of ²⁷¹ the treacherous sea; nor its gold, that reminds me of Hell-fire.

       He snatches the shirt despite their entreaties, springs with it into his chamber, and bolts the door. In vain the distracted women shriek to him that the garment is poisoned. In vain Helga invokes curses on the head of Frakark, who has urged her to the diabolical plan of murder. It is too late. Harald enters again, clad in the poisoned dress, and, shrieking with pain, he falls. ‘Call Svenn!’ he shrieks; ‘it burns, it blisters, it rends. O! O! give me water!’ The boy Svenn enters, and, with a cry of pain, rushes to his lord’s assistance.

     Harald. Svenn, mind my hounds.
     Svenn. Yes.
     Harald. And bid my brother to have mass read for me.
     Svenn. Yes.
     Harald. Now all changes . . . Is it thou, standing there?
     Helga. No, it is I.
     Harald. Is it thou?
     Helga. O look this way!
     Harald. I see thee not.
     Helga. Here am I—here. Can’st thou forgive me?
     Harald. Who holds my head?
     Svenn. It is I—Svenn.
     Harald. Is it Svenn? . . . Where art thou, mother?
     Helga. I am holding thy hand.
     Harald. Beware of the shirt, mother!
     Helga. No, Harald, I will die with thee.
     Harald. Now, for the first time, thou hast understood me, mother. Where are thou?
     Helga. It is I who am kissing thee.
²⁷² Harald. But how light it grows . . . Is it thou who art white?
     Helga. Naught here is white.
     Harald. Aye, here is something . . . Lay me down. (It is done.) Mother, where art thou? (She flings herself upon him.)
     Svenn (rising). Now he is dead.

     Sigurd and others enter. Svenn Viking whispers with a grim smile, ‘One brother is out of the way;’ but the Norseman, shocked beyond measure, vows that the survivor shall be left in peace. They bear the dead body from the stage, followed by Helga. ‘Frakark!’ moans the mother, as she passes, ‘the house thou would’st have built for us hath sunken into ruin over our heads. . . . . Thou shalt survive thy schemes. God have mercy on thine old age!’

     Sigurd (to the boy Svenn). And thou, little friend, where wilt thou go?
     Svenn. I, too, will follow, till he is buried.
     Sigurd. And then?
     Svenn. I will take his hounds, and hie home.
     Sigurd. Thou hast been a faithful servant . . . Is not that thy knife?
     Svenn. Yes. (He takes it, glances at it, looks significantly at Frakark, and goes.)
     Sigurd (to her). There grows thy Doomsman!
     Frakark. Hast thou aught more to say to me?
     Sigurd. Nay.
     Frakark. Then remain alone. (He goes)
     Sigurd. So I am alone . . . in this house . . . among curses and the moans of broken plans . . . face to face with mine own . . . The Stillness behind me, glaring upon me like an evil eye . . . All I look on sinks down in it; here is only ²⁷³ eternity, eternity! . . . O, there is a roar over me as of the clashing of the wings of a great host; for He is here, the great, the wrathful God.

     His mind is made up. He will never again lust for power; and if he cannot serve others, he will at least serve God the Lord. To that end he will quit these evil shores, sailing with the Pilgrims in their holy quest southward. But the voice of Audhild breaks in upon his ear. ‘O, what a woeful house! Where art thou, Sigurd? Sigurd, where art thou?’ And she springs in to his side.

     Audhild. What hath happened? Helga lies dead on her son’s corse; all doors are open, strangers burst in, Earl Paul comes, Frakark flies forth,—where have I peace but with thee, thou eternally beloved one!
     Sigurd. Then thou seekest it with a fugitive!
     Audhild. Take me with thee!
     Sigurd. A huswife is for peace and home. I have no remaining place.
     Audhild. Thou forsakest me?
     Sigurd. Mourning hath broken in upon our feast day; the house must be cleansed; now flies each to his own.
     Audhild. Then what I feared hath come!—What shall become of me? (Sinks on her knees and covers her face.)
     Sigurd (approaching her). Ask, rather, what thou hast found in me?
     Audhild (giving him both hands). Good fortune, the only good fortune I have ever known!
     Sigurd. Trouble and fear, one hour’s happiness, another’s tears.
     Audhild. Who art thou, Sigurd, that I have never felt myself sure of thee?
²⁷⁴ Sigurd. Magnus Barefoot’s son, heir to Norway.
     Audhild (moving away in subdued pain). Then should’st thou never have spoken to me!
     Sigurd. I had found no peace in all the world; wherefore, when thou did’st offer it me, it was sweet to find.
     Audhild. You took mine, and thyself found none.
     Sigurd. Child, what evil have I done thee?

