No More Learning

ALBERT DÜRER'S MELANCHOLIA>
From The Dutch School of Painters >
THE
HE love of the extravagant and fantastic observable in Dürer's
first pictures never abandoned him. He has probably ex
pressed the inspiration of his own soul in the figure of
Melancholy, who, seated on the sea-shore, seems trying to pene-
trate with her gaze into infinite space. For my part, I have this
picture always before me. How could it be possible to forget an


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CHARLES BLANC
engraving of Dürer's, even though seen but once? I can see
her proud and noble head resting thoughtfully upon one hand,
her long hair falling in disheveled tresses upon her shoulders;
her folded wings emblematic of that impotent aspiration which
directs her gaze towards heaven; a book, closed and useless as
her wings, resting upon her knee. Nothing can be more gloomy,
more penetrating, than the expression of this figure. From the
peculiar folds of her dress, one would suppose she was enveloped
in iron draperies. Near her is a sun-dial with a bell which
marks the hours as they glide away. The sun is sinking beneath
the ocean, and darkness will soon envelop the earth. Above
hovers a strange-looking bat with spreading wings, and bearing a
pennon on which is written the word "Melancholia. »
All is symbolical in this composition, of which the sentiment
is sublime. Melancholy holds in her right hand a pair of com-
passes and a circle, the emblem of that eternity in which her
thoughts are lost. Various instruments appertaining to the arts
and sciences lie scattered around her; after having made use of
them, she has cast them aside and has fallen into a profound
revery. As typical of the mistrust which has crept into her
heart with avarice and doubt, a bunch of keys is suspended to
her girdle; above her is an hour-glass, the emblem of her transi-
tory existence. Nothing could be more admirable than the face
of Melancholy, both in the severe beauty of her features and the
depth of her gaze.
Neither the sentiment of melancholy nor the word which ex-
presses it had appeared in art before the time of Albert Dürer.
INGRES
From the Life of Ingres
SMALL
MALL of stature, square of figure, rough of manner, devoid of
distinction, Ingres's personality afforded a great contrast to
the refinement of his taste and the charm of his feminine
figures. I can hardly conceive how a man thus built could show
such delicacy in the choice of his subjects; how those short, thick
fingers could draw such lovely, graceful forms.
Ingres hated academic conventionality; he mingled the Floren-
tine and Greek schools; he sought the ideal not outside of reality
but in its very essence, in the reconciliation of style with nature.


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CHARLES BLANC
2057
Color he considered of secondary importance; he not only sub-
ordinated it voluntarily to drawing, but he did not have a natural
gift for it. Ingres is the artist who has best expressed the volup-
tuousness not of flesh but of form; who has felt feminine beauty
most profoundly and chastely.
CALAMATTA'S STUDIO
From Contemporary Artists'
I
CAN still see Lamennais, with his worn-out coat, his round
back, his yellow, parchment-like face, his eyes sparkling be-
neath a forehead imprinted with genius, and resembling
somewhat Hoffmann's heroes. George Sand sometimes visited
us, and it seemed to me that her presence lighted up the whole
studio. She always spoke to me, for she knew that I was the
brother of a distinguished writer, and when she looked over my
plate I trembled like a leaf.
Thus our calm sedentary life was enlivened by an occasional
sunbeam; and when I was hard at work with my graver, my
mind was nourished by the minds of others. Giannone, the poet,
read his commentaries on Shakespeare to us, and Mercure always
had a witty retort in that faulty French which is so amusing in
an Italian mouth. Calamatta would listen in silence, his eyes
glued to his drawing of the 'Joconde,' at which he worked on
his good days.
BLANC'S DÉBUT AS ART CRITIC
From Contemporary Artists ›
IN
THOSE days things happened just as they do now; the criti-
cism is almost invariably the work of beginners. A youth
who has acquired a smattering of learning, who has caught
up the slang of the studios, and pretends to have a system or to
defend a paradox, is chosen to write an account of the Salon.
was that youth, that novice. And after all, how become a work-
man unless you work? how become expert if you do not study,
recognize your mistakes and repair them? Beneath our mistakes
truth lies hidden.
I
So I arrived at Brussels to exercise the trade of critic, and
found myself in the presence of two men who were then making


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CHARLES BLANC
a brilliant début as painters: De Keyser and Henri Leys. I
hope I shall be forgiven if I reproduce my criticism of the
latter's 'Massacre of the Magistrates of Louvain. '
"Imagine to yourself a small public square, such as might have.
existed in Louvain in the fourteenth century; this square filled with
angry people demanding satisfaction for the death of their chief,
Gautier de Lendes, assassinated by the nobles; the approach to the
palace of justice crowded with men armed to the teeth; at the top
of the stairs the city magistrates on their way to execution, some as
calm as if about to administer justice, others bewailing that the peo-
ple know not what they do; peasants awaiting them at the foot of
the stairs, dagger in hand, a smile upon their lips; here and there
fainting women, dead bodies being stripped, dying men being tor-
tured, and an inextricable confusion of monks, burghers, soldiers,
children and horses. Then if you fancy this scene painted with the
warmth and impetuosity of a Tintoretto, or as Hugo would have
written it, you will have an idea of Leys's picture. It may not be
prudent to trust an enthusiastic criticism; but my opinion is shared
by every one. I may be rash in praising a young man whose wings
may melt in the sun; but when, as is the case with M. Leys, the
artist possesses exact knowledge of the times and manners, when he
has verve, dash, and deep feeling, he needs only to moderate ardor
by reflection, and to ripen inspiration by study, in order to become
great. "
One must admit that the above was not a bad beginning for
an apprentice-connoisseur, and that I was fortunate in praising
an unknown artist destined to make a great reputation.
There is something more real than reality in what passes in the
soul of a great artist!
Α
N
DELACROIX'S BARK OF DANTE›
From Contemporary Artists'
ADMIRABLE and altogether new quality is the weird har-
mony of color which makes the painting vibrate like a
drama; or in other words, that sombre harmony itself is
the foundation of the tragedy. Lyricism is expressed by mere
difference in tones, which, heightened by their contrasts and
softened by their analogy, become harmonious while clashing
with each other. A new poetry was born of the French school,
until then so sober of color, so little inclined to avail itself of
·


