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THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN
VOLUME VIII
AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE
THE WILD DUCK
THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN
_Copyright Edition. Complete in 11 Volumes._
_Crown 8vo, price 4s. each._
=ENTIRELY REVISED AND EDITED BY=
=WILLIAM ARCHER=
Vol. I. Lady Inger, The Feast at Solhoug, Love’s
Comedy
Vol. II. The Vikings, The Pretenders
Vol. III. Brand
Vol. IV. Peer Gynt
Vol. V. Emperor and Galilean (2 parts)
Vol. VI. The League of Youth, Pillars of Society
Vol. VII. A Doll’s House, Ghosts
Vol. VIII. An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck
Vol. IX. Rosmersholm, The Lady from the Sea
Vol. X. Hedda Gabler, The Master Builder
Vol. XI. Little Eyolf, John Gabriel Borkman, When
We Dead Awaken
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN.
21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.
THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN
COPYRIGHT EDITION
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VOLUME VIII
AN ENEMY OF THE
PEOPLE
THE WILD DUCK
WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY
WILLIAM ARCHER
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: title page]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1910
_Copyright Edition_
_First printed March 1907_
_Second Impression June 1910_
_Copyright 1907 by William Heinemann_
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION TO “AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE” vii
INTRODUCTION TO “THE WILD DUCK” xvii
“AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE” 1
_Translated by_ MRS. ELEANOR MARX-AVELING
“THE WILD DUCK” 189
_Translated by_ MRS. FRANCES E. ARCHER
AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE.
INTRODUCTION.
From _Pillars of Society_ to _John Gabriel Borkman_, all Ibsen’s plays,
with one exception, succeeded each other at intervals of two years. The
single exception was _An Enemy of the People_. The storm of obloquy
which greeted _Ghosts_ stirred him to unwonted rapidity of production.
_Ghosts_ had appeared in December 1881; already, in the spring of 1882,
Ibsen, then living in Rome, was at work upon its successor; and he
finished it at Gossensass, in the Tyrol, in the early autumn. It
appeared in Copenhagen at the end of November.
John Paulsen[1] relates an anecdote of the poet’s extreme secretiveness
during the process of composition, which may find a place here: “One
summer he was travelling by rail with his wife and son. He was engaged
upon a new play at the time; but neither Fru Ibsen nor Sigurd had any
idea as to what it was about. Of course they were both very curious. It
happened that, at a station, Ibsen left the carriage for a few moments.
As he did so he dropped a scrap of paper. His wife picked it up, and
read on it only the words, ‘The doctor says....’ Nothing more. Fru Ibsen
showed it laughingly to Sigurd, and said, ‘Now we will tease your father
a little when he comes back. He will be horrified to find that we know
anything of his play.’ When Ibsen entered the carriage his wife looked
at him roguishly, and said, ‘What doctor is it that figures in your new
piece? I am sure he must have many interesting things to say.’ But if
she could have foreseen the effect of her innocent jest, Fru Ibsen would
certainly have held her tongue. For Ibsen was speechless with surprise
and rage. When at last he recovered his speech, it was to utter a
torrent of reproaches. What did this mean? Was he not safe in his own
house? Was he surrounded with spies? Had his locks been tampered with,
his desk rifled? And so forth, and so forth. His wife, who had listened
with a quiet smile to the rising tempest of his wrath, at last handed
him the scrap of paper. ‘We know nothing more than what is written upon
this slip which you let fall. Allow me to return it to you.’ There stood
Ibsen crestfallen. All his suspicions had vanished into thin air. The
play on which he was occupied proved to be _An Enemy of the People_, and
the doctor was none other than our old friend Stockmann, the
good-hearted and muddleheaded reformer, for whom Jonas Lie partly served
as a model.”