     The scene continues very touchingly. Sigurd tells of his intention to depart, and she sadly acquiesces. As he gives to her a ring Magnus Barefoot gave to his mother, she flings her arms round his neck, crying, ‘Say to me that I am the only one thou hast ever loved.’

     Sigurd. I will tell thee more . . . thro’ my life I can never love another.
     Audhild. Then I will think of thee as of my dear husband, who is away upon a journey.
     Sigurd. But thou must not hide from thyself that he can never return.
     Audhild. No; for he follows the great band, which I, too, will try to join.

VOICES FROM THE SEA.

         The earth is happy,
         Happy is God’s heaven,
Happy the Soul as it fares along;
         Thro’ the blessed
         Earthly kingdoms,
March we to Paradise with song.

     Sigurd. Hearest thou the Pilgrims’ Song? A second time it lifts me above dream and doubt, but higher than before. These sounds, streaming thro’ the lift as angels with white robes, O let them be our highest Bridal-Song! Audhild, farewell! ²⁷⁵ (They embrace, she hears him once.) Yes, I come—I come.                               [Exit.
     Audhild. Lord, follow him. (Kneeling.} But stay also with me!

     Thus ends this remarkable drama, the second of the series of which Sigurd is the hero. Difficult as it is to do justice to art so delicate, especially when the artist works with such fragile tools as the strange monosyllabic unrhythmic dialogue of Bjornson; and hastily as we have been compelled to render passages which absolutely swarm with colloquial idioms very difficult to translate into our more formal speech, still the great merits of the play will be apparent. The dialogue is often tedious, and at times almost irrelevant; there is no attempt at fine writing or forced antithesis; there are few images and no fancies; but the effect of the whole is of vivid and striking reality. The verisimilitude is perfect. In more than one respect, particularly in the loose, disjointed structure of the piece, ‘Sigurd Slembe’ reminds one of Goethe’s ‘Götz,’ but it deals with materials far harder to assimilate, and is on the whole the finer picture of romantic manners. Audhild, indeed, is a creation worthy of Goethe at his best; worthy, in our opinion, to rank with Clärchen, Marguerite, and Mignon, as a masterpiece of delicate characterisation. And here we may observe, incidentally, that Bjornson excels in his pictures of delicate feminine types,—a proof, if proof were wanting, that he is worthy to take rank with the highest class of poetic creators. No other Norseman, certainly not Oehlenschläger, has produced one such ²⁷⁶ character as Audhild in ‘Sigurd Slembe,’ Eli in ‘Arne,’ and little Inga, in ‘King Sverre.’
     Time and space forbid us to describe the concluding play of the trilogy,—‘Sigurd’s Home-coming.’ In some respects it is the finest of the three. The picture of a rude Norwegian court in the twelfth century, presided over by a drunken and weakminded king, surrounded by savage councillors, is drawn to the life. Sigurd once more seeks to grasp his own, and sorrow is again his portion. Lastly, worn out, deserted, miserable, we find him pillowing his head on the breast of his mother, who is now clad in the dark weeds of a nun. There is one exquisite scene between Sigurd and a Finn-maiden, which we should gladly have translated had it been possible. But we abandon the task now, in the hope that what we have said may induce some abler hand than ours to translate ‘Sigurd Slembe’ in its entirety. It will have to be done as a labour of love, for the intelligent public of England will neither learn foreign languages nor read ‘translations.’ If, however, either Mr. Morris or Mr. Magnusson, or both together, were to do this labour (an easy task after their excellent rendering of Grettir’s huge Saga), many true students would, we are sure, be grateful. For our own part, we seem to see in Björnsterne Björnson a writer whose reputation in this country will yet rise very high indeed, as one of the noble company of modern ‘masters.’

                                                                                                                                                             277

IV.

DANISH ROMANCES. ¹

MODERN Danish literature is as pure and simple as Danish character and manners. With a few, a very few disagreeable exceptions, it contains nothing very exciting—nothing which in England is denominated sensation. The Danes do not care for startling incidents; they like domestic details and pretty genre grouping. Their novels, for the most part, are very much of the same tone as the well-known pictures of Swedish manners, drawn by Frederika Bremer; but in Andersen and others there is a freshness and a delicacy unattainable by the Swedish lady. Their stories are pleasant compact little bits of writing, covered with a soft silken prettiness, which, like the down on the wings of a butterfly, comes off if pressed too rudely. So in their poetry. Milder national songs were never written; less eventful ballad verse is scarcely possible. If two lovers join hands and walk up a hill, and then walk down again, it is quite enough for the Danish minstrel to

—    ¹ ‘Danske Romanzer, hundrede og ti.’ Samlede og udgivne af Christian Winther. Tredie forögede Udgave. Kjöbenhavn: Forlagt af Universitets boghandler, C. A. Reizel.     —