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CHARLES BLANC
2059
the material resources of painting. And yet the expression thus
achieved by Delacroix appeals to the soul as much as to the eyes.
It is not merely optical beauty, but spiritual beauty of the high-
est order, that is produced by his superb coloring. In this picture
the young painter's genius was revealed unto himself. He then
knew that he had guessed the secret of an art which he was to
carry to a perfection undreamed of before, the orchestration of
color.
――
Delacroix was the hero of Romanticism. His life was one long
revolt in the name of color against drawing, of flesh against
marble, of freedom of attitude against traditionary precision. He
is an essentially modern genius inflamed by the poetry of Christ-
ianity, and he added tumultuous passions and feverish emotions
to the antique serenity of art.
In those days youth was entirely given up to noble aspira-
tions, to dreams of glory, to enthusiasm for beauty of expression
and feeling, to an ardent love of liberty. Men were indifferent
to stock quotations, but they rated spiritual values high. Mere
theories inspired passion; quarrels on the subject of style and
painting were common; men became enthusiastic over poetry
and beauty- the ideal!
GENESIS OF THE GRAMMAR›
Α'
T DINNER one day with the dignitaries of one of the largest
cities of France, conversation turned upon the arts. All of
the guests spoke of them, and well; but each intrenched
himself behind his own personal views, in virtue of the adage
"One cannot argue about tastes. " I protested in vain against
this false principle, saying that it was inadmissible, and that the
classic Brillat-Savarin would have been shocked at such blas-
phemy. Even his name had no weight, and the guests separated
gayly, after uttering heresies that made you shiver. Among the
eminent men present there was one, however, who seemed some-
what mortified that he had not the most elementary idea of art;
and he asked me if there was not some book in which its princi-
ples were presented in a clear and brief form. I replied that no
such book existed, and that on leaving college I should have been
only too happy to find such a work; and thereupon determined
to write one.
¦
1
¦


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CHARLES BLANC
MORAL INFLUENCE OF ART
From Grammar of Painting and Engraving'
The philos-
AINTING purifies people by its mute eloquence.
opher writes his thoughts for those who can think and read.
The painter shows his thought to all who have eyes to see.
That hidden and naked virgin, Truth, the artist finds without
seeking. He throws a veil over her, encourages her to please,
proves to her that she is beautiful, and when he has reproduced
her image he makes us take her, and takes her himself, for
Beauty.
In communicating to us what has been seen and felt by
others, the painter gives new strength and compass to the soul.
Who can say of how many apparently fugitive impressions a
man's morality is composed, and upon what depends the gentle-
ness of his manners, the correctness of his habits, the elevation
of his thoughts? If the painter represents acts of cruelty or
injustice, he inspires us with horror. The Unhappy Family'
of Proudhon moves the fibres of charity better than the homilies
of a preacher.
Examples of the sublime are rare in
painting, as the painter is compelled to imprison every idea in
a form.
It may happen, nevertheless, that moved by thoughts
to which he has given no form, the artist strikes the soul as a
thunderbolt would the ear. It is then by virtue of the thought
perceived, but not formulated, that the picture becomes sublime.
POUSSIN'S (SHEPHERDS OF ARCADIA ›
From Grammar of Painting and Engraving >
IN
N A wide, heavily wooded country, the sojourning-place of that
happiness sung by the poets, some peasants have discovered
a tomb hidden by a thicket of trees, and bearing this brief
inscription: "Et in Arcadia ego" (I too lived in Arcadia). These
words, issuing from the tomb, sadden their faces, and the smiles.
die upon their lips. A young girl, carelessly leaning upon the
shoulder of her lover, seems to listen, mute and pensive, to this
salutation from the dead. The thought of death has also plunged
into reverie a youth who leans over the tomb with bowed head,
while the oldest shepherd points out the inscription he has just
discovered. The landscape that completes this quiet picture


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CHARLES BLANC
2061
shows reddened leaves upon arid rocks; hillocks that melt in the
vague horizon, and in the distance, something ill-defined that
resembles the sea. The sublime in this painting is that which
we cannot see; it is the thought that hovers over it, the unex-
pected emotion that fills the soul of the spectator, transported
suddenly beyond the tomb into the infinite unknown.
LANDSCAPE
From 'Grammar of Painting and Engraving'
THE
HE poetry of the fields and forests is inseparable from truth.
But the painter must idealize this truth by making it
express some sentiment; faithfulness of imitation alone
would not suffice. The artist, master of reality, enlightens it
with his eyes, transfigures it according to his heart, and makes
it utter what is not in it- sentiment; and that which it neither
possesses nor understands-thought.
STYLE
From Grammar of Painting and Engraving'
D
RAWING is a work of the mind; every drawing is the expres-
sion of a thought or sentiment, and is charged with show-
ing us something superior to the apparent truth when
that reveals neither sentiment nor thought. But what is this
superior truth? It is sometimes the character of the object
drawn, sometimes the character of the designer, and in high art
is what we call style.
The artist sees in the creations of nature what he himself
carries in the depth of his soul, tints them with the colors of his
imagination, lends them the witchery of his genius. The tem-
perament of the artist modifies the character of objects, and even
that of living figures. But this power of taking possession is the
appanage of great hearts, of great artists, of those whom we
call masters, who, instead of being the slaves of reality, domi-
nate it. These have a style; their imitators have only a manner.
Aside from the style peculiar to every great master, there is
in art something still superior and impersonal, which is style
proper. Style is truth aggrandized, simplified, freed from all
insignificant details, restored to its original essence, its typical
----


