No More Learning

Nora - No, I don't. But I shall try to.
- ,
I must make up my
mind which is right — society or I.
Helmer - Nora, you are ill, you are feverish. I almost think
you are out of your senses.
Nora — I have never felt so much clearness and certainty as
to-night.
Helmer – You are clear and certain enough to forsake hus-
band and children ?
Nora — Yes, I am.
Helmer - Then there is only one explanation possible.
Nora — What is that?
Helmer - You no longer love me.
Nora — No, that is just it.


## p. 7856 (#48) ############################################

7856
HENRIK IBSEN
(
Helmer - Nora! Can you say so?
Nora - Oh, I'm so sorry, Torvald; for you've always been so
kind to me.
But I can't help it. I do not love you any longer.
Helmer [keeping his composure with difficulty]— Are you clear
and certain on this point too?
Nora — Yes, quite. That is why I won't stay here any longer.
Helmer — And can you also make clear to me how I have
forfeited your love ?
Nora — Yes, I can. It was this evening, when the miracle
did not happen; for then I saw you were not the man I had
taken you for.
Helmer - Explain yourself more clearly: I don't understand.
Nora — I have waited so patiently all these eight years; for
of course I saw clearly enough that miracles do not happen every
day. When this crushing blow threatened me, I said to myself
confidently, “Now comes the miracle! ” When Krogstad's letter
lay in the box, it never occurred to me that you would think of
submitting to that man's conditions. I was convinced that you
would say to him, “Make it known to all the world;" and that
then-
Helmer - Well? When I had given my own wife's name up
to disgrace and shame - ?
Nora — Then I firmly believed that you would come forward,
take everything upon yourself, and say, “I am the guilty one. ”
Helmer - Nora!
Nora — You mean I would never have accepted such a sacri-
fice ? No, certainly not. But what would my assertions have
been worth in opposition to yours? That was the miracle that I
hoped for and dreaded. And it was to hinder that that I wanted
to die.
Helmer - I would gladly work for you day and night, Nora, -
bear sorrow and want for your sake,– but no man sacrifices his
honor, even for one he loves.
Nora — Millions of women have done so.
Helmer -Oh, you think and talk like a silly child.
Nora - Very likely. But you neither think nor talk like the
—
man I can share my life with. When your terror was over, —
not for me, but for yourself,— when there was nothing more to
fear, then it was to you as though nothing had happened. I was
your lark again, your doll — whom you would take twice as much
care of in the future, because she was so weak and fragile.


## p. 7857 (#49) ############################################

HENRIK IBSEN
7857
(Stands up. ] Torvald, in that moment it burst upon me that I
had been living here these eight years with a strange man, and
had borne him three children. Oh! I can't bear to think of it -
I could tear myself to pieces!
Helmer (sadly]—I see it, I see it; an abyss has opened
between us. But, Nora, can it never be filled up?
Nora — As I now am, I am no wife for you.
Helmer I have strength to become another man.
Nora - Perhaps - when your doll is taken away from you.
Helmer – To part — to part from you! No, Nora, no; I can't
grasp the thought.
Nora (going into room at the right]— The more reason for the
thing to happen. [She comes back with outdoor things and a small
traveling-bag, which she puts on a chair. ]
Helmer - Nora, Nora, not now!
Wait till to-morrow.
Nora (putting on cloak]-I can't spend the night in a strange
man's house.
Helmer But can't we live here as brother and sister ?
Nora [ fastening her hat]— You know very well that would
not last long. Good-by, Torvald. No, I won't go to the child-
I know they are in better hands than mine. As I now
am, I can be nothing to them.
Helmer But some time, Nora- some time-
Nora — How can I tell ? have no idea what will become
ren.
of me.
Helmer - But you are my wife, now and always ?
Nora - Listen, Torvald: when a wife leaves her husband's
house, as I am doing, I have heard that in the eyes of the law
he is free from all duties toward her. At any rate I release you
from all duties. You must not feel yourself bound any more
than I shall. There must be perfect freedom on both sides.
There, there is your ring back. Give me mine.
Helmer -- That too?
Nora – That too.
Helmer - Here it is.
Nora - Very well. Now it is all over. Here are the keys.
The servants know about everything in the house better than I
do. To-morrow when I have started, Christina will come to pack
up my things. I will have them sent after me.
Helmer - All over! All over! Nora, will you never think of
me again?
XIV–492


