"Mary" is less explicit in its teaching than the two great novels just summarized, but what it misses in didacticism it more than gains in art. The radiant creature who gives her name to the book is one of Björnson's most exquisite figures. She is the very embodiment of youthful womanhood, filled with the joy of life, and bringing sunshine wherever she goes. Yet this temperament leads to her undoing, or what would be the undoing of any woman less splendid in character. But the strength that impels her to the misstep that comes so near to having tragic consequences is also the strength that saves her when chastened by suffering. In her the author "gives us the common stuff of life," says an English critic, "gives it us simple and direct. There is nothing here of Ibsen's pathology. We are in the sun. Her most hideous blunder cannot undo a woman's soul. Björnson knows that the deed is nothing at all. It is the soul behind the deed that he sees. Not everything that cometh out of a man defileth a man. At all events, so it is here: triumph and joy built upon an act that—as the Philistines would say—has defiled forever." As a triumph of sheer creation, this figure is hardly overmatched anywhere in the author's portrait gallery of women.
If Björnson's essential teaching may be found in a single page, as has above been suggested, his personality evades all such summarizing. In the present essay, he has been considered as a writer merely,—poet, dramatist, novelist,—but the man is vastly more than that. His other activities have been hinted at, indeed, but nothing adequate has been said about them. The director of three theatres, the editor of three newspapers and the contributor to many others, the promoter of schools and patriotic organizations, the participant in many political campaigns, the lay preacher of private and public morals, the chosen orator of his nation for all great occasions,—these are some of the characters in which we must view him to form anything like a complete conception of his many-sided individuality. Take the matter of oratory alone, and it is perhaps true that he has influenced as many people by the living word as he has by the printed page. He has addressed hundreds of audiences in the three Scandinavian countries and in Finland, he has spoken to more than twenty thousand at a time, and his winged speech has gone straight home to his hearers. All who ever heard him will agree that his oratory was of the most persuasive and vital impressiveness. Jaeger attempts to describe it in the following words:—
"It is eloquence of a very distinctive type; its most characteristic quality is its wealth of color; it finds expression for every mood, from the lightest to the most serious, from the most vigorous to the most delicate and tender. Now his words ring like the voice of doom, filled with thunder and lightning, now they become soft and persuasive with smiling mien. With a single cadence, or a play of the facial muscles, or a slight gesture, he can portray a person, a situation, or an object, so that it appears living in the sight of his hearers. And what the word alone cannot do, is accomplished in the most brilliant manner by the virtuosity of his delivery. He does not speak his words, he presents them; they take bodily form and seem alive."
In his more intimate relationships, on the other hand, in face to face conversation or in the home circle, the man takes on a quite different aspect; the prophet has become the friend, the impassioned preacher has become the genial story teller, and shares the gladsome or mirthful mood of the hour. Such a personality as this may be analyzed; it defies any concise synthesis. One resorts to figures of speech, and they were abundantly resorted to by those who paid him the tribute of their admiration and love upon the occasion of his seventieth anniversary. Let us take an instance at random from one of these tributes.
"The cataract that roars down to the free foaming sea. The mountain with its snowclad peaks towering up into the immensity of the starry heavens. The rustling of the woodland above the blossom-spangled and smiling meadows, the steep uptowering, the widely growing, and the joyously smiling. At once the soft melody that stirs the heart and the strong wind that sweeps over the Northern lands."
This concourse of metaphors gives some slight idea of the way in which Björnson's personality affected those who came into contact with it. The description may be supplemented by a few bits of anecdote and reminiscence. The composer Grieg contributes the following incident of the old days in Norway:—
"It was Christmas eve of 1868 at the Björnsons in Christiania. They lived then in the Rosenkrantzgade. My wife and I were, as far as I can remember, the only guests. The children were very boisterous in their glee. In the middle of the floor an immense Christmas tree was enthroned and brightly lighted. All the servant-folk came in, and Björnson spoke, beautifully and warmly, as he well knows how to do. 'Now you shall play a hymn, Grieg,' he said, and although I did not quite like the notion of doing organist's work, I naturally complied without a murmur. It was one of Grundtvig's hymns in 32—thirty-two verses. I resigned myself to my fate with stoicism. At the beginning I kept myself awake, but the endless repetitions had a soporific effect. Little by little I became as stupid as a medium. When we had at last got through with all the verses, Björnson said: 'Isn't that fine. Now I will read it for you!' And so we got all thirty-two verses once more. I was completely overawed."
