Chapter 41
Section 41 of Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 5. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Abaii in August 2014. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 5, Section 41 A Norwegian Dance by Hjalmar Jörth Boyesen, 1848-1895
Boyesen had thoroughly assimilated the spirit of his native Norway before he left it. In the small southern seaport of Frederiksvern he had lived the happy, adventurous boyhood depicted in those loving reminiscences boyhood in Norway. He knew the rugged little land and the sparkling fjords. His imagination had delighted in Nekken and Hylder and Trolls
and all the charming fantastic sprites of the Northland. So, when he was far away during his brave-winning struggles in America, they grew clearer and dearer in perspective, and in Gunnar, a Norseman's pilgrimage, Ilka on the Hilltop and other delightful books, he bequeathed these memories to his adopted land.
He came of well-to-do people and received a liberal education at the Gymnasium of Christiania, the University of Leipzig and the University of Norway. His father, professor of mathematics at the Naval Academy, had made several trips to the United States and had been impressed by the opportunities offered there to energetic young men. Upon his urgent advice, Jalmar, when about twenty-one, came to America, and soon obtained
a position upon a Norwegian newspaper, the Freymard of Chicago. From childhood he had longed to write, but had been discouraged by his father, who expatiated upon the limitations of their native tongue and assured him that to succeed in literature he must be able to write in another language as readily as in his own. Even in school days he had shown a remarkable aptitude for languages, not only for understanding
and speaking them, but for a sympathetic comprehension of foreign literatures, and that sensitiveness to shades of expression which so rarely comes to any but a native. He now worked with all his energy to acquire English, not only as a necessary tool, but as the best medium for conveying his own thought. This whole-souled devotion to an adopted tongue was soon rewarded by a more spontaneous ease
of expression than he possessed even in his native Norwegian. No one could guess from his poems that he was foreign to the speech in which he wrote them. Few even among those born and bred to its use have had such mastery of its capacities. He soon left the Fremad and began teaching Greek and Latin at the small Urbana University
in Ohio. he was called to Cornell University in 1874 as professor of German and in 1880 to Columbia College, where later he became professor of German languages and literatures. He was a teacher of rare stimulus and charm. He had an attractive vigor of personality, his treatment of subjects was at once keenly analytic and very sympathetic, while his individual point of view was impressed
in an easy and vivid style. The same qualities won for Boyeson a distinguished place in the lecture field, where he gave his audiences an exceptional combination of solid learning and graceful and lucid expression. A series on the Norse sagas at the Lowell Institute in Boston are still valued as Scandinavian studies. In critical work, of which these studies form a part, Professor Boyeson made his chief mark, as was natural, on the literature and legends of his native land.
The best commentary on Ibsen yet published in English is his introduction to Ibsen's work. He manages to compress within the space of a very few pages the path of the great anarch's social ideas and the character of his dramatic work. His Goethe and Schiller is also excellent. In pure letters, his earliest poems collected into idylls of Norway and his early stories of Noah's life, of which Gunnar was first and best, were never surpassed by him in later life, if indeed they were equaled.
The best powers of his mind were gradually drawn into fields which solidified and broadened his intellect, but checked the free inspiration and romantic feeling of youth. Engaging his merit as a creative artist, we must set aside all but the work of these few enthusiastic years. An important part of this change must be credited to the influence of the Russian novelists and their American disciples. Whatever may be the final verdict on Turgenev and Tolstoy, their tremendous effect on American literature is one of the most striking facts in our recent literary history.
its value is a more dubious matter, according to the point of view. Boesen met Turgenev in Paris and was deeply impressed by him. He also became intimate with W. D. Howells and, through the influence of the latter, became an ardent disciple of Tolstoy. The result was, to transform the romanticist of Gunnar,
steeped in the legends of old Norway, creating a fairyland atmosphere about him and delighting to live in the ideal, into a so-called realist, setting himself to the task of brushing away all illusions and painting life as sterile and unpicturesque as it is in its meanest, most commonplace conditions. To do this, he claimed, was the stern function of the author. To help his readers to self-acknowledge, although it might lessen their happiness,
was the greatest service he could render them. He succeeded. The best comment on the theory and the practice alike is that Gunnar lives and its realistic successors do not, and indeed never did, and that much the same may be said of the corresponding epochs of other American novelists' work, with a few exceptions, where native genius was too strong to be spoiled even by a vicious artistic principle.
The Mammon of Unrighteousness and The Golden Calf belong to the second half of Boyeson's work. A high place must be given, however, to his stories for boys in the children's magazines, principally on Norwegian themes. These are among the best of their kind, spirited, wholesome, strong in plot and workmanship, and containing some examples of his most perfect style. Even the more slender juvenile tales have passages of the finest poetic spirit and a charm scarcely equaled in his more ambitious work.
He won some laurels as a dramatist. Alpine Roses was successfully acted in New York in 1883, and Ilka on the Hilltop, taken from his story of that name, in 1884. Although he was in complete sympathy with the American life and character, and wished to make them his own, Professor Boyeson was never quite an American. His descriptions of life in the United States are therefore always the result of a foreigner's observation.
His generous humanity appeals to all races, however, and his books have been successfully translated into German, Russian, and Norwegian. For years he had been collecting matter for an extensive history of Scandinavian literature, a task for which his nationality, his scholarship, and his mastery of the English language especially fitted him.
sudden death at forty-seven prevented its accomplishment, and perhaps deprived him of a still wider and solider fame. A Norwegian Dance From Gunnar They all hurried back to the hall. Gudrun might well wish to ask questions, but she dared not, for she felt the truth, but was afraid of it. They could not help seeing, when they entered
the hall, that many curious glances were directed toward them. But this rather roused in both a spirit of defiance. Therefore, when Gunnar was requested to begin the steve, he chose Rangnhild for his partner, and she accepted. True, he was a houseman's son, but he was not afraid. There was a giggling and a whispering all round, as hand in hand they stepped out on the floor. Young and old, lads and maidens thronged eagerly about them.
