II Stanza xxxvii. of the First Edition Ан, FILL the Cup: what boots it to repeat III Stanza lxiv. of the First Edition SAID one, "Folks of a surly Tapster tell, IV Stanza xiv. of the Second Edition WERE it not Folly, Spider-like to spin The Thread of present Life away to win What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall V Stanza lxv. of the Second Edition IF BUT the Vine- and Love-abjuring Band Alack, I doubt the Prophet's Paradise VI Verse given among Fitzgerald's notes to the 'Rubáiyát,' but not included in the body of the text BE OF Good Cheer: the Sullen Month will die, Look how the Old one, meagre, bent, and wan ALEXANDER KIELLAND (1849-) LEXANDER KIELLAND, one of the foremost of the living authors of Norway, belongs in Norwegian literature to the generation subsequent to Björnson, Ibsen, and Lie, the three great names that most readily recur among the contemporary writers of his native country. In point of fact, he has very little in common with them or their predecessors, but in many ways marks a new tendency in the literature of Norway, which in its most recent development owes not a little to his incentive. In this attitude he and his immediate contemporary Arne Garborg though direct antitheses in some respects, here stand together, - an intermediate development between the oldest and the newest phases of that extraordinary literature that has attracted to it the attention of the world. Kielland was born in 1849, in Stavanger, Norway. His father was a ship-owner and merchant of abundant means and social position, as had been his ancestors for generations before him. At the University of Christiania he studied law, which however he never practiced, although he duly took his examination at the end of the course. Instead he chose at the outset a business career; and bought a brick and tile factory at Malk, near Stavanger, which he managed with ability until 1881, when it was sold to a stock company. ALEXANDER KIELLAND His first literary work saw the light under these conditions. His career began with a series of short stories, which appeared anonymously in the Christiania Dagblad. These first tales, with others written subsequently, went to make up the material of his first two books, 'Novelletter' (1879), and 'Nye Novelletter' (1880). Several winters spent in Paris, and the study of modern French literature, established the characteristic tendency of his genius. Many of his novelettes and short stories are so essentially French in method and manner, that except for their environment they might equally well have been the product of French soil. To associate him with Daudet is natural and inevitable; for in his point of view and treatment of material he most resembles that great master of short stories. Kielland's use of the Norwegian language is a revelation, and it flows from his pen in incisive and often sparkling sentences. No one ever before has used the language as he uses it. In his hands it is a medium of the utmost clarity, and transmits every delicate shade of meaning. It lends itself readily to translation, but very little has as yet found its way into English. Garman and Worse' has been translated by W. W. Kettlewell (London, 1885), Skipper Worse' by the Earl of Ducie (London, 1885), and William Archer has translated a number of short stories which have been published under the title of 'Tales of Two Countries' (1891). ( Kielland's first novel, Garman and Worse' (1880), demonstrated his seriousness of purpose. It is a social study of bourgeois life in the towns of the western coast of Norway, and treats of types of character with which the author has all his life been familiar. Inevitably it is autobiographical, particularly in the incidents of the boyhood of Gabriel Garman. A faithful picture of the life of a small Norwegian town, it is full of clever satire and humorous delineation. Discontent with existing social conditions ramifying in various directions is the psychological element in most of Kielland's novels. Kielland's second novel, Laboring People' (1881), is the pathology as well as the psychology of vice, and treats of the corrupting influence of the upper classes upon the lower. The horrors of the subject are not disguised; and from this book it may be understood why Georg Brandes, in his brilliant essay upon Kielland, should trace in his writings the influence of Balzac and Zola. In point of structure and composition 'Skipper Worse' ranks among the best of his novels; and here as always there is the suggestion of Daudet, for the theme of the story-a study of Pietism in Norway - is similar to that of 'L'Évangéliste.' His strength and earnestness are nowhere better exemplified than in this psychological study. Kielland's development has been uniform and steady, and his recent work shows an immense increase in power. His later books all indicate the trend of his socialistic tendency. 