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CHARLES BLANC
aspect. This "style" par excellence, in which instead of recogniz
ing the soul of an artist we feel the breath of the universal
soul, was realized in the Greek sculpture of the time of Pericles.
THE LAW OF PROPORTION IN ARCHITECTURE
From Grammar of Painting and Engraving'
M^
AN, from the fact that he is the only intelligent being in
creation, desires to show his intelligence in his works.
In order to do so he makes them resemble himself in a
measure, by impressing upon them the characteristic of his intel-
ligence, which is logic, and that of his body, which is proportion.
Architecture employs inorganic matter alone-stone, marble,
brick, iron, wood, when the sap has been dried out of it and it
ceases to be an organic substance; and yet, under the hand of
the architect, this inert matter expresses sentiments and feelings.
By subjecting it to the laws of order, symmetry, and proportion,
in a manner which appeals to the eye, he lends them a semblance
of life and an organism conceived after his own image. By this
artificial proportion, inert matter is raised to the dignity of the
animal kingdom; it is rendered eloquent and capable of express-
ing the soul of the artist, and often that of a race.
But human monuments have still another point in common
with the body. Order, symmetry, and proportion are needed
rigorously only on the exterior. Within, general beauty no longer
dominates, but individual life. If we look at the interior of the
human body we find no symmetry, no arrangement but that
demanded by the function of the organs. The brain, it is true,
has two symmetrical lobes, because the brain is destined to a life
of relation, to the life of intelligence. But in their individual
functions the life of the internal organs presents another aspect.
The stomach is a shapeless bag; the heart is a single muscle
which is not even placed in the centre; the left lung is longer
and narrower than the right; the spleen is a ganglion placed on
the left side without any corresponding organ; but all this mech-
anism, which scientists consider wonderful in its irregularity, is
hidden beneath a layer of similar members which repeat each
other and correspond at equal distances from a central line, and
constitute symmetry in animals, beauty in man. Similar in this
respect to the human body, architectural monuments have a double
life and a double aspect.


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CHARLES BLANC
2063
On the exterior, it is meet that they should be regular, sym-
metrical but symmetrical from left to right like man, not from
top to bottom nor from face to back. Their resemblance to man
is further shown by openings, which are as the eyes and ears of
the persons who inhabit them; their entrance occupies the centre
of the edifice, as the mouth is placed on the central line of the
face; they have rounded or angular forms according as they have
been built to express strength, a virile idea, or grace, a feminine
one; lastly, they have proportion, for there is a harmonious rela-
tion between their apparent members, and a mutual dependence
which subordinates the variety of the parts to the unity of the
whole, and which constitutes the necessary conditions of the
beautiful in art.
The interior is not subjected to the necessity for duplicate
members, to regularity of façade, nor to unity of appearance.
Thus when the artist who has designed the monument performs
its autopsy, so to say, we see, as in the human body, unequal
dimensions, irregular shapes, disparities which resemble disorder
to the eye, but which constitute the individuality of the edifice.
Within reigns relative beauty, free, with fixed rule; without
reigns a necessary beauty subjected to its own laws.
-
In man, character is the soul's expression. In architecture,
character is the moral physiognomy of a building. As a portrait
without character is but a vain shadow of the person repre-
sented, so a monument which does not appeal to the intelligence,
which evokes no thought, is merely a pile of stones, a body with-
out a soul. The soul of architecture is the thought it expresses.
Character tends towards beauty in man as well as in his
works. If we glance at human society, we see faces which
appear to be nothing more than a sketch. Parsimonious nature
has given them only sufficient life to move in a narrow circle;
they are mere individuals; they represent nothing but them-
selves. However, in the midst of the crowd, some men are
noticeable for an abundance of vitality, whom favorable events
have developed along their natural tendencies: they impersonate
many individuals in one; their unity is equal to numbers; for
good or evil, they have a character. In proportion as an indi-
viduality becomes more enriched, more pronounced, it attains
character; in proportion as character loses its roughness it be-
comes beauty. This is also true of architecture.


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2064
STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
(1782-1848)
MONG the men nearest to the heart of the Danish people is
Steen Steensen Blicher, who was born in 1782 on the border
of the Jutland heath with which his name is so inseparably
linked. The descendant of a line of country parsons, he was des-
tined like them to the ministry, and while awaiting his appointment
he supported his family by teaching and by farming.
When after years of hardship he finally obtained a parish on the
Jutland heath, the salary was too small to support his large family.
It was only during the very last years of his life that he was freed
from harassing cares by the generosity of three friends, who, grate-
ful for his literary work, paid off his debts.
While he was in college at Copenhagen he heard the lectures of
the Norwegian Henrik Steffens, an interpreter of the German philo-
sophic and romantic school. Steffens aroused a reaction against the
formalism of the eighteenth century, and introduced romanticism
into the North by his powerful influence over men like Oehlen-
schläger, Grundtvig, and Mynster in Denmark, and Ling and the
"Phosphorists" in Sweden. Through these lectures Blicher became
much interested in the Ossianic poems, of which he made an excel-
lent Danish translation.
The poems and dramas with which he followed this work were
of no great importance. It was not until he began to look into the
old Danish traditions that he found his true sphere. The study of
these quaint and simple legends led him to write those national
peasant stories which he began to publish in 1826. They are not
only the best of their kind in Danish, but they bear favorable com-
parison with the same kind of work in other literatures. They are
not written as a study of social problems, or of any philosophy of
life or moods of nature as they are reflected in human existence;
they are merely a reproduction of what the country parson's own
eyes beheld-the comedy and tragedy of the commonplace. What
a less sensitive observer might have passed in silence- the brown
heath, the breakers of the North Sea, the simple heart and life of
the peasant-revealed to him the poesy, now merry, now sad, which
he renders with so much art and so delicate a sympathy. Behind
the believer in romanticism stands the lover of nature and of hu-
manity.