## p. 7858 (#50) ############################################

7858
HENRIK IBSEN
Nora - Oh, I shall often think of you, and the children - and
this house.
Helmer — May I write to you, Nora ?
Nora — No, never.
You must not.
Helmer - But I must send you —
Nora - Nothing, nothing.
Helmer - I must help you if you need it.
Nora — No, I say.
I take nothing from strangers.
Helmer Nora, can I never be more than a stranger to you ?
Nora (taking her traveling-bag]-0 Torvald, then the mira-
cle of miracles would have to happen.
Helmer - What is the miracle of miracles ?
Nora — Both of us would have to change so that - O Tor-
0
vald, I no longer believe in miracles.
Helmer -- But I will believe. We must so change that -
-
-
Nora - That communion between us shall be a marriage.
Good-by. [She goes out. ]
Helmer [sinks in a chair by the door with his face in his
hands] - Nora! Nora! [He looks around and stands up. ] Empty.
She's gone! [A hope inspires him. ] Ah! The miracle of mira-
cles -? [From below is heard the reverberation of a heavy door
—
closing ]
FROM PEER GYNT)
Scene: In front of a settler's newly built hut in the forest. A rein-
deer's horns over the door. The snow is lying deep around. It is
dusk. Peer Gynt is standing outside the door, fastening a large
wooden bar to it.
PEER
EER (laughing between whiles) -
Bars I must fix me; bars that can fasten
The door against troll-folk, and men, and women.
Bars I must fix me; bars that can shut out
All the cantankerous little hobgoblins.
They come with the darkness, they knock and they rattle:
Open, Peer Gynt, we're as nimble as thoughts are!
’Neath the bedstead we bustle, we rake in the ashes,
Down the chimney we hustle like fiery-eyed dragons.
Hee-hee! Peer Gynt, think you staples and planks
Can shut out cantankerous hobgoblin thoughts ? ”
(


## p. 7859 (#51) ############################################

HENRIK IBSEN
7859
Solveig comes on snow-shoes over the heath; she has a shawl over her head
and a bundle in her hand
Solveig –
God prosper your labor. You must not reject me.
You sent for me hither, and so you must take me.
Peer - Solveig! It cannot be! - Ay, but it is! -
And you're not afraid to come near to me!
Solveig
One message you sent me by little Helga;
Others came after in storm and in stillness.
All that your mother told bore me a message,
That brought forth others when dreams sank upon me.
Nights full of heaviness, blank empty days,
Brought me the message that now I must come.
It seemed as though life had been quenched down there;
I could not laugh nor weep from the depths of my heart.
I knew not for sure how you might be minded;
I knew but for sure what I should do and must do.
Peer - But your father?
Solteig -
In all of God's wide earth
I have none I can call either father or mother,
I have loosed me from all of them.
Peer -
Solveig, you fair one-
And to come to me?
Solveig -
Ay, to you alone;
You must be all to me, friend and consoler.
[In tears] -
The worst was leaving my little sister;
But parting from father was worse, still worse ;
And worst to leave her at whose breast I was borne ;-
Oh no, God forgive me, the worst I must call
The sorrow of leaving them all, ay, all!
Peer - And you know the doom that was passed in spring ?
It forfeits my farm and my heritage.
Solveig -
Think you for heritage, goods, and gear,
I forsook the paths all my dear ones tread ?
Peer - And know you the compact ? Outside the forest
Whoever may meet me may seize me at will.
Solveig –
I ran upon snow-shoes; I asked my way on;
They said, “Whither go you? ” I answered, “I go home. ”
Peer
Away, away then with nails and planks!
No need now for bars against hobgoblin thoughts.