²⁷⁸ sing about. Yet this poetry possesses a sweet tenderness, and not unfrequently a savoury humour, very delightful to the organs of intellectual taste, and very apt to evaporate, like some chemicals, in the crucible of the translator.
     It is not our purpose, in the present paper, to attempt an elaborate account of Danish romances. We wish now merely to touch lightly on such points of peculiarity as the subject presents, and to illustrate our remarks by some few specimens, rendered by us into English, as literally as possible, and with an attempt to conserve the movement and spirit of the originals. The volume of romances selected and edited by Herr Winther, who is favourably known in Denmark both as poet and novelist, may be accepted as a fair collection of ballad poems by the best Danish authors, from Oehlenschläger, the tragedian, down to Herr Winther himself. It contains nothing at all startling,—the incidents of many of the poems are about as fraught with interest as the old English rhyme about Jack and Jill; but a great portion of it possesses an inexpressible charm for one who has gone at all deeply into the peculiarities of the language. Some of the pieces are quaintly pathetic, like the following by Hans Andersen:—

THE SNOW-QUEEN (SNEE-DRONNINGEN).

Deep on the field lies the snowdrift white,
But in yonder cottage there shines a light:
There for her well-beloved waits the maid,
In the lamp’s dim shade.

The mill is still; see, the mill-wheel stands;                                       ²⁷⁹
Smoothing his golden hair with his hands,
The miller’s man starts, with a glad ho! ho!
Over ice and snow.

He sings as he fights with the wind that blows
His fresh young cheeks to the bloom of the rose;
Past cot and field, in the black dark sky,
Rides the Snow-Queen by.

‘Fresh in the snowlight’s gleam thou art—
I choose thee to be my own sweetheart!
To my floating island come follow me,
Over mountain and sea.’

Fast and thick fell the snow-flock yet—
‘I capture thee now in my flowery net!
Where the snow-mass over the wold is spread
Stands our nuptial bed.’

No more in the cottage gleams the light;
Round and round whirls the snowdrift white;
A shooting star falls with a quick, keen spark—
Now all is dark!

O’er wood and meadow the sun upcreeps.
In his bridal bed he so sweetly sleeps.
The little maid trembles, she runs to the mill—
But the wheel stands still.

Assuredly a fine little poem. One line particularly,—

‘I Ringdands hvirvler den hvide Snee,’

possesses a perfect music, which it is difficult to convey in English. The ‘Snow-Queen’ is a fair specimen of the delicate vein of an author whose fairy tales have lately made him very popular in England. In ²⁸⁰ Denmark he is an idol; and nothing evinces more finely the reverent gentleness of the Danish people than the fact, that whenever this poet passes through the streets of Copenhagen, the people lift their hats to him, murmuring, ‘God bless Hans Christian Andersen!’ And Andersen is worthy of this homage, if only for the sake of the many little faces which he has lit up with joy and wonder in all parts of Europe. He is the children’s Santa Claus—a magical fellow! He has only to wave that wondrous wand of his, and straightway pixies, elves, mermaids, and giants swarm in earth and sea. He is never very comical,—what humour he has resembles the frank, smiling manner of a man who is talking to young people, and knows how to please them. Even in his more ambitious writings he seems to be addressing good little children, clever enough to understand him, but only children after all. This manner is common to most of his fellow Danish authors, though Andersen adopts it the most successfully. ‘Come round my knees, and promise all to be very good, and I will tell you a pretty little story!’ Then, ‘Once upon a time.’ The Danes seem to like to be treated in this way. They flock lovingly around the narrator, and listen admiringly, and shudder terribly at horrors which would be considered very mild in wicked England.
     These Danish romances abound in stories of elves, and mermen, and other wonderful creatures of the earth and deep. Here are Ewald’s ‘Liden Gunver,’ Thiele’s ‘Guldfisken,’ and Staffeld’s ‘Elverpigerne og Börnene,’—three poems which show charmingly the mild Danish fashion of looking at the supernatural:—
                                                                                                                                                               281

LITTLE GUNVER.

Little Gunver wander’d pensive and white
     In the twilight cold;
Her heart was wax, but her soul was bright
     And proven gold.
O beware, my child, of the false men-folk!

Little Gunver fish’d at the brink of the ocean
     With a silken chain,
The waters were heaved—with tempestuous motion
     Trembled the main.

Uprose from the water a merman fair,
     All with weeds behung,
His eyes were bright, mid his voice was rare
     As the harp’s tongue.

‘Little Gunver, ever in love’s keen fire
     I am burning for thee;
My heart grows weak, I faint and I tire—
     O pity me!

‘O reach me, O reach me, over the shore,
     But one arm of snow;
I will press it once to my heart—no more—
     To ease my woe!