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STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
2065
Among his works the best known are 'E Bindstouw' (The Knit-
ting-room), a collection of stories and poems, full of humor, simple
and naïve, told by the peasants themselves in their own homely Jut-
land dialect. These, as well as some of his later poems, especially
'Sneklokken' (The Snowbell), and Trækfuglene' (Birds of Passage),
possess a clear, true, and national lyric quality.
Dying in 1848, Blicher was buried in Jutland, near the heath on
which he spent whole days and nights of happy solitude.
On one
side of the stone above his grave is engraved a golden plover, on the
other a pair of heath-larks, and around the foot a garland of heather,
in memory of that intimate life with nature which, through his own
great love for it, he endeared to all his readers.
A PICTURE
From the 'Poems>
LAY on my heathery hills alone;
The storm-winds rushed o'er me in turbulence loud;
My head rested lone on the gray moorland stone;
My eyes wandered skyward from cloud unto cloud.
There wandered my eyes, but my thoughts onward passed,
Far beyond cloud-track or tempest's career;
At times I hummed songs, and the desolate waste
Was the first the sad chimes of my spirit to hear.
Gloomy and gray are the moorlands where rest
My fathers, yet there doth the wild heather bloom,
And amid the old cairns the lark buildeth her nest,
And sings in the desert, o'er hill-top and tomb.
From Howitt's 'Literature of Northern Europe. '
THE KNITTING-ROOM
IT
T WAS the eve before Christmas Eve-no, stop! I am lying-
it was the eve before that, come to think of it, that there
was a knitting-bee going on at the schoolmaster's, Kristen
Kornstrup's, you know him? There were plenty that knew
him, for in the winter he was schoolmaster, and in the summer
he was mason, and he was alike clever at both. And he could
do more than that, for he could stop the flow of blood, and dis-
cover stolen goods, and make the wind turn, and read prayers
IV-130


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STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
over felons, and much more too. But at this exorcising he was
not so good as the parson, for he had not been through the black
school.
So we had gathered there from the whole town,-oh, well,
Lysgaard town is not so mighty big: there are only six farms
and some houses, but then they were there too from Kat-
balle and Testrup, and I think the lads from Knakkeborg had
drifted over too- but that doesn't matter. We had got it meas-
ured off at last, and all of us had got our yarn over the hook in
the ceiling above the table, and had begun to let the five needles
work. Then the schoolmaster says, "Isn't there one of you that
will sing something or tell something? then it will go so nicely
with the work here. " Then she began to speak, Kirsten Peders-
datter from Paps,- for she is always forward about speaking:-
"I could sing you a little ditty if you cared to hear it—»
"That we do," said I, "rattle it off! " And she sang a ditty-
I had never heard it before, but I remember well enough, and
it ran this way:-
-
-
But now I will tell you a story about a Poorman [gipsy] and
what happened to him.
"If," said he - Mads Ur—“if you have been in Herning or
thereabout, you know that there is a great marsh south of it.
That same marsh is not so very nice to cross for those that don't
know it well.
"It was the summer I was working for Kristens that a cow
sank down out there, and it was one of those I was watching.
I took her by the horns and I took her by the tail, but she
would not help herself at all, and when one won't do a little bit,
what is going to become of one? As I stand there pulling at
that same refractory cow, up comes a Poorman from over at
Rind, one of those they call knackers. 'I'll have to help you,'
said he: 'you take hold of the horns, and I'll lift the tail. ' That
worked, for he pricked her under the tail with his pikestaff, and
she was of a mind to help herself too. 'What do you give me
for that now? ' said he. I have nothing to give you,' said I,
'nothing but thanks. ' 'I won't have them,' answered he, 'but if
ever I should sink down on one road or another, will you lend
me a hand if you are near by? ' That I will do, indeed,
answered I; and then he tramped up to town, and that was all.