## p. 7860 (#52) ############################################

7860
HENRIK IBSEN
If you dare dwell with the hunter here,
I know the hut will be blessed from ill.
Solveig! Let me look at you! Not too near!
Only look at you! Oh, but you are bright and pure!
Let me lift you! Oh, but you are fine and light!
Let me carry you, Solveig, and I'll never be tired!
I will not soil you.
With outstretched arms
I will hold you far out from me, lovely and warm one!
Oh, who would have thought I could draw you to me,–
Ah, but I've longed for you, daylong and nightlong.
Here you may see I've been hewing and building;
It must down again, dear: it is ugly and mean.
Solveig -
Be it mean or brave, here is all to my mind,
One so lightly draws breath in the teeth of the wind.
Down below it was airless; one felt as though choked:
That was partly what drove me in fear from the dale.
But here, with the fir branches soughing o'erhead,
What a stillness and song! I am here in my home.
Peer - And know you that surely? For all your days?
Solveig -
The path I have trodden leads back nevermore.
Peer – You are mine then! In! In the room let me see you!
Go in! I must go to fetch fir-roots for fuel.
Warm shall the fire be and bright shall it shine;
You shall sit softly and never be a-cold.
[He opens the door; Solveig goes in. He stands still for a while, then
laughs aloud with joy and leaps into the air. ]
Peer — My king's daughter! Now I have found her and won her!
Hei! Now the palace shall rise, deeply founded!
He seizes his axe and mores away; at the same moment an Old-Looking
Woman, in a tattered green goun, comes out from the wood; an
Ugly Brat, with an ale fragon in his hand, limps after, holding on
to her skirt.
The IVoman -
Good evening, Peer Lightfoot!
Peer -
What is it? Who's there?
The Woman -
Old friends of yours, Peer Gynt! My home is near by.
We are neighbors.
Peer-
Indeed ? That is more than I know.


## p. 7861 (#53) ############################################

HENRIK IBSEN
7861
The Woman -
Even as your hut was builded, mine built itself too.
Peer (going) -
I'm in haste --
The Woman
Yes, that you are always, my lad;
But I'll trudge behind you and catch you at last.
Peer - You're mistaken, good woman!
The Woman -
I was so before;
I was when you promised such mighty fine things.
Peer - I promised — ? What devil's own nonsense is this?
The Woman -
You've forgotten the night when you drank with my sire ?
You've forgot — ?
Peer –
I've forgot what I never have known.
What's this that you prate of? When last did we meet ?
The Woman When last we met was when first we met.
[To the Brat --
Give your father a drink: he is thirsty, I'm sure.
Peer - Father ? You're drunk, woman! Do you call him—?
The Woman
I should think you might well know the pig by its skin!
Why, where are your eyes? Can't you see that he's lame in
His shank, just as you too are lame in your soul ?
Peer Would you have me believe — ?
The Woman
Would you wriggle away?
Peer - This long-legged urchin ?
The Woman -
He's shot up apace.
Peer — Dare you, you troll-snout, father on me - ?
The Woman --
Come now, Peer Gynt, you're as rude as an ox!
[Veeping
Is it my fault if no longer I'm fair,
As I was when you lured me on hillside and lea?
Last fall, in my labor, the Fiend held my back,
And so 'twas no wonder I came out a fright.
But if you would see me as fair as before,
You have only to turn yonder girl out of doors,
Drive her clean out of your sight and your mind;-
Do but this, dear my love, and I'll soon lose my snout!
Peer — Begone from me, troll-witch!
The Woman --
Ay, see if I do!
Peer- I'll split your skull open!
The Woman -
Just try if you dare!
Ho-ho, Peer Gynt, I've no fear of blows!


## p. 7862 (#54) ############################################

7862
HENRIK IBSEN
-
Be sure I'll return every day of the year.
I'll set the door ajar and peep in at you both.
When you're sitting with your girl on the fireside bench,-
When you're tender, Peer Gynt, — when you'd pet and caress
her,
I'll seat myself by you, and ask for my share.
She there and I, we will take you by turns.
Farewell, dear my lad, you can marry to-morrow!
Peer – You nightmare of hell!
The Woman —
By-the-by, I forgot!
You must rear your own youngster, you light-footed scamp!
Little imp, will you go to your father ?
The Brat [spits at him) -
Faugh!
I'll chop you with my hatchet; only wait, only wait!
The Woman [kisses the Brat]-
What a head he has got on his shoulders, the dear!
You'll be father's living image when once you're a man.
Peer [stamping]
Oh, would you were as far -!
The Woman
As we now are near ?
Peer [clinching his hands] -
And all this — !
The Woman
For nothing but thoughts and desires !
It is hard on you, Peer!
Peer-
For nothing but thoughts and desires!
It is hard on you, Peer!
The Woman ---
For nothing but thoughts and desires!
It is hard on you, Peer!
Peer-
It is worst for another! -
Solveig, my fairest, my purest gold!
The Woman -
Oh ay, 'tis the guiltless must smart, said the Devil:
His mother boxed his ears when his father was drunk!
-
(She trudges off into the thicket with the Brat, who throw's the flagon at
Peer Gynt. )
Peer (after a long silence] -
The Boyg said, “Go roundabout! ” so one must here. -
There fell my fine palace, with crash and clatter!
There's a wall around her whom I stood so near;
Of a sudden all's ugly — my joy has grown old. —
Roundabout, lad! There's no way to be found
Right through all this from where you stand to her.
1