The indignation which glows in _An Enemy of the People_ was kindled, in
the main, by the attitude adopted towards _Ghosts_ by the Norwegian
Liberal press and the “compact majority” it represented. But the image
on which the play rings the changes was present to the poet’s long
before _Ghosts_ was written. On December 19, 1879—a fortnight after the
publication of _A Doll’s House_—Ibsen wrote to Professor Dietrichson:
“It appears to me doubtful whether better artistic conditions can be
attained in Norway before the intellectual soil has been thoroughly
turned up and cleansed, and all the swamps drained off.” Here we have
clearly the germ of _An Enemy of the People_. The image so took hold of
Ibsen that after applying it to social life in this play, he recurred to
it in _The Wild Duck_, in relation to the individual life.
The mood to which we definitely owe _An Enemy of the People_ appears
very clearly in a letter to George Brandes, dated January 3, 1882, in
which Ibsen thanks him for his criticism of _Ghosts_. “What are we to
say,” he proceeds, “of the attitude taken up by the so-called Liberal
press—by those leaders who speak and write about freedom of action and
thought, and at the same time make themselves the slaves of the supposed
opinions of their subscribers? I am more and more confirmed in my belief
that there is something demoralising in engaging in politics and joining
parties. I, at any rate, shall never be able to join a party which has
the majority on its side. Björnson says, ‘The majority is always right’;
and as a practical politician he is bound, I suppose, to say so. I, on
the contrary, of necessity say, ‘The minority is always right.’
Naturally I am not thinking of that minority of stagnationists who are
left behind by the great middle party, which with us is called Liberal;
I mean that minority which leads the van, and pushes on to points which
the majority has not yet reached. I hold that that man is in the right
who is most closely in league with the future.”
The same letter closes with a passage which foreshadows not only _An
Enemy of the People_, but _Rosmersholm_: “When I think how slow and
heavy and dull the general intelligence is at home, when I notice the
low standard by which everything is judged, a deep despondency comes
over me, and it often seems to me that I might just as well end my
literary activity at once. They really do not need poetry at home; they
get along so well with the _Parliamentary News_ and the _Lutheran
Weekly_. And then they have their party papers. I have not the gifts
that go to make a good citizen, nor yet the gift of orthodoxy; and what
I possess no gift for I keep out of. Liberty is the first and highest
condition for me. At home they do not trouble much about liberty, but
only about liberties: a few more or a few less, according to the
standpoint of their party. I feel, too, most painfully affected by the
crudity, the plebeian element, in all our public discussion. The very
praiseworthy attempt to make of our people a democratic community has
inadvertently gone a good way towards making us a plebeian community.
Distinction of soul seems to be on the decline at home.”
So early as March 16, 1882, Ibsen announces to his publisher that he is
“fully occupied with preparations for a new play.” “This time,” he says,
“it will be a peaceable production which can be read by Ministers of
State and wholesale merchants and their ladies, and from which the
theatres will not be obliged to recoil. Its execution will come very
easy to me, and I shall do my best to have it ready pretty early in the
autumn.” In this he was successful. From Gossensass, on September 9, he
wrote to Hegel: “I have the pleasure of sending you herewith the
remainder of the manuscript of my new play. I have enjoyed writing this
piece, and I feel quite lost and lonely now that it is out of hand. Dr.
Stockmann and I got on excellently together; we agree on so many
subjects. But the Doctor is a more muddleheaded person than I am, and he
has, moreover, several other characteristics because of which people
will stand hearing a good many things from him which they might perhaps
not have taken in such very good part had they been said by me.”
A letter to Brandes, written six months after the appearance of the play
(June 12, 1883), answers some objection which the critic seems to have
made—of what nature we can only guess: “As to _An Enemy of the People_,
if we had a chance to discuss it I think we should come to a tolerable
agreement. You are, of course right in urging that we _must_ all work
for the spread of our opinions. But I maintain that a fighter at the
intellectual outposts can never gather a majority around him. In ten
years, perhaps, the majority may occupy the standpoint which Dr.