‘Little Gunver, my head is mild—despite
     Of its shell forlorn—
My name is Trusty, I love the right,
     And deceit I scorn.’

‘And here is my arm to reward thy love,
     And to ease thy pain;
Beautiful merman, reach up above,
     And take the twain.’

He drew her down from the shore, and leapt                                   282
     Where no tempest groans;
Like the storm was his laugh, but the fishes wept
     Over Gunver’s bones.
O beware, my child, of the false men-folk!

THE GOLD-FISH.

The fisher saddles his wingèd horse,
On the noisy ocean to take his course.

The billows roll on the white sea strand,
As the hardy fisherman rides from land.

He pulls then up his fishing-line,
By the hook there dangles a gold-fish fine.

He laughs in his sleeve, crying, ‘Never, I wis,
Saw I a fish in gold raiment like this!

‘Had I a piece for each gold-scale fair,
’Twere fortunate fishing indeed, I swear.’

The gold-fish flutter’d and leap’d with its fins,
Dancing about round the fisherman’s shins.

‘Softly, thou gentleman wealthy and proud,
Thou can’st not escape,’ quoth the fisher, aloud.

The gold-fish murmur’d, and gasp’d for breath,
Then began the oration that followeth:—

‘Thou seest my wealth, poor fisherman!
Give thee good fortune I will, and can!

‘Cast me again in the deep green sea,
And happy gifts will I give to thee.

‘My mother, queen of all fish below,
Shall give thee bolsters and linen of snow.

‘My father; a king far down in the sea,                                            283
Healthy and happy shall render thee.

‘To my lover who seeks me down in the deep,
Cast me, and still thou my riches shalt keep!’

‘If I to the oath of a fish give heed,
The neighbours will laugh at me indeed!

‘My bolsters and linen I care not to take,
My own good woman can better make!

‘But if to a lover thou plighted be,
Lovers shall never be sever’d by me.’

He threw the tremulous fish in the main:—
‘Lord, keep me from such a poor capture again!

‘If to-morrow a like should bite at my line
I must starve, or devour it, I opine!’

In his hut at night, with an aspect wan,
Speechless and sad, sat the fisherman.

On the morrow morning his boat he took,
And warily baited his fishing-hook.

The moment his line in the sea he threw
The float sank deep in the waters blue.

He quietly laugh’d in his sleeve, and thought,
‘Once more a gold-jacketed fish have I caught!’

He drew then up his line—behold!
On the hook there dangled a guinea of gold.

Again and again his line he flung,
Never a fish to the hook there hung;

But so oft as he look’d for a fish—behold!
Guinea on guinea of precious gold.

                                                                                                                                                             284

THE ELF-MAIDS AND THE CHILDREN.

Three little ones sat in a flowery mead
     In the twilight gray;
At home their mother is making their bed—
     Where linger they?
       With laughing cheeks rosy,
         They skip to and fro
         Where the flowers upgrow,
       Plucking their Whitsun posy.

Down, down the mountain three elf-maids reel
     From the ash-crown’d height, .
’Mid mists, like the web of a spinning-wheel,
     Their raiments white
       In the wind back-blowing,
         Each fairy shoe
         Just brushes the dew
       From the tops of flowers fresh blowing.

They sing so sweetly, they sing to the three:—
     ‘Hail, children, who play
With flowery toys and laugh in glee,
     Come follow and stray
       Under the mountain olden,
         And the ivory row
         Of nine-pins throw
       Over with bowls pure golden!

‘Join ye, O join ye, us maidens three,
     O join ye, and all
The under blossoms shall pluck and see
     With the song-birds small,
       Merrily, merrily singing,
         Building their bowers
         Of lily flowers
       And pearls, like seeds, upflinging.’

The little ones wax so heavy in mind,                                              285
     Sink so dreamily,
They are whirr’d along on the twilight wind—
     But sleep all three!
       But the flowers deplore them,
         While swiftly they fall
         To the elf-maids’ call,
       And the mountain closes o’er them.

Upon the morrow the father runs
     To the aspen hill;
‘The elfins have stolen thy little ones,
     And guard them still:
       Green turfs are growing
         O’er their heads, a stone
         At their feet lies prone,
       And these of the elves’ bestowing.’

     In the above pretty literal renderings we have followed the measures of the originals. There is a droll quaintness about Herr Trofast, or Trusty, the melancholy and deceitful merman; but he is a hypocrite, like all the rest of his tribe. According to the Danish notion, the Havmœnd and Havfruer are by no means good people. Like the Elverpiger, their mission is to lure to death the unwary traveller. The sea-ladies especially are artful syrens, like the dancing mermaid in the following lyric, by Ingeman:—

THE MERMAID.