## p. 7863 (#55) ############################################

HENRIK IBSEN
7863
Right through? Hm, surely there should be one.
There's a text on repentance, unless I mistake.
But what? What is it? I haven't the book.
I've forgotten it mostly, and here there is none
That can guide me aright in the pathless wood. —
Repentance ? And maybe 'twould take whole years,
Ere I fought my way through. 'Twere a meagre life, that.
To shatter what's radiant and lovely and pure,
And clinch it together in fragments and shards ?
You can do it with a fiddle, but not with a beli.
Where you'd have the sward green, you must mind not to
trample.
'Twas naught but a lie though, that witch-snout business!
Now all that foulness is well out of sight. -
Ay, out of sight maybe, not out of mind.
Thoughts will sneak stealthily in at my heel.
Ingrid! And the three, they that danced on the heights!
Will they too want to join us? With vixenish spite
Will they claim to be folded, like her, to my breast,
To be tenderly lifted on outstretched arms?
Roundabout, lad: though my arms were as long
As the root of the fir, or the pine-tree's stem,-
I think even then I should hold her too near,
To set her down pure and untarnished again. -
I must roundabout here, then, as best I may,
And see that it bring me nor gain nor loss.
One must put such things from one, and try to forget. -
(Goes a few steps towards the hut, and stops again. ]
Go in after this ? So befouled and disgraced ?
Go in with that troll rabble after me still ?
Speak, yet be silent; confess, yet conceal — ?
.
[Throws away his axe. ]
It's a holy-day evening. For me to keep tryst,
Such as now I am, would be sacrilege.
Solveig [in the doorway) –
Are you coming ?
Peer (half aloud-
Roundabout!
Solveig -
What ?
Peer -
You must wait.
It is dark, and I've got something heavy to fetch.
Solveig –
Wait; I will help you; the burden we'll share.


## p. 7864 (#56) ############################################

7864
HENRIK IBSEN
Peer- No, stay where you are! I must bear it alone.
Solveig -
But don't go too far, dear!
Peer
Be patient, my girl;
Be my way long or short
you must wait.
Solveig nodding to him as he goes -
Yes, I'll wait!
[Peer Gynt goes down the wood-path. Solveig remains standing in the open
half-door. ]


## p. 7865 (#57) ############################################

7865
ICELANDIC LITERATURE
THE SAGAS
(NINTH TO THIRTEENTH CENTURIES)
BY WILLIAM SHARP
LTHOUGH Icelandic is now probably the oldest spoken language
in Europe, it is equally probably the least known of any
extant tongue of primary importance. One frequently sees
a lament about this neglect of so fine and important a language and
so noble a literature; but it is to be feared that the complainers are
either ignorant of the fact, or overlook it, that modern Icelandic
enshrines no literature of any real significance and importance. In
this sense the language is as much a remnant of a bygone period as
is ancient Greek. For many years past, however, scholars of several
countries have been devoting themselves to the scrupulous editing,
translation, and exposition of the immense treasures of Norwegian
literature enshrined in the ancient Icelandic language.
The whole history of this strange flowering of the human mind,
in so remote a land, severed by tempestuous seas from the rest of
Europe, and for the greater part of the year swept by polar winds, –
a land strangely arid and bleak, and yet tortured by volcanic fires
and boiling waters,- is one of singular interest. Whether Iceland
was really the Ultima Thule of the ancients, need not concern us.
for a time certainly it was the Ultima Thule of the Northern peoples
to whom we are so closely allied. The Scandinavians have ever been
a freedom-loving people, and when once their first pioneers discov-
ered, then settled in, Iceland, it was not long till scores of immigrants
came from over sea, and made the great island of the North their
new home. Nor was Iceland the mere haven of wild and desperate
spirits, as so often alleged; for some of the best blood of the Scan-
dinavian race gladly sought that asylum to be free from the tyranny
which oppressed them within the kingly realms at home. Slowly a
small but powerful republic arose, and with its growth there devel-
oped a remarkable literature, of which much has been preserved to
us, and of which the Sagas in particular have passed into the epic
literature of the world.
Climate and environment have long been recognized as powerful
formative influences in the evolution of literature. Nowhere is this
-