Stockmann held at the public meeting. But during these ten years the
Doctor will not have been standing still; he will still be at least ten
years ahead of the majority. The majority, the mass, the multitude, can
never overtake him; he can never have the majority with him. As for
myself, at all events, I am conscious of this incessant progression. At
the point where I stood when I wrote each of my books, there now stands
a fairly compact multitude; but I myself am there no longer; I am
elsewhere, and, I hope, further ahead.” This is a fine saying, and as
just as it is fine, with respect to the series of social plays, down to,
and including, _Rosmersholm_. To the psychological series, which begins
with _The Lady from the Sea_, this law of progression scarcely applies.
The standpoint in each is different; but the movement is not so much one
of intellectual advance as of deepening spiritual insight.
As Ibsen predicted, the Scandinavian theatres seized with avidity upon
_An Enemy of the People_. Between January and March 1883 it was produced
in Christiania, Bergen, Stockholm, and Copenhagen. It has always been
very popular on the stage, and was the play chosen to represent Ibsen in
the series of festival performances which inaugurated the National
Theatre at Christiania. The first evening, September 1, 1899, was
devoted to Holberg, the great founder of Norwegian-Danish drama; _An
Enemy of the People_ followed on September 2; and on September 3
Björnson held the stage, with _Sigurd Jorsalfar_. Oddly enough, _Ein
Volksfeind_ was four years old before it found its way to the German
stage. It was first produced in Berlin, March 5, 1887, and has since
then been very popular throughout Germany. It has even been presented at
the Court Theatres of Berlin and Vienna—a fact which seems remarkable
when we note that in France and Spain it has been pressed into the
service of anarchism, as a revolutionary manifesto. When first produced
in Paris in 1895, and again in 1899, it was made the occasion of
anarchist demonstrations. It was the play chosen for representation in
Paris on Ibsen’s seventieth birthday, March 29, 1898. In England it was
first produced by Mr. Beerbohm Tree at the Haymarket Theatre on the
afternoon of June 14, 1893. Mr. Tree has repeated his performance of
Stockmann a good many times in London, the provinces, and America. He
revived the play at His Majesty’s Theatre in 1905. Mr. Louis Calvert
played Stockmann at the Gentleman’s Concert Hall in Manchester, January
27, 1894. I can find no record of any performances of the play in
America, save German performances and those given by Mr. Tree; but it
seems incredible that no American actor should have been attracted by
the part of Stockmann. _Een Vijand des Volks_ was produced in Holland in
1884, before it had even been seen in Germany; and in Italy, _Un Nemico
del Popolo_ holds a place in the repertory of the distinguished actor
Ermete Novelli.
Of all Ibsen’s plays, _An Enemy of the People_ is the least poetical,
the least imaginative, the one which makes least appeal to our
sensibilities. Even in _The League of Youth_ there is a touch of poetic
fancy in the character of Selma; while _Pillars of Society_ is
sentimentally conceived throughout, and possesses in Martha a figure of
great, though somewhat conventional, pathos. In this play, on the other
hand, there is no appeal either to the imagination or to the tender
emotions. It is a straightforward satiric comedy, dealing exclusively
with the everyday prose of life. We have only to compare it with its
immediate predecessor, _Ghosts_, and its immediate successor, _The Wild
Duck_, to feel how absolutely different is the imaginative effort
involved in it. Realising this, we no longer wonder that the poet should
have thrown it off in half the time he usually required to mature and
execute one of his creations.
Yet _An Enemy of the People_ takes a high place in the second rank of
the Ibsen works, in virtue of its buoyant vitality, its great technical
excellence, and the geniality of its humour. It seems odd, at first
sight, that a distinctly polemical play, which took its rise in a mood
of exasperation, should be perhaps the most amiable of all the poet’s
productions. But the reason is fairly obvious. Ibsen’s nature was far
too complex, and far too specifically dramatic, to permit of his giving
anything like direct expression to a personal mood. The very fact that
Dr. Stockmann was to utter much of his own indignation and many of his
own ideas forced him to make the worthy Doctor in temperament and manner
as unlike himself as possible. Now boisterous geniality, loquacity,
irrepressible rashness of utterance, and a total absence of
self-criticism and self-irony were the very contradiction of the poet’s
own characteristics—at any rate, after he had entered upon middle life.