When the poet purchased his country estate which was his home from the late seventies to the end of his life, his coming was looked forward to with mingled feelings by the good country folk of the neighborhood. Kristofer Janson thus tells the story of his arrival:
"His coming was anticipated with a certain anxiety and apprehension, for was he not a 'horrid radical'? The dean in particular thought that he might be a menace to the safe spiritual slumber of the village. As the dean one day was driving through the village in his carriole, just where the road turns sharply by the bridge below Aulestad, he met another carriole which was rapidly driving that way and in it a man who, without respect for the clerical vehicle, shouted with all the strength of his lungs: 'Half the road!' The dean turned aside, saying with a sigh: 'Has Björnson come to the Gausdal at last?' "It was indeed so, and he showed his colors at the start. The same dean and Björnson became the best of friends afterwards, and found much sport in interchanging genial jests whenever they met."
Frits Thaulow, the painter, thus wrote to Björnson reminding him of a festive gathering of students:
"The manager came in and announced with a loud voice that it was past twelve. Then you sprang up.
"'Bring champagne! Now I will speak of what comes after twelve o'clock! of all that lies beyond the respectable hour for retiring! For the hour when fancy awakens and fills us with longings for the world of wonderland; then the painter sees only the dim outline in the moonlight, then the musician hears the silence, then the poet after his thoughtful day feels sprouting the first shoots of the next. After twelve freedom begins. The day's tumult is stilled, and the voice within becomes audible.'
"Thus you spoke, and 'after twelve' became a watchword with us.
"Many a spark has been kindled in your soul by the quiet evening time. But later in life, when you become a chieftain in the battle, broad daylight also made its demands upon you. Like the sun you shone upon us and made the best that was in us to grow, but I shall always keep a deep artistic affection for what comes 'after twelve.'"
Henrik Cavling tells the following story of the poet in Paris:
"It was one of Björnson's peculiarities to go out as a rule without any money in his pocket. He neither owned a purse nor knew the French coins. His personal expenditures were restricted to the books he bought, and now and then a theatre ticket. One day he carne excitedly into the sitting-room, and asked:
"'Who took my five franc piece?' It was a five franc piece that he had got somewhere or other and had stuck in his pocket to buy a theatre ticket with. It turned out that the maid had found it and given it to Fru Björnson. For it seemed quite unthinkable to her that the master should have any money to take out with him.
"This complete indifference of Björnson to small matters sometimes proved annoying. In this connection I may tell of a little trip he once took with Jonas Lie.
"The two poets, who did not live far apart, had long counted with pleasure upon a trip to Père Lachaise, where they wished to visit Alfred de Musset's grave. At last the day came, and with big soft hats on their heads, and engaged earnestly in conversation, they drove away through Paris.
"When they came to Père Lachaise, and wanted to enter the cemetery, the driver stopped them and asked for his pay. Then it appeared that neither had any money, which they smilingly explained, and asked him in bad French to wait and drive them home again. But the two gentlemen with the big soft hats had not inspired the driver with any marked degree of confidence. He made a scene, and attracted a great crowd of the boys, loafers, and well-dressed Frenchmen who always collect on critical occasions. The end of the affair was that the poets had to get into their cab again and drive all the long way back without having had a glimpse of the grave. When they reached Lie's lodgings, Lie went in to get some money, while Björnson sat in the cab as a hostage. Nevertheless, both poets maintained that they had had a pleasant expedition. A Norwegian question, which had accidentally come up between them, had made them forget all about Alfred de Musset."