## p. 7866 (#58) ############################################

7866
ICELANDIC LITERATURE
more clearly exemplified than in the history of Iceland. In the rude
ages when the sword was the sole arbiter of the fate of races, it
might well have been believed that a small section of the turbulent
Norsemen, who had for greater independence and freedom exiled
themselves to a remote and inclement land, would not have devel-
oped a literature remarkable for beauty and even epic grandeur.
But when we think of how social life was constituted in those days,
and what were the climatic conditions and what the immediate
environment of those who dwelt in Iceland, we understand more
readily how the Sagas came into being. Here was an indomitable
and highly intelligent people, proud of their racial traditions and im-
aginatively haunted by a marvelously complex folk-lore.
For some
months in the year they could pursue their usual vocations and avo-
cations; but with the first coming of polar snows in October, and the
rapid dwindling of the solar light, there came an inevitable restric-
tion of most outdoor employment. The seas were too wild for the
fishers; the mountain regions were blocked by snow to the most
adventurous hunters; and even the plains in the milder southern
regions of the island were so swept by blizzards of hail and long
buried in heavy snow-drifts that neither the shepherd nor his flocks
could subsist. The sustained darkness of the winter season, added to
these other conditions, almost inevitably, in the instance of a people
already long emerged from barbarism, involved two things: a greater
attention to domestic comfort, and the growth of what it was once
the fashion to call the “polite arts. ” When men could no longer
wield the sword or steer the war-galley, when in a dark land of frost
and snow all save the most urgent journeying was relinquished, it
was natural that the sound of the harp, the voice of the singer,
and the heroic recitals of the saga-man or skald should occupy the
enforced leisure of the self-exiled race. It has been urged that the
same theory should be applied in the instance of the Eskimo, who
for many hundreds of years have dwelt in similar conditions, yet
have never produced even any oral literature worthy of the name.
But the Eskimo are as distinct from the Icelanders of the past or
present as the Lapps of Spitzbergen from the Russians of the south;
nor did they come to a new land with a heritage of splendid racial
traditions and inspired by national hopes and ideals.
It was inevitable, therefore, that the skald or saga-man should
gradually become a factor of great importance in the evolution of
Icelandic life. He was the conserver of the past, the exponent of the
stirring events of the present, the prophet of great things to be.
The Norsemen of that day lived at a period as remarkable as the
early Elizabethan epoch was for the men living in it. The skald
could sing of a mythic past, of a less remote traditionary era, and of