'Snow' is a protest against blind orthodoxy. The wintry Norwegian landscape is symbolical of the icy fetters of tradition, but there is a hint and promise of spring. In 'Jacob,' however, pessimism settles like a heavy fog, rayless and dispiriting. It is a revolt against senseless optimism and poetic justice, and a plea for what he believes to be reality. Kielland's characteristic is the spirit of liberalism in politics, ethics, and religion. Of aristocratic social connections, a conservative by birth and education, Kielland is the champion of democracy. So outspoken is he, indeed, that the government itself, through a committee appointed to investigate his claims to the customary literary pension, has protested against a literature "opposed to the prevailing moral and religious ideas of the nation," and refused to sanction his writings by granting the stipend petitioned by his friends. As a compensation, his popularity with the people is unbounded; and in spite of the frowns of the government, he has virtually remained master of the field. IT AT THE FAIR From Tales of Two Countries. Copyright 1891, by Harper & Brothers T WAS by the merest chance that Monsieur and Madame Tousseau came to Saint-Germain-en-Laye in the early days of September. Four weeks ago they had been married in Lyons, which was their home; but where they had passed these four weeks they really could not have told you. The time had gone hop-skipand-jump: a couple of days had entirely slipped out of their reckoning; and on the other hand they remembered a little summer-house at Fontainebleau, where they had rested one evening, as clearly as if they had passed half their lives there. Paris was, strictly speaking, the goal of their wedding journey, and there they established themselves in a comfortable little hôtel garni. But the city was sultry, and they could not rest, so they rambled about among the small towns in the neighborhood, and found themselves one Sunday at noon in Saint-Germain. "Monsieur and Madame have doubtless come to take part in the fête?" said the plump little landlady of the Hotel Henri Quatre, as she ushered her guests up the steps. The fête? They knew of no fête in the world except their own wedded happiness; but they did not say so to the landlady. They soon learned that they had been lucky enough to drop into the very midst of the great and celebrated fair which is held every year, on the first Sunday of September, in the Forest of Saint-Germain. The young couple were highly delighted with their good hap. It seemed as though Fortune followed at their heels, or rather ran ahead of them, to arrange surprises. After a delicious têteà-tête dinner behind one of the clipped yew-trees in the quaint garden, they took a carriage and drove off to the forest. In the hotel garden, beside the little fountain in the middle of the lawn, sat a ragged condor which the landlord had bought to amuse his guests. It was attached to its perch by a good strong rope. But when the sun shone upon it with real warmth, it fell a-thinking of the snow-peaks of Peru, of mighty wing-strokes over the deep valleys- and then it forgot the rope. Two vigorous strokes with its pinions would bring the rope up taut, and it would fall back upon the sward. There it would lie by the hour, then shake itself and clamber up to its little perch again. When it turned its head to watch the happy pair, Madame Tousseau burst into a fit of laughter at its melancholy mien. The afternoon sun glimmered through the dense foliage of the interminable straight-ruled avenue that skirts the terrace. The young wife's veil fluttered aloft as they sped through the air, and wound itself right around Monsieur's head. It took a long time to put it in order again, and Madame's hat had to be adjusted ever so often. Then came the relighting of Monsieur's cigar, and that too was quite a business,- for Madame's fan would always give a suspicious little flirt every time the match was lighted; then a penalty had to be paid, and that again took time. The aristocratic English family which was passing the summer at Saint-Germain was disturbed in its regulation walk by the passing of the gay little equipage. They raised their correct gray or blue eyes; there was neither contempt nor annoyance in their look-only the faintest shade of surprise. But the condor followed the carriage with its eyes until it became a mere black speck at the vanishing-point of the straight-ruled interminable avenue. "La joyeuse fête des Loges" is a genuine fair, with gingerbread cakes, sword-swallowers, and waffles piping hot. As the evening falls, colored lamps and Chinese lanterns are lighted around the venerable oak which stands in the middle of the fairground, and boys climb about among its topmost branches with maroons and Bengal lights. Gentlemen of an inventive turn of mind go about with lanterns on their hats, on their sticks, and wherever they can possibly hang; and the most inventive of all strolls around with his sweetheart under a great umbrella, with a lantern dangling from each rib. On the outskirts, bonfires are lighted; fowls are roasted on spits, while potatoes are cut into slices and fried in drippings. Each aroma seems to have its amateurs, for there are always |