Finally, a story may be given that is told by Björnson himself.
"I had a pair of old boots that I wanted to give to a beggar. But just as I was going to give them to him, I began to wonder whether Karoline had not some use for them, since she usually gave such things to beggars. So I took the boots in my hand, and went downstairs to ask her, but on the way I got a little worked up because I did not quite dare to give them to the beggar myself. And the further I went down the steps, the more wrathful I got, until I stood over her. And then I was so angry that I had to bluster at her as if she had done me a grievous wrong. But she could not understand a word of what I said, and looked at me with such amazement, that I could not keep from bursting into laughter."
From his early years, Björnson kept in touch with the modern intellectual movement by mingling with the people of other lands than his own. Besides his visits to Denmark, Sweden, and Finland, he made many lengthy sojourns in the chief continental centres of civilization, in Munich, Rome, and Paris. The longest of his foreign journeys was that which brought him to the United States in the winter of 1880-81, for the purpose of addressing his fellow countrymen in the Northwest. His home for the last thirty years and more has been his estate of Aulestad in the Gausdal, a region of Southern Norway. Here he has been a model farmer, and here, surrounded by his family,—wife, children, and grandchildren,—his patriarchal presence has given dignity to the household, and united its members in a common bond of love. Hither have come streams of guests, friends old and new, to enjoy his generous hospitality. There has been provision for all, both bed and board, and the heartiest of welcomes from the host. And the stranger from abroad has been greeted, as like as not, by the sight of his own country's flag streaming from a staff before the house, and foreshadowing the personal greeting that awaited him upon the threshold.
Björnson died in Paris (where he had been spending the winter, as was his custom for many years past), April 26, 1910. He had been ill for several months, and only an extraordinarily robust constitution enabled him to make a partial recovery from the crisis of the preceding February, when his death had been hourly expected. The news of his death occasioned demonstrations of grief not only in his own country, but also throughout the civilized world. Every honor that a nation can bestow upon its illustrious dead was decreed him by King and Storthing; a warship was despatched to bear his remains to Christiania, and the pomp and circumstance of a state funeral acclaimed the sense of the nation's loss.
LIST OF WORKS.
SYNNÖVE SOLBAKKEN. Fortaelling, 1857
MELLEM SLAGENE. Drama, 1858
ARNE. Fortaelling, 1858
HALTE-HULDA. Drama, 1858
EN GLAD GUT. Fortaelling, 1860
KONG SVERRE. 1861
SIGURD SLEMBE. 1862
MARIA STUART I SKOTLAND. Skuespil, 1864
DE NYGIFTE. Komedie, 1865
FISKERJENTEN. Fortaelling, 1868
DIGTE OG SANGE. 1870
ARNLJOT GELLINE. 1870
SIGURD JORSALFAR. Skuespil, 1872
FORTAELLINGER I-II, 1872
BRUDE-SLAATTEN. Fortaelling, 1873
REDAKTÖREN. Skuespil, 1874
EN FALLIT. Skuespil, 1874
KONGEN. 1877
MAGNHILD. Fortaelling, 1877
KAPTEJN MANSANA. Fortaelling fra Italien, 1879
LEONARDA. Skuespil, 1879
DET NY SYSTEM. Skuespil, 1879
EN HANDSKE. Skuespil, 1883
OVER AEVNE. Förste Stykke, 1883
DET FLAGER I BYEN OG PAA HAVNEN, 1884
GEOGRAFI OG KJAERLIGHED. 1885
PAA GUDS VEJE. 1889
NYE FORTAELLINGER. 1894
LYSET. En Universitetskantate, 1895
OVER AEVNE. Andet Stykke, 1895
PAUL LANGE OG TORA PARSBERG. 1898
LABOREMUS. 1901
TO FORTAELLINGER. 1901
PAA STORHOVE. Drama, 1904
DAGLANNET. 1904
TO TALER. 1906.
MARY. Fortaelling, 1906
VORT SPROG. 1907
NAAR DEN NY VIN BLOMSTRER. 1909