## p. 7867 (#59) ############################################

ICELANDIC LITERATURE
7867
the great deeds of the sea-kings of Norway; he could chant with
all the stir and force of actuality of what the vikings were doing
around the coasts of the world, and latterly, of how small bands of
the Summer Sailors were essaying the West Atlantic itself, against
the rumors of a great new land over sea: and they could raise the
hopes and dreams of their hearers by enlarging on the theme of a
new empire for the Children of the North.
As, after all, no stories ever appeal so strongly as those which
narrate the heroic deeds, the adventures, the vicissitudes of those
near to us by blood and race, it was natural that the Sagas should
mainly concern themselves with the epical setting of the simple facts
in the life of some heroic Norseman. Primarily, the Sagas are met-
rical chronicles of the sea-kings or Scandinavian chiefs. In his Pro-
legomena to the Sturlunga Saga,' Dr. Gudbrand Vigfusson writes as
follows of the famous Nial's Saga,' which he avers has always and
justly been ranked foremost. The Nial's Saga,' I may add, is com-
monly dated about the year 1000; that is, its relegation is between
970 and 1014. In many respects, says Dr. Vigfusson, it stands alone,
belonging to no school. It is peculiar alike in matter, style, and
spirit.
a
“In area the widest, in interest the most universal; giving the Althing,
the focus of Icelandic political life, for its centre, but noticing men and places
throughout the whole Scandinavian empire. The Saga of Law par excellence,
it is based on that most important element of early society; and the lesson it
teaches is of a Divine retribution, and that evil brings its own reward in spite
of all that human wisdom and courage, even innocence, can do to oppose it.
Hence, while inspiring the deepest interest and the warmest pleasure, it has
almost the character of a sacred book, and is read with reverence. The very
spirit indeed of Early Law seems to breathe through its pages, showing the
modern English reader the high ideal which his kinsmen strove long ago to
attain. ”
Naturally, as Dr. Vigfusson adds, to judge of this work fairly it
ought to be read in the original; for much of the subtle beauty of
its style, the admirable play of its dialogue, and at times the very
technical peculiarity of its matter, must of necessity be lost in any
translation, however faithful.
«The subject, like a Greek trilogy, falls into three divisions, each containing
its own plot and dramatis persona; all three loosely connected in one saga
by the weaker and later parts of the work. (1) The first plot (founded, as we
believe, on a now lost (Gunnar's Saga') tells of the friendship between Gun-
nar, the simple-minded brave chief, the ideal hero of his age, and the wise
lawyer Nial, a man of good counsel and peace who never bore weapons. The
cold envious heart of Hallgerda, which is here contrasted with the proud
honesty of Bergthora, has caused the death of her two former husbands; and


## p. 7868 (#60) ############################################

7868
ICELANDIC LITERATURE
at length, though she is unable to break the tie that binds Gunnar to his
trusted counselor, Hrut's prophecy and Nial's forebodings are finally fulfilled,
and after a brave defense the Lithend chief is slain in his own house by his
half regretful foes. His son and Nial avenge his death. Then comes an epi-
sode abroad which is merely a link to connect the second and most important
of the three dramas with the foregoing one, and to introduce fresh characters
on the scene. (2) Nial is now the central figure; his character is heightened,
he is almost a sage and prophet; the writer's highest skill is lavished on this
part of the Saga. The death of Thrain, slain by the sons of Nial, at length
brings down on himself and his house the fate which he is powerless to avert.
The adoption of Hoskuld, his foeman's son, by which he strives to heal the
feud, is but a step to this end. Eventually, to further his foster-son's interests,
he obtains for him one of the new (priesthoods) which were set up in con-
sequence of the great constitutional reform he had carried. Upon this, the
hatred of the old aristocracy whose position he had thus assailed broke out in
the guile of Valgard and his cunning son Mord, who sowed hatred between
the Whiteness Priest and his foster-brethren. A fancied slight at last rouses
these latter to murder the innocent Hoskuld. Nial, cut to the heart, still
strives for peace; but a few bitter words undo all his work, and the end he
has foretold is near. The scenes at the Althing, which relieve the story by
introducing portraits of every great chief of that day in Iceland, boldly and
humorously depicted, are very noteworthy. Flosi, the widow's kinsman, driven
unwillingly to action, now takes up the holy duty of blood-revenge; and by
his means Nial and his wife and sons perish in the smoke of their burn-
ing homestead. This awful catastrophe closes the second part. (3) Of the
concluding drama Flosi is the hero, and the plot tells of the Burner's fate.
The great suit against them at the Althing fails by a legal technicality;
and the ensuing battle is stayed by Hall and Snorri, by whose award they
are exiled. But Kari, Nial's son-in-law, who alone escaped from the fire,
pursues them with unrelenting vengeance; one by one they fall by various
fates: and when in the real battle of Clontarf, 1014, those of them who have
hitherto evaded their destiny perish, fighting against the new Faith, by the
swords of the Irish, his revenge is at length complete, and Flosi and he are
reconciled. )
The reader of the Nial's Saga' and other literature of the kind
will readily see how natural was the growth of this Icelandic litera-
ture; but it is only the close student who will observe how the short
saga of the individual becomes the more complex saga of a family or
a tribal section of the race. This transformation took place when
some of the smaller sagas were combined by one narrator of excep-
tional power and welded into a harmonious whole. An analogous
process is afforded in the instance of the Kalevala, and possibly in
that of Homer. Of these composite sagas the finest are Nial's Saga'
already alluded to, (Gudmund's Saga,' and the Eyrbyggia Saga.
Doubtless sagas such as these, and indeed nearly all oral lore, go
through an actual process of attenuation on the one hand and of
embellishment on the other, with each succeeding generation.