The moon shines red ’mong her starry crew,
The mermaid dances in sea-caves blue,
The waves toss black o’er the white sea-sand,
There cometh a youth to the naked strand,
     Who yearns for a blushing kind one.

The mermaid smiles so wantonly,                                                  286
She seems so gentle, so fair, so free—
O beware, O youth, beware and depart,
So little dazzles the youthful heart,
     And the mists of midnight blind one!

‘Come hither, heart’s queen—oh, come hither to me,
Who danceth, who singeth on this wild sea:
I have wander’d south, I have wander’d north,
I have sought thee over the whole wide earth—
     On earth I have found thee never.’

Wildly he danceth, hand in hand,
With the naked maid, on the white sea-sand;
The moon turns pale ’mong her starry crew,
Downward he leaps in the waters blue,
     Which close above him for ever.

     After a while these mermen and mermaids become tiresome. They are very charming at first sight, from the novelty of the thing; but being, in reality, dull and uninteresting, one tires of them. They swarm in the Danish romances,—born of the music awakened in the brain by the perpetual murmur of the ocean along the Danish shore.
     It is seldom or never that one encounters, in Danish poetry, any descriptions of external nature—such as have been garnered in gorgeous sheaves by the English Muse. We, who have been familiar from boyhood with the home-pictures drawn by such artists as Milton and Thompson, feel this want greatly. But it is no fault of the Danish poets. Were there anything to describe in Danish scenery, they would picture it well; but the fault lies not in themselves, but in the stars which placed them ²⁸⁷ in so unpicturesque a land. It is to find inspiration in nature, and to relieve their souls of the dreary land prospect, that they rush so frequently down to the wavy shore and gaze seaward. The ocean brims with sounds and similes; and as a consequence, there is a salt-sea flavour about all good Danish lyrics. History, moreover, has made the waters sacred. Long ago the old Norse kings hoisted their sails of silk and sailed royally through the Skaggerack southward, and (as Ben Jonson phrases it) ‘the narrow seas were shady’ with their ships. So such heroes as Knud den Store (Canute the Great) and Hakon Garl, abound in Norwegian song. We regret we cannot find space for one of those romantic ballads in which Oehlenschläger excels. We translate instead the best of his romantic poems, founded on the Scandinavian mythology:—

THE GIFT OF ÆGIR.

While the high gods sported
     Where the salt blue sea,
Near the isle of Ægir,
     Moan’d tumultuously,
Ægir, god of ocean,
     Grasp’d a drinking horn,
Which a cunning artist
     Did with power adorn.

No snail-shell lying
     In the waters blue,
Was so strangely fashion’d,
     And so fair of hue;

Speck’d with marvellous colours,                                                   288
     Whence soft lustres break,
And grotesquely twisted,
     Like a speckled snake.

The red wound melting
     In the gold and white,
And the bowl within was
     Spacious and bright;
In the bottom glitter’d
     A carbuncle green,
And the fair rim sparkles
     Into golden sheen.

The goddesses assembled
     Praised the beauteous cup:
Ægir cried, ‘Uove!
     Fill the beaker up!’
With her hair rush-plaited
     Stood the sea-maid sweet,
Blue her beauteous girdle,
     Small her tender feet.

Follow’d by her sister,
     While the great gods smiled,
With her virgin bosoms
     Swelling plump and mild,
While beneath those bosoms
     Her warm heart shook,
Stretching white arms dumbly,
     She the snail-horn took.

Then the young sea-maiden,
     Blushing bright of hue,
Like a swan plunged swiftly
     In the waters blue;
Reappearing quickly                                                                      289
     She upheld the cup,
And with small pearls dewy
     It was brimming up!

Ægir’s great brown fingers
     Gripp’d the horn;—quoth he:
‘God Ægir sendeth
     A gift from his green sea;
To the goddess only,
     Of the beauteous throng,
Who is mightiest, greatest,
     Shall the horn belong.’

Then the beech-crown’d Frigga
     In her beauty rose,
And her heavenly glances
     Round the hall she throws:
‘Than the earth’s fair mother,
     Odin’s stately queen,
Who is mightier, greater,
     In the gods’ demesne?’

Then Gesion stretch’d snowy
     Hands towards the sea
(Never was a maiden
     Fruitful-loin’d as she!):
‘Who ploughs the earth, and makes it
     Fruitful as can be?
Drops the rain pure golden,
     Ægir, who but me?’

Then rose Eir, upholding
     Root and glittering knife:
‘How have you trembled
     For the hero’s life?
What is land, what valour,                                                             290
     Without health’s pure shower?
And what can liken
     With my healing power?’

Rota, high and mighty,
     Rose with stately glance,—
All the gods assembled
     Gazed upon her lance:
‘Ye of life have prated,
     Powers assembled here;
What stops life’s strong action?
     Rota’s fatal spear.’

