Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: April 30, 2025
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 Bjoernson's personality affected those who came into contact with it.
A hearty friendship, bringing with it an active and confidential correspondence, was established between us and remained unshaken for the next ten years, when it broke down, this time through no fault of mine, but through distrust on Bjoernson's part, just as our intimacy had been hindered the first time through distrust on mine. The year 1869 passed in steady hard work.
First we read aloud in turns from Bjoernson's Arne, which was then new; a lagging conversation followed. Nutzhorn talked nonsense, Paludan-Mueller snuffled, Julius Lange alone occasionally let fall a humorous remark. The contrast between Nutzhorn's band, who took sociability calmly and quietly, and Kappers' circle, which met to work and discuss things to its utmost capacity, was striking.
When writing this, I was thinking of the obscure final speech about God in Heaven in Bjoernson's Mary Stuart, which I still regard as quite vague, pretentious though it be as it stands there; however, it was an exaggeration to generalise the grievance, as I had done, and Bjoernson was right to reply.
As a triumph of sheer creation, this figure is hardly overmatched anywhere in the author's portrait gallery of women. If Bjoernson'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.
And this is Bjoernson's greatness in his peasant novels, that he has poured from his horn of plenty a wealth of situations and motives that hold the reader's mind and burn themselves into it, that become his personal possession just because the author has known how to suggest so much in so few words."
The longest poem in Bjoernson's collection is called "Bergliot," and is a dramatic monologue in which the foul slaying of her husband Ejnar Tambarskelve and their son Ejndride is mourned by the bereaved wife and mother. The story is from the saga of Harald Haardraada, and is treated with the deepest tragic impressiveness. "Odin in Valhal I dare not seek For him I forsook in my childhood.
In some respects, the little sketch called "The Father" is the supreme example of Bjoernson's artistry in this kind. There are only a few pages in all, but they embody the tragedy of a lifetime. The little work is a literary gem of the purest water, and it reveals the whole secret of the author's genius, as displayed in his early tales.
Here, also, we have the gracious maiden figure of Audhild, perhaps the loveliest of all Bjoernson's delineations of womanhood, a figure worthy to be ranked with the heroines of Shakespeare and Goethe, who remains sweet and fragrant in our memory forever after.
Bjoernson's interest in education has been life-long; for many years it had gone astray in a sort of Grundtvigian fog, but at the time when this book came to be written, it had worked its way out into the clear light of reason.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking