no man invents, however clever; such material no imagination
supplies, however fertile. Except Fritz Reuter's Stavenhagen, I
know no small town in fiction which is so vividly and completely
individualized, and populated with such living and credible
characters. Take, for instance, the two clergymen, Archdeacon
Sparre and the Rev. Mr. Martens, and it is not necessary to have
lived in Norway in order to recognize and enjoy the faithfulness
and the artistic subtlety of these portraits. If they have a dash
of satire (which I will not undertake to deny), it is such delicate
and well-bred satire that no one, except the originals, would think
of taking offence. People are willing, for the sake of the
entertainment which it affords, to forgive a little quiet malice at
their neighbors' expense. The members of the provincial bureaucracy
are drawn with the same firm but delicate touch, and everything has
that beautiful air of reality which proves the world akin.

It was by no means a departure from his previous style and tendency
which Kielland signalized in his next novel, _Laboring People_ (1881).
He only emphasizes, as it were, the heavy, serious bass chords in
the composite theme which expresses his complex personality, and
allows the lighter treble notes to be momentarily drowned.
Superficially speaking, there is perhaps a reminiscence of Zola in
this book, not in the manner of treatment, but in the subject,
which is the corrupting influence of the higher classes upon the
lower. There is no denying that in spite of the ability, which it
betrays in every line, _Laboring People_ is unpleasant reading. It
frightened away a host of the author's early admirers by the
uncompromising vigor and the glaring realism with which it depicted
the consequences of vicious indulgence. It showed no consideration
for delicate nerves, but was for all that a clean and wholesome book.