Then smiled Freya, tripping
     On her feet snow-white
To the spot where Ægir
     Held the goblet bright:
‘Give the horn to Freya!
     Ægir, hour by hour
All the earth is crying,
     “Love has greatest power.”’

On his knee she sat her,
     With a fond caress,
From her limbs of beauty
     Floated back her dress;
Round his neck she wound her
     Alabaster arms,
Let him see her bosoms
     In their naked charms.

Ægir grasp’d the goblet,
     Fill’d with flaming fire,
When, hark! soft music
     Broke from Bragi’s lyre!
As the god of ocean                                                                      291
     Listen’d wondering-eyed,
Saw he gentle Ydun ¹
     At her husband’s side.

With her crape-bound forehead,
     And her beauteous waist
Like a slender tendril,
     Sat the dumb and chaste;
Brown her hair’s rich brightness,
     In a knot upbound,
Dewy azure pansies
     In the tresses wound.

She a bowl pure golden
     Held in hand snow-white.
For when Bragi playeth
     On his harp-strings bright,
Hanging fruit grows fragrant,
     Scenting sea and land,
And the fruit drops juicy
     Into Ydun’s hand.

And the mild-eyed goddess,
     With her sweetness wise,
Broke the spell of even
     Freya’s witching eyes.
‘Ydun!’ cried Ægir, loudly,
     ‘To the harp of gold
Sing what wondrous treasure
     Thy pure bowl doth hold!’

With a voice which murmurs
     Like the nightingale,
When unseen it fluteth
     In a leafy dale,

—    ¹ The holder of the precious fruit whereby the gods continually renewed their immortality.    —

To the harp sang Ydun,                                                                 292
     At the sea-king’s call,
And the wondrous music
     Witch’d the hearts of all.

‘Only those small apples,
     Beautiful of hue,
Fresh and sweet and juicy,
     May the gods renew!
Drank they not the juices
     Of this fruit of gold,
Odin would grow hoary,
     Freya worn and old!

‘While the harp of Bragi
     Chimes melodiously,
Lo! the ripe fruit droppeth
     From the holy tree;
Strength, and health, and beauty,
     An immortal life,
These alone can give ye!’
     Thus sang Bragi’s wife.

And in awe and wonder
     Heark’d the gods the while;
Then, behold, King Ægir
     Pour’d, with eager smile,
In the lap of Ydun
     All the white pearls small—
‘Take the gift, O Ydun!
     Mightiest of all!’

‘And I ask thee only,
     For this gift I give,
But to sip the juicy
     Fruit whereby we live;
Of my deed and treasure                                                                293
     Sing a Runic rhyme,
Let it sound in beauty
     Down the tracks of time.’

Gentle Ydun promised;
     With the snowy-fair
Pearls she deck’d the foreheads
     Of each goddess there;
Gave the horn to Bragi,
     To be kept for use,
Wet the lips of Ægir
     With immortal juice!

If thereafter Loke,
     With the heart of gall,
Had not stolen darkly
     On the banquet hall,
Then had minstrel Sœmund
     Sang this song of mine;
But the great theme perish’d
     In the less divine.

That the wondrous story
     Should not perish quite,
Did my goddess bid me
     Strike the gold harp bright,
Mists of ages vanish,
     Valhal’s glories shine,
And the fruit of Ydun
     Giveth life divine!

   Oehlenschläger, by the way, has written a poem about Shakspeare, which, to say the least of it, is exceedingly amusing. It commences thus:—

‘I Warwikshire der stander et Huus,                                              294
Det truer med ut falde til Gruus,
     Til Bolig det ei kan gavne;
Men yndig sig strœkker den gamle Muur,
Omkrandset af den unge Natur,
     Og i Ruden er hellige Navne.’

It is a ballad chronicle of the great poet’s life, and follows Shakspeare from the period of his deer-shooting freaks up until his play-writing in London. According to Oehlenschläger, ‘William’ is wandering in the moonlight, when Apollo, desirous of taking his favourite from a weaver’s stool, instructs Diana to take the shape of a stag in a lonely path,—‘en Kronkjort paa en eensomme Sti.’ The stag is a splendid creature, and ‘William’ is too much of a sportsman not to long to kill it. He hesitates for a minute; but at last, plaf! goes the gun, and down falls the bleeding deer. When the deed is done, the full extent of his danger flashes on the assassin. He must fly from the vengeance of the lord of the manor; and he immediately departs for London, hastily making what the Scotch call ‘moonlight flitting.’ In the metropolis he falls into his proper sphere, and Apollo is satisfied. Instead of weaving clothing on a stool, he weaves tapestries which surpass even the masterpieces of Raphael, and which bloom like roses of eternal May. One portion of this poem, in which Desdemona is compared to the snow of night, is exceedingly pretty.
     The Danes seem to possess little humour of the intellectual sort; yet, for what we English know, there may be much mother wit—or what the Scotch call ‘wut’ ²⁹⁵ —amongst them. The humour which appears in their poetry is of the schoolboy sort, and turns a good deal on practical joking—a sport which boys, and nations in their infancy, are very fond of. The two following poems—the first by J. Baggesen, and the second by Christian Winther—are fair specimens of a style of humorous writing which is very popular in Denmark. The one turns on a very bold case of practical joking, and the other, for the most part, is a mild matter of verbal punning. We have rendered them both as literally as possible, though the task has been by no means an easy one:—