Had she not been so happy, perhaps she would not have been so fair. But as she stood there in the warm flush of the torchlight, with her rich blonde hair waving down over her shoulders, and with that veiled brightness in her eyes, her beauty sprang upon you like a sudden wonder,
and her presence was inspiration. And Gunnar saw her, she loved him. What cared he for all the world beside? Proudly he raised his head and sang, Gunnar, there standeth a birch in the lightsome lee.
Ragnhild, in the lightsome lee. Gunnar, so fair she stands in the sunlight free. Ragnhild, in the sunlight free. Both, so fair she stands in the sunlight free. Ragnhild, high up on the mountain there standeth a pine.
Gunnar, there standeth a pine Ranghild, so stanchly grown and so tall and fine Gunnar, so tall and fine Both, so stanchly grown and so tall and fine Gunnar, a maiden I know as fair as the day
Ranghild, as fair as the day Gunnar, she shines like the birch in the sunlight's play Ranghild, in the sunlight's play Both, she shines like the birch in the sunlight's play Ragnhild, I know a lad in the spring's glad light
Gunnar, in the spring's glad light Ragnhild, far seen as the pine on the mountain height Gunnar, on the mountain height Both, far seen as the pine on the mountain height Gunnar, so bright and blue are the starry skies
Ranghild, the starry skies Gunnar, but brighter and bluer that maiden's eyes Ranghild, that maiden's eyes Both, but brighter and bluer that maiden's eyes Ranghild, and his have a depth like the fjord I know
Gunnar, the fjord I know Ranghild, wherein the heavens their beauty show Gunnar, their beauty show Both, wherein the heavens their beauty show Gunnar, the birds each morn seek the forest glade
Ranghild, the forest glade Gunnar, so flock my thoughts to that lily maid Ranghild, that lily maid Both, so flock my thoughts to that lily maid Ranghild, the moss it clingeth so fast to the stone
Gunnar, so fast to the stone Ranghild, so clingeth my soul to him alone Gunnar, to him alone Both, so clingeth my soul to him alone Gunnar, each brook sings its song but forever the same
Ranghild, forever the same Gunnar, forever my heart beats that maiden's name Ranghild, that maiden's name Both, forever my heart beats that maiden's name Ranghild, the plover hath but an only tone
Gunnar, an only tone Ranghild, my life hath its love and its love alone Gunnar, its love alone Both, my life hath its love and its love alone Gunnar, the rivers all to the fjord they go
Ranghild, to the fjord they go Gunnar, so may our lives then together flow Ranghild, together flow Both, all may our lives then together flow Here Gunnar stopped, made a leap toward Ranghild, caught her round the waist
and again danced off with her, while a storm of voices joined in the last refrain, and loud shouts of admiration followed them. For this was a staff that was good for something. Long time it was, since so fine a staff had been heard on this side of the mountains. Soon the dance became general, and lasted till after midnight.
Then the sleigh bells and the stamping of hoofs from without reminded the merry guests that night was waning. There stood the well-known swanshepped sleigh from Henjum, and the man on the box was Atle himself. Ranghild and Gudrun were hurried into it, the whip cracked, and the sleigh shot down over the star-illumined fields of snow. The splendor of the night was almost dazzling as Gunnar came out from the crowded hall and again stood under the open sky.
A host of struggling thoughts and sensations thronged upon him. He was happy, oh, so happy! At least he tried to persuade himself that he was. But strange to say he did not fully succeed. Was it not toward this day his yearnings had pointed,
and about which his hopes had been clustering from year to year, ever since he had been old enough to know what yearning was? Was it not this day which had been beckoning him from afar, and had shed light upon his way like a star, and had he not followed its guidance as faithfully and as trustingly as those wise men of old?
Folly and nonsense, muttered he. The night breeds nightly thoughts. With an effort he again brought Ranghild's image before his mind, jumped upon his skis, and darted down over the glittering snow. It bore him toward the fjord. A sharp, chill wind swept up the hillside and rushed against him.
"'Hausman's son!' cried the wind. Onward he hastened. "'Hausman's son!' howled the wind after him. Soon he reached the fjord, hurried on up toward the river mouth, and, coming to the Henjum boathouse, stopped and walked out to the end of the pier,
which stretched from the headland some twenty to thirty feet out into the water. The fjord lay sombre and restless before him. There was evidently a storm raging in the ocean, for the tide was unusually high, and the sky was darkened from the west eastward. The mountain peaks stood there, stern and lofty as ever, with their heads wrapped in hoods of cloud. Gunnar sat down at the outer edge of the pier, with his feet hanging listlessly over the water, which, in slow and monotonous plashing, beat against the timbers.
Far out in the distance he could hear the breaker's roar among the rocky reefs, first the long, booming roll, then the slowly waning moan, and the great hush in which the billows pause to listen to themselves. It is the heavy, deep-drawn breath of the ocean. It was cold, but Gunnar hardly felt it.
He again stepped into his skis and followed the narrow road as it wound its way from the fjord up along the river. down near the mouth between henium and rimul the river was frozen and could be crossed on the ice up at henium hay it was too swift to freeze it was near daylight when he reached the cottage how small and poor it looked never had he seen it so before very different from rimul and how dark and narrow it was all around it at rimul they had always sunshine truly the track is steep from henium hay to rimul the river runs deep between end of section forty one