He doubtless looked round for models who should be his own antipodes in
these respects. John Paulsen, as we have seen, thinks that he took many
traits from Jonas Lie; others say[2] that one of his chief models was an
old friend named Harald Thaulow, the father of the great painter. Be
this as it may, the very effort to disguise himself naturally led him to
attribute to his protagonist and mouthpiece a great superficial
amiability. I am far from implying that Ibsen’s own character was
essentially unamiable; it would ill become one whom he always treated
with the utmost kindness to say or think anything of the kind. But his
amiability was not superficial, effusive, exuberant; it seldom reached
that boiling-point which we call geniality; and for that very reason
Thomas Stockmann became the most genial of his characters. He may be
called Ibsen’s Colonel Newcome. We have seen from the letter to Hegel
(p. x.) that the poet regarded him with much the same ironic affection
which Thackeray must have felt for that other Thomas who, amid many
differences, had the same simple-minded, large-hearted, child-like
nature.
In technical quality, _An Enemy of the People_ is wholly admirable. We
have only to compare it with _Pillars of Society_, the last play in
which Ibsen had painted a broad satiric picture of the life of a
Norwegian town, to feel how great an advance he had made in the
intervening five years. In naturalness of exposition, suppleness of
development, and what may be called general untheatricality of
treatment, the later play has every possible advantage over the earlier.
In one point only can it be said that Ibsen has allowed a touch of
artificiality to creep in. In order to render the peripety of the third
act more striking, he has made Hovstad, Billing, and Aslaksen, in the
earlier scenes, unnaturally inapprehensive of the sacrifices implied in
Stockmann’s scheme of reform. It is scarcely credible that they should
be so free and emphatic in their offers of support to the Doctor’s
agitation, before they have made the smallest inquiry as to what it is
likely to cost the town. They think, it may be said, that the
shareholders of the Baths will have to bear the whole expense; but
surely some misgivings could not but cross their minds as to whether the
shareholders would be prepared to do so.
THE WILD DUCK.
INTRODUCTION.
The first mention of _The Wild Duck_ (as yet unnamed) occurs in a letter
from Ibsen to George Brandes, dated Rome, June 12, 1883, some six months
after the appearance of _An Enemy of the People_. “I am revolving in my
mind just now,” he says, “the plan of a new dramatic work in four acts.
From time to time a variety of whimsies gathers in one’s mind, and one
wants to find an outlet for them. But as the play will neither deal with
the Supreme Court nor with the Absolute Veto, nor even with the Pure
Flag, it can hardly count upon attracting much attention in Norway. Let
us hope, however, that it may find a hearing elsewhere.” The allusion in
this passage is to the great constitutional struggle of 1880-84, of
which some account will have to be given in the Introduction to
_Rosmersholm_. The “Pure Flag” agitation aimed at, and obtained, the
exclusion from the Norwegian flag of the mark of union with Sweden, and
was thus a preliminary step towards the severance of the two kingdoms.
The word which I have translated “whimsies” is in the original
_galskaber_, which might be literally rendered “mad fancies” or “crazy
notions.” This word, or _galskab_ in the singular, was Ibsen’s favourite
term for his conceptions as they grew up in his mind. I well remember
his saying to me, while he was engaged on _The Lady from the Sea_, “I
hope to have some tomfoolery [_galskab_] ready for next year.” Sometimes
he would vary the expression and say _djœvelskab_, or “devilry.”
Of this particular “tomfoolery” we hear no more for a full year. Then,
at the end of June 1884, he writes in almost identical terms to Brandes
and to Theodor Caspari, announcing its completion in the rough. His
letter to Caspari is dated Rome, June 27. “All last winter,” he says, “I
have been pondering over some new whimsies, and have wrestled with them
till at last they took dramatic form in a five-act play which I have
just completed. That is to say, I have completed the rough draft of it.