RIDDER RO AND RIDDER RAP.

There dwelt in Thorsinge cavaliers two
     (Who rode very seldom to fight!),
If Thorsinge’s chronicles be true,
The one, Herr Dull, was lazy enew,
     But one, like his name, was Bright.

They woo’d with gold and with witching speech
     (By rent-roll, by reason, by right!)
The lily-white daughter of Overreach,—
Dull woo’d her with gold, Bright woo’d her with speech;
     But Signe was fondest of Bright.

Herr Overreach loved gold-heaps and gold
     (Ay, gold is a tempting sight!);
He knew Dull’s coffers bright guineas did hold,
So he scolded fair Signe for being so cold.
     She wept, but abandon’d Bright. ¹

—    ¹ Gav Kurvcn til Rap. Literally, gave Rap ‘the basket ;’ but Anglicè, gave him the ‘cold shoulder.’    —

Now bridegroom Dull by the ocean rode                                        296
     (They rode very seldom to fight);
He trotted along to his bride’s abode,—
Ay, bridegroom Dull to the wedding rode.
     ‘I, too, ride thither!’ said Bright.

Forth with the bride came the bridegroom proud
     (By rent-roll, by reason, by right);
Through the portal they join’d the wedding crowd,
While the men and the women shouted aloud.
     ‘See, I am here!’ said Bright.

To the bride-room wander’d the bridal train
     (She saw each bridal knight).
Goblet on goblet they quaff’d amain,
To the bridegroom’s joy and the sweet bride’s pain.
     ‘Ay, tipple your fill!’ said Bright.

Dull, tippling and tippling, sat on a form
     (Ay, tippling, the lazy wight!),
Preparing the bridal chamber warm;
Within were maidens, a merry swarm.
     ‘Ay, ye may giggle!’ said Bright.

So they carried the bride to the bridal bed
     (By rent-roll, by reason, by right!);
The bridegroom still muddled his lazy head.
‘Ay, sit you there! tippling, though newly wed!
     I’ll take your place,’ said Bright.

He took little Signe’s hand snow-white
     (They run and embrace with delight),
Then he bang’d the door and fasten’d it tight;
‘Hi! boy, go wish Herr Dull good night.
     I’m going to sleep!’ said Bright.

Off to Herr Bridegroom the little boy sped                                     297
     (Ay, bridegroom—indolent wight!);
Herr Bridegroom! Herr Bridegroom! lift up your head!
Rap sits with the bride on the bridal bed.
     ‘I do indeed!’ said Bright.

The bridegroom raps at the door with a zest
     (By rent-roll, by reason, by right!) ;
‘Hi! open the door, you two—you had best!
Myself with my bride will betake me to rest.’
     ‘Ay, betake thee to rest!’ said Bright.

The bridegroom knock’d on at the door as he spoke,
     And the little boy added his might;
‘Come out, I have now had enough of the joke;
Come out, Ridder Rap, to the rest of the folk.’
     ‘Ah! see if I do!’ said Bright.

Then hammer’d and hammer’d the bridegroom old,
     Ay, hammer’d with all his might;
‘If thou within with my bride mak’st bold,
I’ll revenge it—hark thee—a thousandfold.’
     ‘Go to the devil!’ said Bright.

Fiercely pale grew Herr Bridegroom’s cheek
     (By rent-roll, by reason, by right);
‘Quit, quit my bride, and thy foolish freak,
Ere I fly to the King and justice seek.’
     ‘Do as you please!’ said Bright.

Early at morn, ’neath the breaking day
     (They rode very seldom to fight),
Dull saddled his horse, and gallop’d away,
Making haste to the King to say his say.
     ‘I, too, ride thither!’ said Bright.

‘Herr King, I married a beauteous bride                                        298
     (By rent-roll, by reason, by right);
But after the bridal this Ridder hied
To the bridal chamber, and slept by her side.’
     ‘That did I, I own!’ said Bright.