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STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
2067
―d
"How was it now that I came to work in Sund's parsonage ?
-well, that doesn't matter-I could swing a scythe, but how
old I was I don't remember, for I don't rightly know how old I
am now. The parson was a mighty good man, but God help us
for the wife he had! She was as bad to him as any woman
could be, and he hadn't a dog's chance with her. I have saved
him twice from her grip, for he was a little scared mite of a
thing, and she was big and strong, but I was stronger still, and I
could get the better of her. Once she chased him around the
yard with a knife in her hand, and cried that she would be even
with him. I did not like that, so I took the knife from her and
warned her to behave herself, - but that wasn't what I meant to
say. Well, once while I was working there I stood near the
pond looking at the aftermath. And up comes this same cus-
tomer this Poorman-drifting along the road toward me, and
he had two women following him, and they each had a cradle on
their backs and a child in each cradle. 'Good day to you,' said
I. 'Same to you,' said he; 'how is your cow? Have you let
her get into the marsh since? ' 'Oh, no,' said I, and here is
another thank-ye to you. ' 'Are you working in this here bit of
a parsonage? ' said he. That I am,' said I. Well, now listen,'
said he; 'couldn't you hide me these two with their little ones a
day or so? for to-morrow there is to be a raid on our people,
and I wouldn't like to have these in Viborghouse; I can stow
myself away easy enough. ' 'I'll see what I can do,' answered I;
'let them come, say a little after bedtime, to the West house
there, and I'll get a ladder ready and help them up on the hay-
loft,- but have you food and drink yourself? ' 'Oh, I shall do
well enough,' said he, 'and now farewell to you until the sun is
down. ' So then they drifted along the road to a one-horse farm,
and that evening they came, sure enough, and I hid the two
women and the children until the second night; then they slipped
away again.
Before I parted with them, the Poorman said, 'I'd
like to repay you this piece of work: isn't there something you
want very much? ' 'Yes,' said I. -'What might it be? '- 'Hm !
The only thing is Morten's Ane Kirstine at the farm where you
went last night. But her parents won't let me have her; they
say I have too little, and that is true too. ' 'Hm, man,' says he,
'you look as if you had a pair of strong arms of your own; that
is a good heirloom, and she has some pennies, in a couple of
days you might go and see what the old man's mind is. I'll
-
-
I


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2068
STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
help along the best I know how. ' I listened to that, for evil
upon them, those gipsies—they are not such fools. They can
tell fortunes and discover stolen goods, and they can do both
good and evil as it may happen.
"I thought over this thing a couple of days and some of the
nights too, and then the third day I drifted over to Morten's.
Ane Kirstine stood alone outside the gate with her back turned,
for she was busy whitewashing a wall, so I came upon her before
she knew it. 'Mercy on us! is that you? ' she cried, "where
have you been all these many days? '-'I have been at home,
and in the field, and on the heath, as it happened, and now I
come to take a look at you. '-'I am not worth looking at,' said
she, and thrust her clay-covered hands down into the pail to
rinse off the clay. 'I don't care,' says I, 'whether you are yel-
low or gray, for you are the best friend I've got in this world;
but I suppose I shall never be worthy of taking you in my arms
in all honor and virtue. '-'It would be bad if that couldn't be,'
said she, but it may happen we have got to wait awhile. '-
'I can't wait over-long,' said I, 'for my mother will have no
roof over her head, and either I shall have to take the farm or
else a sister; that is how it stands, and it cannot be otherwise. '-
Then she began to sniffle, and dried her eyes and sighed, but
said nothing. I felt sorry for her, but what was there for one
to do?
"Well, some one came who could tell us what to do, and it
was none other than that same Poorman. Along he tramps
with one of his women, and had his glass case on his back and
wanted to get into the farm. Then he turned toward us and
said: 'Well, well! what are you two doing there? Come along
in with me, little girl, and I'll see if I can't manage it for you;
but you stay out here, my little man! then we'll see what may
come of it. ' They went, and I sat down on a stone that was
lying there and folded my hands. I was not over-happy. I
don't know how long I sat there, for I had fallen asleep; but
then I was waked by some one kissing me, and it was no other
than Ane Kirstine. 'Are you sitting there sleeping? ' said she;
'come along in now, it is as it ought to be. The knacker has
spoken a good word for us to mother, and when nothing could
change her he said, "There is a black cock sitting on the perch:
maybe a red one will crow over you if you don't do as I say. "
At this she got a little bit scared, and said, "Then let it be! but


## p. 2069 (#263) ###########################################

STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
2069
this I tell you, Ane Kirstine, I'll keep the black-headed cow for
milking, and I'll have all the hay that is my share. "-"That is no
more than reasonable," said I, "and now we have no more to
quarrel about, I suppose. " Now you can let them publish the
banns when you please. ' 'And now, Ane Kirstine,' said I,
'this tramp here, he must have a reward, and I'll give it with
a good will; and if we can get hold of him when we have our
feast, he shall have a pot of soup and a hen to himself and those
women and children. '—'That is right enough,' said she; 'and I
will give them a rag or so, or a few more of my half-worn
clothes. '
"Well, then my mother-in-law made a splendid feast, and there
was plenty of everything. The Poorman was there, too, with all
his following; but they had theirs by themselves, as you might
know, seeing that they were of the knacker kind.
Him I gave
a coat, and Ane Kirstine gave the women each a cap and a ker-
chief and a piece of homespun for a petticoat for each of the
young ones, and they were mighty well pleased.
"I and Ane Kirstine had lived happily together for about four
years, as we do still, and all that time we had seen nothing of
that Poorman, although we had spoken of him now and again.
Sometimes we thought he had perished, and sometimes that they
had put him into Viborghouse. Well, then it was that we were
to have our second boy christened, him we called Sören, and I
went to the parson to get this thing fixed up. As I came on the
marsh to the selfsame place where I saw that Poor-customer the
first time, there was somebody lying at one edge of the bog, on
his back in the heather and with his legs in the ditch. I knew
him well enough. 'Why are you lying here alone? ' said I: 'is
anything the matter with you? ' 'I think I am dying,' said he,
but he gasped so I could hardly understand him. 'Where are
those women,' said I, 'that you used to have with you? Have
they left you to lie here by the road? ' He nodded his head and
whispered, 'A drop of water. ' 'That I will give you,' said I,
and then I took some of the rainwater that stood in the ditch, in
the hollow of my hat, and held it to his mouth. But that was
of no use, for he could drink no longer, but drew up his legs
and opened his mouth wide, and then the spirit left him. I felt
so sorry for him that when I came to the parson's I begged that
his poor ghost might be sheltered in the churchyard. That he
gave me leave to do, and then I fetched him on my own wagon


