elebrating their attainment of the baccalaureate degree at the
University of Norway. The orator on this occasion was a tall, handsome,
distinguished-looking young man named Alexander Kielland, from the
little coast town of Stavanger. There was none of the crudity of a
provincial either in his manners or his appearance. He spoke with a
quiet self-possession and a pithy incisiveness which were altogether
phenomenal.

"That young man will be heard from one of these days," was the unanimous
verdict of those who listened to his clear-cut and finished sentences,
and noted the maturity of his opinions.

But ten years passed, and outside of Stavanger no one ever heard of
Alexander Kielland. His friends were aware that he had studied law,
spent some winters in France, married, and settled himself as a
dignitary in his native town. It was understood that he had bought a
large brick and tile factory, and that as a manufacturer of these useful
articles he bid fair to become a provincial magnate, as his fathers had
been before him. People had almost forgotten that great things had been
expected of him, and some fancied perhaps that he had been spoiled by
prosperity. Remembering him, as I did, as the most brilliant and notable
personality among my university friends, I began to apply to him
Mallock's epigrammatic damnation of the man of whom it was said at
twenty that he would do great things, at thirty that he might do great
things, and at forty that he might have done great things.

This was the frame of mind of those who remembered Alexander Kielland
(and he was an extremely difficult man to forget), when in the year 1879
a modest volume of "Novelettes" appeared, bearing his name. It was, to
all appearances, a light performance, but it revealed a sense of style
which made it, nevertheless, notable. No man had ever written the
Norwegian language as this man wrote it. There was a lightness of touch,
a perspicacity, an epigrammatic sparkle, and occasional flashes of wit
which seemed altogether un-Norwegian. It was obvious that this author
was familiar with the best French writers, and had acquired through them
that clear and crisp incisiveness of utterance which was supposed,
hitherto, to be untransferable to any other tongue.

As regards the themes of these "Novelettes," it was remarked at the time
of their first appearance that they hinted at a more serious purpose
than their style seemed to imply. Who can read, for instance, "P