‘Since ye both the maiden hold so dear
     (And ride so seldom to fight),
’Tis better to settle the matter here,
And with one another to break a spear.’
     ‘Ay! that is the best!’ said Bright.

The very next morning, when rose the sun
     (Ay, the sun, with his pleasant light),
Dull mounted his charger, a pearl of a one,
And the whole Court gather’d to see the fun.
     ‘See! here am I!’ said Bright.

The very first joust, while the Court stood round
     (By rent-roll, by reason, by right),
Bright’s charger slipp’d in the forward bound,
And slipp’d, and fell to its knees on the ground.
     ‘Now help me, God!’ said Bright.

The second joust, as these champions good
     Wax fiercer and fiercer in fight,
From their bosoms trickled the red, red blood,
Dull fell from his horse to the dust and mud.
     ‘There lies Herr Dull!’ said Bright.

Home gallop’d Bright at a mighty rate,
     In happy, victorious might;
And saw sweet Signe eagerly wait,
A virgin still, at the castle gate.
     ‘Now art thou mine!’ said Bright.

Now Bright has gain’d what he loves the best                                 299
     (By rent-roll, by reason, by right);
Now lies his head upon Signe’s breast,
Now on his arm does she, sleeping, rest.
     ‘See! all is merry!’ said Bright.

KNIGHT KALV (CALF).

King Wolmer sat surrounded
     By all his captains tall,
And dealt out land and castles
     At will to each and all.
With bending head above them
     The merry King did sit,
While guest and humorous banter
     His face with laughter lit.

He gave them each a portion,
     Adding his jest the while;
Each took his portion gladly,
     And thanked him with a smile.
The northern bit of country
     Was Elske Broks’ ¹ good share;
‘Creep in the sand,’ quoth Wolmer
     ‘You’ll find house-shelter there.

‘Where prowl the wolves and foxes
     The goose is seldom found;
And you shall settle, therefore,
     Each in appropriate ground.
But little Morten Due, ²
     He shall to Aalholm flee,
There sit on grassy hillocks,
     Or build i’ the beechen tree!

—    ¹ Anglice, badger.                    ² Due, dove.      —

‘Where shall we settle Galten? ¹                                                     300
     In Krogen let him gnaw;
We call you Hog with justice,
     You have so sharp a claw;
The sea-gulls you can seize on,
     That o’er the capes will pass.
On Kalv I settle Ribe,
     For it abounds in grass!’

But Ridder Kalv grew angry,
     Clench’d teeth, and made demur;
‘That mouthful is too stringy—
     God’s death! am I a cur?’
He grasp’d his sword in anger,
     And slung it on his thigh;
‘The hedge I now spring over,
     And to the Germans fly!’

His horse he fiercely mounted,
     And unto Holstein flew;
All riding-school manœuvres
     He made the beast go through.
Announcing himself, with anger,
     Drunk as drunk might be;
‘Herr Earl, how dost thou value
     My services and me?’

Rose from his seat Earl Gerhard,
     And to the Ridder ran;
And shook with eager gladness
     The hand of the Danish man.
He gave him two great castles,
     And added gold thereto,
That the bold knight might hold him
     Both liberal and true.

—    ¹ Galten, the pig.     —

But discontent and anger                                                               301
     Kalv troubled o’er and o’er ;
His hawking, hunting, singing,
     Contented him no more.
With wrinkles on his forehead
     The knight doth sit and pine;
The very sun no longer
     Shines as it used to shine.

One evening in winter
     King Wolmer sat in hall,
And drain’d his golden goblets
     Among his captains all.
Then roar’d the guard full loudly
     Who sentinell’d at door,
‘Here comes, upon my honour,
     Herr Ridder Kalv once more!’

In stepp’d the knight full slowly,
     With glances downward bent,
Paler, gentler, humbler,
     Calmer than when he went.
He next with shameful tremor
     Did Wolmer’s slippers kiss;
He was so sad of spirit,
     And he was so pale, I wis!

‘Herr King, Herr King, forgive me!
     I knew not what I did;
I was an angry donkey,
     And I am fairly chid!
But I have not been sleeping
     In Holstein there so long—
I bring for your acceptance
     Two castles great and strong.’

His face bent down, not angry,                                                       302
     King Wolmer from his throne,
While jest and merry laughter
     Upon his features shone;
And the sweet cup of friendship
     He gave with royal hand.
So rose he, smiling slily
     Upon the smiling hand.

‘And hear, beloved captains,
     What I have got to say;
This Kalv can add, my captains,
     As well as take away!
As Calf his stall he quitted,
     But as a monster cow,
He brings at last returning
     Two mighty calves, I trow!’

[Note:
More information on this section of Master-Spirits and related material is available below:

Robert Buchanan’s Scandinavian Studies

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