## p. 2070 (#264) ###########################################

2070
STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
and nailed a couple of boards together and laid him down in
the northwestern corner, and there he lies. "
"Well now, that was it," said Kristen Katballe, "but why do
you sit there so still, Marie Kjölvroe? Can you neither sing nor
tell us something? " "That is not impossible," said she, and
heaved a sigh, and sang so sadly that one might almost think it
had happened to her.
THE HOSIER
"The greatest sorrow of all down here,
Is to lose the one we hold most dear. »
S
OMETIMES, when I have wandered far out on the wide heath,
where I have had nothing but the brown heather around
me and the blue sky above me; when I walked far away
from mankind and the monuments of its busy doings here be-
low, which after all are only molehills to be leveled by time
or by some restless Tamerlane; - when I drifted, light-hearted,
free, and proud, like the Bedouin, whom no house, no narrowly
bounded field chains to the spot, but who owns, possesses, all he
sees, who does not dwell, but who goes wherever he pleases;
when my far-hovering eye caught a glimpse of a house in the
horizon, and was thus disagreeably arrested in its airy flight,
sometimes there came (God forgive me this passing thought,
it was no more than that) the wish-would that this dwelling
of man were not! there too is trouble and sorrow; there too they
quarrel and fight about mine and thine! -Oh! the happy desert
is mine, is thine, is everybody's, is nobody's. It is said that a
forester has proposed to disturb the settlements, to plant forests
on the fields of the peasants and in place of their torn-down
villages; the far more inhuman thought has taken possession of
me at times--what if the heather-grown heath were still here
the same as it was centuries ago, undisturbed, untouched by the
hand of man! But as I have said, I did not mean it seriously.
For when tired and weary, suffering from hunger and thirst, I
thought longingly of the Arab's tent and coffee-pot, I thanked
God that a heather-thatched roof- be it even miles away-
promised me shelter and refreshment.
On a still, warm September day, several years ago, I found
myself walking on this same heath, which, Arabically speaking,


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STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
2071
I call mine. No wind stirred the blushing heather; the air
was heavy and misty with heat. The far-off hills that limited the
horizon seemed to hover like clouds around the immense plain,
and took many wonderful shapes: houses, towers, castles, men
and animals; but all of dark uncertain outline, changing like
dream pictures; now a cottage grew into a church, and that in
turn into a pyramid; here a spire arose, there another sank; a
man became a horse, and this in turn an elephant; here floated
a boat, there a ship with all sails set.
My eye found its pleasure for quite a while in watching these
fantastic figures-a panorama which only the sailor and the
desert-dweller have occasion to enjoy - when finally I began to
look for a real house among the many false ones; I wanted right
ardently to exchange all my beautiful fairy palaces for a single
human cottage.
Success was mine; I soon discovered a real farm without
spires and towers, whose outlines became distincter and sharper
the nearer I came to it, and which, flanked by peat-stacks,
looked much larger than it really was. Its inmates were
unknown to me. Their clothes were poor, their furniture simple,
but I knew that the heath-dweller often hides noble rental in an
unpainted box or in a miserable wardrobe, and a fat pocketbook
inside a patched coat; when therefore my eyes fell on an alcove
packed full of stockings, I concluded, and quite rightly, that I
was in the house of a rich hosier. (In parenthesis it may be
said that I do not know any poor ones. )
A middle-aged, gray-haired, but still strong man rose from
his slice and offered me his hand with these words: "Welcome!
- with permission to ask, where does the good friend come
from ? »
Do not jeer at so ill-mannered and straightforward a question!
the heath peasant is quite as hospitable as the Scotch laird, and
but a little more curious; after all, he cannot be blamed for
wanting to know who his guest is.
When I had told him who I was and whence I came, he
called his wife, who immediately put all the delicacies of the
house before me and begged me insistently, with good-hearted
kindness, to eat and drink, although my hunger and thirst made
all insistence unnecessary.
I was in the midst of the repast and a political talk with my
host, when a young and exceedingly beautiful peasant girl came


## p. 2072 (#266) ###########################################

2072
STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
in, whom I should undoubtedly have declared a lady who had fled
from cruel parents and an unwished-for marriage, had not her
red hands and unadulterated peasant dialect convinced me that
no disguise had taken place. She nodded in a friendly way, cast
a passing glance under the table, went out and came in soon
again with a dish of milk and water, which she put down on the
floor with the words, "Your dog may need something too. "
I thanked her for her attention; but this was fully given to
the big dog, whose greediness soon made the dish empty, and
who now in his way thanked the giver by rubbing himself up
against her; and when she raised her arms, a little intimidated,
Chasseur misunderstood the movement, put himself on the alert,
and forced the screaming girl backwards toward the alcove. I
called the dog back and explained his good intentions.
I would not have invited the reader's attention to so trivial a
matter, but to remark that everything is becoming to the beauti-
ful; for indeed this peasant girl showed, in everything she said
and did, a certain natural grace which could not be called
coquetry unless you will so call an innate unconscious instinct.
When she had left the room I asked the parents if this was
their daughter. They answered in the affirmative, adding that
she was an only child.
"You won't keep her very long," I said.
"Dear me, what do you mean by that? " asked the father;
but a pleased smile showed that he understood my meaning.
"I think," I answered, "that she will hardly lack suitors. "
"Hm! " grumbled he, "of suitors we can get a plenty; but
if they are worth anything, that is the question. To go a-wooing
with a watch and a silver-mounted pipe does not set the matter
straight; it takes more to ride than to say 'Get up! ' Sure as I
live," he went on, putting both clenched hands on the table and
bending to look out of the low window, "if there is not one of
thema shepherd's boy just out of the heather-oh yes, one
of these customers who run about with a couple of dozen hose
in a wallet-stupid dog! wooes our daughter with two oxen and
two cows and a half-yes, I am on to him! - Beggar! "
All this was not addressed to me, but to the new-comer, on
whom he fastened his darkened eyes as the other came along
the heather path toward the house. The lad was still far enough
away to allow me time to ask my host about him, and I learned
that he was the son of the nearest neighbor-who, by the way,