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ICELANDIC LITERATURE
7869
Let us consider for a moment how the (Heimskringla' – the chief
glory and pride old Norse literature came to be
written by
Snorri Sturluson. In him, says a recent authority, we have a Mac-
aulay of the thirteenth century,-a man to whom all who wish to
be good story-tellers, to interest the mind and stir the heart, may
well apprentice themselves: a man in a remote valley of Iceland, that
sunless land of snow and ice, that howling wilderness of lava and
cinder-heaps, over which Night broods so many weary hours of the
year. Surely Newman had forgotten Snorri when he laid it down as
an axiom that (Science, literature, and art refuse to germinate in
frost. You should see the place, the site of his abode with the bath
of hewn stone, in that valley of bogs and reek, and you would be
lost in amazement if you
did. See him picking up the threads of
history, and working them into a tissue picturesque in the extreme,
in his own vernacular too, when we English, who had not the wit
to throw off the old Roman influence,- dumbfounded too with that
French jargon which the Norman had brought into the land, the lan-
guage of the royal court, the courts of law, and the baronial castle,-
were maundering away in Latin. ”
It was in the midst of this gloomy and remote Iceland that the
great epic of the Scandinavian race was put together. But here I am
not dealing specifically with the Eddas as distinct from the Sagas:
and it should be remembered, too, that the ancients applied this
name only to the work of Snorri; though it is uncertain whether
Snorri himself, the composer of the New Edda,' called it so.
manuscript written fifty years after his death, there occurs this inter-
polation: “This book is called the Edda; it is compiled by Snorri
Sturluson. ”
The saga proper, says Dr. Vigfusson, is a kind of prose epic.
In a
never
“It has its fixed laws, its set phrases, its regular epithets and terms of
expression; and though there is, as in all high literary form, an endless
diversity of interest and style, yet there are also bounds which are
overstepped, confining the saga as closely as the employment and restrictions
of verse could do. It will be best to take as the type the smaller Icelandic
saga, from which indeed all the later forms of composition have sprung. This
in its original form is the story of an Icelandic gentleman, living some time in
the tenth or eleventh centuries. It will tell first of his kin, going back to the
(settler) from whom he sprung, then of his youth and early promise before
he left his father's house, to set forth on that foreign career which was the
fitting education of the young Northern chief. After these Wanderjahre
passed in trading voyages and pirate cruises, or in the service of one of the
Scandinavian kings as poet or henchman, the hero returns to Iceland a proved
man, and the main part of the story thus preluded begins. It recounts in
fuller detail and in order of time his life in Iceland, his loves and feuds, his
chieftainship and lawsuits, his friendships and his enmities, his exploits and


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7870
ICELANDIC LITERATURE
renown, and finally his death; usually concluding with the revenge taken for
him by his kinsmen, which fitly winds up the whole. This tale is told in an
earnest straightforward way, as by a man talking in short simple sentences,
changing when the interest grows high into the historic present, with here and
there an (aside) of explanation. There is no analysis of character: the actors
(present themselves in their action and speech. The dialogue, which is crisp
and laconic, full of pithy saws, and abounding in quiet grim humor or homely
pathos expressed in a few vivid words, is never needlessly used, and is there-
fore all the more significant and forcible. If the hero is a poet, we find most
aptly interwoven many of his extemporary verses. The whole composition,
grouped round a single man and a single place, is so well balanced and so
naturally unfolded piece by piece, that the great art shown therein often at
first escapes the reader. A considerable choice of words, a richness of alliter-
ation, and a delicate use of syntax, are always met with in the best sagas.
The story-teller is absorbed in his subject: no description of scenery, no reflec-
tions of his own, ever break the flow of the tale. He is a heathen with the
heathen, a wrathful man with the avenger, and a sorrowful man with the
mourner, as his style reflects the varied feelings of his dramatis persona.
The plot is nearly always a tragedy, and the humor dark and gloomy (the
hearty buffoonery of Bandamanna is the marked exception); but this is
relieved by the brighter and more idyllic home and farm scenes, and by the
pathos and naiveté which are ever present.