Now comes the more delicate elaboration, the more energetic
individualisation of the characters and their methods of expression. In
order to find the requisite quiet and solitude for this work, I am going
in a few days to Gossensass, in the Tyrol.” This little glimpse into his
workshop is particularly interesting.
From Gossensass he wrote to Hegel on September 2: “Herewith I send you
the manuscript of my new play, _The Wild Duck_, which has occupied me
daily for the past four months, and from which I cannot part without a
sense of regret. The characters in this play, despite their many
frailties, have, in the course of our long daily association, endeared
themselves to me. However, I hope they will also find good and kind
friends among the great reading public, and not least among the
player-folk, to whom they all, without exception, offer problems worth
the solving. But the study and presentation of these personages will not
be easy.... This new play in some ways occupies a place apart among my
dramatic productions; its method of development [literally, of advance]
is in many respects divergent from that of its predecessors. But for the
present I shall say no more on this subject. The critics will no doubt
discover the points in question; at all events, they will find a good
deal to wrangle about, a good deal to interpret. Moreover, I think _The
Wild Duck_ may perhaps lure some of our younger dramatists into new
paths, and this I hold to be desirable.”
The play was published on November 11, 1884, and was acted at all the
leading theatres of Scandinavia in January or February 1885. Ibsen’s
estimate of its acting value was fully justified. It everywhere proved
itself immensely effective on the stage, and Hialmar, Gina, and Hedvig
have made, or greatly enhanced, the reputation of many an actor and
actress. Hialmar was one of the chief successes of Emil Poulsen, the
leading Danish actor of his day, who placed the second act of _The Wild
Duck_ in the programme of his farewell performance. It took more than
three years for the play to reach the German stage. It was first acted
in Berlin in March 1888; but thereafter it rapidly spread throughout
Germany and Austria, and everywhere took firm hold. It was on several
occasions, and in various cities, selected for performance in Ibsen’s
presence, as representing the best that the local theatre could do. In
Paris it was produced at the Théâtre Libre in 1891, and was pronounced
by Francisque Sarcey to be “obscure, incoherent, insupportable,” but
nevertheless to leave “a profound impression.” In London it was first
produced by the Independent Theatre Society on May 4, 1894, Mr. W. L.
Abingdon playing Hialmar, and Miss Winifred Fraser giving a delightful
performance of Hedvig. The late Clement Scott’s pronouncement on it was
that “to make a fuss about so feeble a production was to insult dramatic
literature and to outrage common sense.” It was repeated at the Globe
Theatre in May 1897, with Mr. Laurence Irving as Hialmar and Miss Fraser
again as Hedvig. In October 1905 it was revived at the Court Theatre,
with Mr. Granville Barker as Hialmar and Miss Dorothy Minto as Hedvig.
Of American performances I find no record. It has been acted in Italy
and in Greece, I know not with what success. The fact that it has no
part for a “leading lady” has rendered it less of an international
stock-piece than _A Doll’s House_, _Hedda Gabler_, or even
_Rosmersholm_.
There can be no doubt that _The Wild Duck_ marks a reaction in the
poet’s mood, following upon the eager vivacity wherewith, in _An Enemy
of the People_, he had flung his defiance at the “compact Liberal
majority,” which, as the reception of _Ghosts_ had proved, could not
endure to be told the truth. Having said his say and liberated his soul,
he now began to ask himself whether human nature was, after all, capable
of assimilating the strong meat of truth—whether illusion might not be,
for the average man, the only thing that could make life livable. It
would be too much to say that the play gives a generally affirmative
answer to this question. On the contrary, its last lines express pretty
clearly the poet’s firm conviction that if life cannot reconcile itself
with truth, then life may as well go to the wall. Nevertheless his very
devotion to truth forces him to realise and admit that it is an
antitoxin which, rashly injected at wrong times or in wrong doses, may
produce disastrous results. It ought not to be indiscriminately
administered by “quacksalvers.”