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STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
2073
lived at a distance of over two miles; * that the father owned
only a one-horse farm, and moreover owed the hosier two hun-
dred dollars; that the son had peddled woolen wares for some
years, and finally had dared to woo the fair Cecil, but had got a
flat refusal.
While I listened to this statement she had come in herself;
and her troubled look, divided between her father and the wan-
derer outside, made me think that she did not share the old man's
view of the matter.
As soon as the young peddler came in at one door she went
out of the other, but not without giving him a quick, tender,
and sad glance.
My host turned toward him, took hold of the table with both
hands as if he needed support, and answered the young man's
"God's peace and good day! " with a dry "Welcome! "
The latter stood still for a moment, let his eye wander around
the room, and then drew a pipe out of his inside pocket and a
tobacco-pouch out of his back pocket, knocked the pipe clean on
the stove at his side and stuffed it anew.
All this was done slowly, and as if in measured time, and my
host stayed motionless in his chosen position.
The stranger was a very handsome fellow, a true son of our
Northern nature, which goes slowly, but strongly and lastingly:
light-haired, blue-eyed, red-cheeked, whose finely downed chin
the razor had not yet touched, although he must have been fully
twenty years old. In the way of the peddlers, he was dressed
finer than an ordinary peasant, or even than the rich hosier, in
coat and wide trousers, red-striped waistcoat and blue-checked.
tie. He was no unworthy adorer of the fair Cecilia.
He pleased me, moreover, by a mild, open countenance which
spoke of patient perseverance one of the chief traits of the
Cimbric national character.
-
It was a good while before either of them would break the
silence. Finally the host opened his mouth and asked slowly,
in a cold and indifferent tone, "Where lies your way to-day,
Esben ? "
The man whom he addressed took his time about striking the
fire for his pipe and lighting it with long draughts, and answered,
"No farther to-day; but to-morrow I am going to Holstein. ”
*2 English ½ Danish.


## p. 2074 (#268) ###########################################

2074
STEEN STEENSEN BLICHER
There was another pause, during which Esben examined the
chairs and chose one, on which he sat down. Meanwhile mother
and daughter came in; the young peddler nodded to them with
so unchanged and so perfectly quiet a look that I should have
thought the fair Cecilia was entirely indifferent to him, had I
not known that love in such a heart may be strong, however
quiet it may seem; that it is not a flame which blazes and
sparkles, but a glow of even and long heat.
Cecilia sat down at the lower end of the table with a sigh,
and began to knit industriously; her mother took her seat at the
spinning wheel with a low "Welcome, Esben! ”
"That is to be on account of business? " spoke up the host.
"As it may happen to come," replied his guest: "one had
better try what may be made out of the South. And my prayer
is this, that you do not hasten too much to marry off Cecil
before I get back and we see what my luck has been. "
Cecil blushed, but continued to look down at her work.
Her mother stopped the wheel with one hand, laid the other
in her lap, and looked fixedly at the speaker; but the father
said, turning to me, "While the grass grows the horse dies! '
How can you ask that Cecil shall wait for you? You may stay
away a long while- may happen that you never come back. "
"Then it will be your fault, Mikkel Krausen! " interrupted
Esben; "but this I tell you, that if you force Cecil to take
another you do a great sin to both her and me. "
Then he rose, shook hands with both of the old people, and
told them a short farewell. But to his sweetheart he said in a
gentler and softer tone, "Farewell, Cecil! and thanks for all
good! think the best of me, if you may be allowed to- God be
with you! and with you all! Farewell! "
He turned to the door, put
box, each in its own pocket;
without turning a single time.
his wife said, "Oh, well! "-and set the wheel going again; but
tear upon tear rolled down Cecilia's cheeks.
away his pipe, pouch, and tinder-
took his stick and walked away
The old man smiled as before;


## p. 2075 (#269) ###########################################

2075
MATHILDE BLIND
(1847-1896)
M
ATHILDE BLIND was born at Mannheim, Germany, March 21st,
1847. She was educated principally in London, and subse-
quently in Zürich. Since her early school days, with the
exception of this interval of study abroad, and numerous journeys to
the south of Europe and the East, she has lived in London. Upon
her return from Zürich she was thrown much into contact with Maz-
zini, in London, and her first essay in literature was a volume of
poems (which she published in 1867 under the pseudonym Claude
Lake) dedicated to him. She was also in
close personal relationship with Madox
Brown, W. M. Rossetti, and Swinburne.
Her first literary work to appear under
her own name was a critical essay on the
poetical works of Shelley in the West-
minster Review in 1870, based upon W.
M. Rossetti's edition of the poet. In 1872
she wrote an account of the life and
writings of Shelley, to serve as an intro-
duction to a selection of his poems in the
Tauchnitz edition. She afterwards edited
a selection of the letters of Lord Byron
with an introduction, and a selection of his
poems with a memoir. A translation of Strauss's 'The Old Faith
and the New' appeared in 1873, which contained in a subsequent
edition a biography of the author. In 1883, Miss Blind wrote the
initial volume, George Eliot,' for the 'Eminent Women Series,'
which she followed in 1886 in the same series with 'Madame
Roland. Her first novel, Tarantella,' appeared in 1885. Besides
these prose works, she has made frequent contributions of literary
criticism to the Athenæum and other reviews, and of papers and
essays to the magazines; among them translations of Goethe's 'Max-
ims and Reflections' in Fraser's Magazine, and 'Personal Recollec-
tions of Mazzini' in the Fortnightly Review.
MATHILDE BLIND
Her principal claim to literary fame is however based upon her
verse. This is from all periods of her productivity. In addition to
the book of poems already noticed, she has written 'The Prophecy
of St. Oran, and other Poems,' 1882; The Heather on Fire,' a
protest against the wrongs of the Highland crofters, 1886; The



