Madam Neoteric

The works of the Danish author Jens Peter Jacobsen (1847-1885) were the first in Danish literature to interpret man naturalistically.

Jens Peter Jacobsen was born at Thisted on April 7, 1847. For many years he was torn between science and literature, and he struggled all his life with a strong tendency to dream, an important theme in his writings. In 1873 he won a university gold medal for a scientific dissertation. His articles on Charles Darwin and his translations of Origin of Species and Descent of Man did much to spread Darwin’s theories in Scandinavia. Parallel with his scientific work, he wrote poetry. In the early 1870s he became an influential member of the circle around Georg Brandes, who was beginning his agitation for a modern, realistic literature based on European models.

Jacobsen made his debut in 1872 with the story “Mogens,” a controversial departure in Danish literature. Man is seen, for the first time, as an animal governed biologically like all other animals, rather than by forces–ideals–outside himself. In 1873, full of plans for new scientific and literary work, Jacobsen was stricken with tuberculosis and told that he did not have long to live. He abandoned his scientific plans and devoted his last 12 years to literature, producing under the most difficult conditions two remarkable novels and a handful of poems and stories, a small production that yet ranks with the most original and enduring works in Danish literature.

MOGENS
by J.P. Jacobsen

SUMMER it was; in the middle of the day; in a corner of the enclosure. Immediately in front of it stood an old oaktree, of whose trunk one might say, that it agonized in despair because of the lack of harmony between its fresh yellowish foliage and its black and gnarled branches; they resembled most of all grossly misdrawn old gothic arabesques. Behind the oak was a luxuriant thicket of hazel with dark sheenless leaves, which were so dense, that neither trunk nor branches could be seen. Above the hazel rose two straight, joyous maple-trees with gayly indented leaves, red stems and long dangling clusters of green fruit. Behind the maples came the forest—­a green evenly rounded slope, where birds went out and in as elves in a grasshill.

All this you could see if you came wandering along the path through the fields beyond the fence. If, however, you were lying in the shadow of the oak with your back against the trunk and looking the other way—­and there was a someone, who did that—­then you would see first your own legs, then a little spot of short, vigorous grass, next a large cluster of dark nettles, then the hedge of thorn with the big, white convolvulus, the stile, a little of the rye field outside, finally the councilor’s flagpole on the hill, and then the sky.

It was stifling hot, the air was quivering with heat, and then it was very quiet; the leaves were hanging from the trees as if asleep. Nothing moved except the lady-birds and the nettles and a few withered leaves that lay on the grass and rolled themselves up with sudden little jerks as if they were shrinking from the sunbeams.

And then the man underneath the oak; he lay there gasping for air and with a melancholy look stared helplessly towards the sky. He tried to hum a tune, but gave it up; whistled, then gave that up too; turned round, turned round again and let his eyes rest upon an old mole-hill, that had become quite gray in the drought. Suddenly a small dark spot appeared upon the light-gray mold, another, three, four, many, still more, the entire mole-hill suddenly was quite dark-gray. The air was filled with nothing but long, dark streaks, the leaves nodded and swayed and there rose a murmur which turned into a hissing—­rain was pouring down. Everything gleamed, sparkled, spluttered. Leaves, branches, trunks, everything shone with moisture; every little drop that fell on earth, on grass, on the fence, on whatever it was, broke and scattered in a thousand delicate pearls. Little drops hung for a while and became big drops, trickled down elsewhere, joined with other drops, formed small rivulets, disappeared into tiny furrows, ran into big holes and out of small ones, sailed away laden with dust, chips of wood and ragged bits of foliage, caused them to run aground, set them afloat, whirled them round and again caused them to ground. Leaves, which had been separated since they were in the bud, were reunited by the flood; moss, that had almost vanished in the dryness, expanded and became soft, crinkly, green and juicy; and gray lichens which nearly had turned to snuff, spread their delicate ends, puffed up like brocade and with a sheen like that of silk. The convolvuluses let their white crowns be filled to the brim, drank healths to each other, and emptied the water over the heads of the nettles. The fat black wood-snails crawled forward on their stomachs with a will, and looked approvingly towards the sky. And the man? The man was standing bareheaded in the midst of the downpour, letting the drops revel in his hair and brows, eyes, nose, mouth; he snapped his fingers at the rain, lifted a foot now and again as if he were about to dance, shook his head sometimes, when there was too much water in the hair, and sang at the top of his voice without knowing what he was singing, so pre-occupied was he with the rain:

Had I, oh had I a grandson, trala,
And a chest with heaps and heaps of gold,
Then very likely had I had a daughter, trala,
And house and home and meadows untold.

Had I, oh had I a daughter dear, trala,
And house and home and meadows untold,
Then very like had I had a sweetheart, trala.
And a chest with heaps and heaps of gold.

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