Gregers Werle is unquestionably a piece of ironic self-portraiture. In
his habit of “pestering people, in their poverty, with the claim of the
ideal,” the poet adumbrates his own conduct from _Brand_ onwards, but
especially in _Ghosts_ and _An Enemy of the People_. Relling, again, is
an embodiment of the mood which was dominant during the conception of
the play—the mood of pitying contempt for that poor thing human nature,
as embodied in Hialmar. An actor who, in playing the part of Relling,
made up as Ibsen himself, has been blamed for having committed a fault
not only of taste, but of interpretation, since Gregers (it is
maintained) is the true Ibsen. But the fact is that both characters
represent the poet. They embody the struggle in his mind between
idealism and cynical despondency. There can be no doubt, however, that
in some measure he consciously identified himself with Gregers. In a
letter to Mr. Gosse, written in 1872, he had employed in his own person
the very phrase, _den ideale fordring_—“the claim of the ideal”—which is
Gregers' watchword. The use of this sufficiently obvious phrase,
however, does not mean much. Far stronger evidence of identification is
afforded by John Paulsen[3] in some anecdotes he relates of Ibsen’s
habits of “self-help”—evidence which we may all the more safely accept,
as Herr Paulsen seems to have been unconscious of its bearing upon the
character of Gregers. “Ibsen,” he says, “was always bent upon doing
things himself, so as not to give trouble to servants. His ideal was
‘the self-made man.’[4] Thus, if a button came off one of his garments
he would retire to his own room, lock the door, and, after many comical
and unnecessary preliminaries, proceed to sew on the button himself,
with the same care with which he wrote the fair copy of a new play. Such
an important task he could not possibly entrust to any one else, not
even to his wife. One of his paradoxes was that ‘a woman never knew how
to sew on a button so that it would hold.’ But if he himself sewed it
on, it held to all eternity. Fru Ibsen smiled roguishly and subtly when
the creator of Nora came out with such anti-feminist sentiments.
Afterwards she told me in confidence, 'It is true that Ibsen himself
sews on his vagrant buttons; but the fact that they hold so well is _my_
doing, for, without his knowledge, I always ‘finish them off,’ which he
forgets to do. But don’t disturb his conviction: it makes him so
happy.'”
“One winter day in Munich,” Herr Paulsen continues, “Ibsen asked me with
a serious and even anxious countenance, ‘Tell me one thing, Paulsen—do
you black your own boots every morning?’ I was taken aback, and
doubtless looked quite guilty as I answered, ‘No.’ I had a vaguely
uncomfortable sense that I had failed in a duty to myself and to
society. ‘But you really ought to do so. It will make you feel a
different man. One should never let others do what one can do oneself.
If you begin with blacking your boots, you will get on to putting your
room in order, laying the fire, etc. In this way you will at last find
yourself an emancipated man, independent of Tom, Dick, or Harry.’ I
promised to follow his advice, but have unfortunately not kept my word.”
It is evident that Ibsen purposely transferred to Gregers this
characteristic of his own; and the sentiments with which Gina regards it
are probably not unlike those which Fru Ibsen may from time to time have
manifested. We could scarcely demand clearer proof that in Gregers the
poet was laughing at himself.
To Hedvig, Ibsen gave the name of his only sister, and in many respects
she seems to have served as a model for the character. She was the
poet’s favourite among all his relatives. “You are certainly the best of
us,” he wrote to her in 1869. Björnstjerne Björnson said, after making
her acquaintance, that he now understood what a large element of
heredity there was in Ibsen’s bent towards mysticism. We may be sure
that Hedvig’s researches among the books left by the old sea-captain,
and her dislike for the frontispiece of Harrison’s _History of London_,
are remembered traits from the home-life of the poet’s childhood. It
does not seem to be known who had the honour of “sitting for” the
character of Hialmar. Probably he is a composite of many originals.
Moreover, he is obviously a younger brother of Peer Gynt. Deprive Peer
Gynt of his sense of humour, and clip the wings of his imagination, and
you have Hialmar Ekdal.