## p. 2076 (#270) ###########################################

2076
MATHILDE BLIND
Ascent of Man,' her most ambitious work, 1889; 'Dramas in Minia-
ture,' 1892; Songs and Sonnets,' 1893; and 'Birds of Passage: Songs
of the Orient and Occident,' 1895.
'The Ascent of Man' is a poetical treatment of the modern idea
of evolution, and traces the progress of man from his primitive con-
dition in a state of savagery to his present development. Miss Blind
has been an ardent advocate of the betterment of the position of
woman in society and the State. To this end she has worked and
written for an improved education, and against a one-sided morality
for the sexes. In her verse she shows characteristically a keen appre-
ciation of nature. Her minor poems particularly, many of which are
strong in feeling and admirable in form, entitle her to a distinguished
place among the lyric poets of England.
She died in London near the end of November, 1896.
FROM LOVE IN EXILE'
CHARGE you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the
dove,
That ye blow o'er the brows of my Love, breathing low that I
sicken for love.
I charge you, O dews of the Dawn, O tears of the star of the morn,
That ye fall at the feet of my Love with the sound of one weeping
forlorn.
I charge you, O birds of the Air, O birds flying home to your nest,
That ye sing in his ears of the joy that for ever has fled from my
breast.
I charge you, O flowers of the Earth, O frailest of things, and most
fair,
That ye droop in his path as the life in me shrivels, consumed by
despair.
O Moon, when he lifts up his face, when he seeth the waning of thee,
A memory of her who lies wan on the limits of life let it be.
Many tears cannot quench, nor my sighs extinguish, the flames of
love's fire,
Which lifteth my heart like a wave, and smites it, and breaks its
desire.
I rise like one in a dream when I see the red sun flaring low,
That drags me back shuddering from sleep each morning to life with
its woe.


## p. 2077 (#271) ###########################################

MATHILDE BLIND
2077
go
I like one in a dream; unbidden my feet know the way
garden where love stood in blossom with the red and white
To that
hawthorn of May.
The song of the throstle is hushed, and the fountain is dry to its
core;
The moon cometh up as of old; she seeks, but she finds him no
more.
The pale-faced, pitiful moon shines down on the grass where I weep,
My face to the earth, and my breast in an anguish ne'er soothed
into sleep.
The moon returns, and the spring; birds warble, trees burst into
leaf;
But Love, once gone, goes for ever, and all that endures is the grief.
SEEKING
I
N MANY a shape and fleeting apparition,
Sublime in age or with clear morning eyes,
Ever I seek thee, tantalizing Vision,
Which beckoning flies.
Ever I seek Thee, O evasive Presence,
Which on the far horizon's utmost verge,
Like some wild star in luminous evanescence,
Shoots o'er the surge.
Ever I seek Thy features ever flying,
Which, ne'er beheld, I never can forget:
Lightning which flames through love, and mimics dying
In souls that set.
Ever I seek Thee through all clouds of error;
As when the moon behind earth's shadow slips,
She wears a momentary mask of terror
In brief eclipse.
Ever I seek Thee, passionately yearning;
Like altar fire on some forgotten fane,
My life flames up irrevocably burning,
And burnt in vain.


## p. 2078 (#272) ###########################################

2078
MATHILDE BLIND
THE SONGS OF SUMMER
THE
HE songs of summer are over and past!
The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves;
Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves
The nests are rudely swung in the blast:
And ever the wind like a soul in pain
Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.
The songs of summer are over and past!
Woe's me for a music sweeter than theirs -
The quick, light bound of a step on the stairs,
The greeting of lovers too sweet to last:
And ever the wind like a soul in pain
Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.
A PARABLE
B
ETWEEN the sandhills and the sea
A narrow strip of silver sand,
Whereon a little maid doth stand,
Who picks up shells continually,
Between the sandhills and the sea.
Far as her wondering eyes can reach,
A vastness heaving gray in gray
To the frayed edges of the day
Furls his red standard on the breach
Between the sky-line and the beach.
The waters of the flowing tide
Cast up the sea-pink shells and weed;
She toys with shells, and doth not heed
The ocean, which on every side
Is closing round her vast and wide.
It creeps her way as if in play,
Pink shells at her pink feet to cast;
But now the wild waves hold her fast,
And bear her off and melt away,
A vastness heaving gray in gray.


## p. 2079 (#273) ###########################################

MATHILDE BLIND
2079
LOVE'S SOMNAMBULIST
L
IKE some wild sleeper who alone at night
Walks with unseeing eyes along a height,
With death below and only stars above,
I, in broad daylight, walk as if in sleep
Along the edges of life's perilous steep,
The lost somnambulist of love.