I confess I do not know quite definitely what Ibsen had in mind when he
spoke of _The Wild Duck_ holding “a place apart” among his productions
and exemplifying a technique (for he is evidently thinking of its
technical development) “divergent” from that of its predecessors. I
should rather say that it marked the continuation and consummation of
the technical method which he had been elaborating from _Pillars of
Society_ onward. It is the first example of what we may term his
retrospective method, in its full complexity. _Pillars of Society_ and
_A Doll’s House_ may be called semi-retrospective; something like half
of the essential action takes place before the eyes of the audience.
_Ghosts_ is almost wholly retrospective; as soon as the past has been
fully unravelled, the action is over, and only the catastrophe remains;
but in this case the past to be unravelled is comparatively simple and
easy of disentanglement. _An Enemy of the People_ is scarcely
retrospective at all; almost the whole of its action falls within the
frame of the picture. In _The Wild Duck_, on the other hand, the
unravelling of the past is a task of infinite subtlety and elaborate
art. The execution of this task shows a marvellous and hitherto
unexampled grasp of mind. Never before, certainly, had the poet
displayed such an amazing power of fascinating and absorbing us by the
gradual withdrawal of veil after veil from the past; and as every event
was also a trait of character, it followed that never before had his
dialogue been so saturated, as it were, with character-revelation. The
development of the drama reminds one of the practice (in itself a very
bad practice) of certain modern stage-managers, who are fond of raising
their curtain on a dark scene, and then gradually lighting it up by a
series of touches on the electric switchboard. First there comes a
glimmer from the right, then a flash from the left; then the background
is suffused with light, so that we see objects standing out against it
in profile, but cannot as yet discern their details. Then comes a ray
from this batten, a gleam from that; here a penetrating shaft of light,
there a lambent glow; until at last the footlights are turned on at
full, and every nook and cranny of the scene stands revealed in a blaze
of luminosity. But Ibsen’s switchboard is far more subtly subdivided
than that of even the most modern theatre. At every touch upon it, some
single, cunningly-placed, ingeniously-dissembled burner kindles, almost
unnoticed save by the most watchful eye; so that the full light spreads
over the scene as imperceptibly as dawn grows into day.
It seems to me, then, that _The Wild Duck_ is a consummation rather than
a new departure. Assuredly it marks the summit of the poet’s achievement
(in modern prose) up to that date. Its only possible rival is _Ghosts_;
and who does not feel the greater richness, depth, suppleness, and
variety of the later play? It gives us, in a word, a larger segment of
life.
AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE
(1882)
CHARACTERS.
DOCTOR THOMAS STOCKMANN, _medical officer of the Baths_.
MRS. STOCKMANN, _his wife_.
PETRA, _their daughter, a teacher_.
EILIF } _their sons, thirteen and ten years old respectively_.
MORTEN }
PETER STOCKMANN, _the doctor’s elder brother, Burgomaster[5] and
chief of police, chairman of the Baths Committee, etc._
MORTEN KIIL,[6] _master tanner, Mrs. Stockmann’s adoptive-father_.
HOVSTAD, _editor of the “People’s Messenger.”_
BILLING, _on the staff of the paper_.
HORSTER, _a ship’s captain_.
ASLAKSEN, _a printer_.
_Participants in a meeting of citizens: all sorts and conditions of
men, some women, and a band of schoolboys._
_The action passes in a town on the South Coast of Norway._
-----
Footnote 1:
_Samliv med Ibsen_, p. 173.
Footnote 2:
See article by Julius Elias in _Die neue Rundschau_, December 1906, p.
1461.
Footnote 3:
_Samliv med Ibsen_, p. 33.
Footnote 4:
Herr Paulsen uses the English words; but it will appear from the
sequel that Ibsen’s ideal was not so much the self-made as the
self-mended man.
Footnote 5:
“Burgomaster” is the most convenient substitute for “Byfogd,” but
“Town Clerk” would perhaps be more nearly equivalent. It is impossible
to find exact counterparts in English for the different grades of the
Norwegian bureaucracy.
Footnote 6:
Pronounce: _Keel_.
AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE.
PLAY IN FIVE ACTS.
ACT FIRST.
_Evening. DR. STOCKMANN’S sitting-room; simply but neatly decorated and
furnished. In the wall to the right are two doors, the further one
leading to the hall, the nearer one to the Doctor’s study. In the
opposite wall, facing the hall door, a door leading to the other
rooms of the house. Against the middle of this wall stands the
stove; further forward a sofa with a mirror above it, and in front
of it an oval table with a cover. On the table a lighted lamp,
with a shade. In the back wall an open door leading to the
dining-room, in which is seen a supper-table, with a lamp on it._
BILLING _is seated at the supper-table, with a napkin under his chin._
MRS. STOCKMANN _is standing by the table and placing before him a
dish with a large joint of roast beef. The other seats round the
table are empty; the table is in disorder, as after a meal._
MRS. STOCKMANN.
If you come an hour late, Mr. Billing, you must put up with a cold
supper.
BILLING.
[_Eating._] It is excellent—really first rate.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
You know how Stockmann insists on regular meal-hours——
BILLING.
Oh, I don’t mind at all. I almost think I enjoy my supper more when I
can sit down to it like this, alone and undisturbed.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Oh, well, if you enjoy it—— [_Listening in the direction of the hall._]
I believe this is Mr. Hovstad coming too.
BILLING.
Very likely.
BURGOMASTER STOCKMANN _enters, wearing an overcoat and an
official gold-laced cap, and carrying a stick._
BURGOMASTER.
Good evening, sister-in-law.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
[_Coming forward into the sitting-room._] Oh, good evening; is it you?
It is good of you to look in.
BURGOMASTER.
I was just passing, and so—— [_Looks towards the drawing-room._] Ah, I
see you have company.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
[_Rather embarrassed._] Oh no, not at all; it’s the merest chance.
[_Hurriedly._] Won’t you sit down and have a little supper?
BURGOMASTER.
I? No, thank you. Good gracious! hot meat in the evening! That wouldn’t
suit my digestion.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Oh, for once in a way——
BURGOMASTER.
No, no,—much obliged to you. I stick to tea and bread and butter. It’s
more wholesome in the long run—and rather more economical, too.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
[_Smiling._] You mustn’t think Thomas and I are mere spendthrifts,
either.
BURGOMASTER.
You are not, sister-in-law; far be it from me to say that. [_Pointing to
the Doctor’s study._] Is he not at home?
MRS. STOCKMANN.
No, he has gone for a little turn after supper—with the boys.
BURGOMASTER.
I wonder if that is a good thing to do? [_Listening._] There he is, no
doubt.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
No, that is not he. [_A knock._] Come in!
HOVSTAD _enters from the hall._
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Ah, it’s Mr. Hovstad——
HOVSTAD.
You must excuse me; I was detained at the printer’s. Good evening,
Burgomaster.
BURGOMASTER.
[_Bowing rather stiffly._] Mr. Hovstad? You come on business, I presume?
HOVSTAD.
Partly. About an article for the paper.
BURGOMASTER.
So I supposed. I hear my brother is an extremely prolific contributor to
the _People’s Messenger_.
HOVSTAD.
Yes, when he wants to unburden his mind on one thing or another, he
gives the _Messenger_ the benefit.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
[_To HOVSTAD._] But will you not——? [_Points to the dining-room._]
BURGOMASTER.
Well, well, I am far from blaming him for writing for the class of
readers he finds most in sympathy with him. And, personally, I have no
reason to bear your paper any ill-will, Mr. Hovstad.
HOVSTAD.
No, I should think not.
BURGOMASTER.
One may say, on the whole, that a fine spirit of mutual tolerance
prevails in our town—an excellent public spirit. And that is because we
have a great common interest to hold us together—an interest in which
all right-minded citizens are equally concerned——
HOVSTAD.
Yes—the Baths.
BURGOMASTER.
Just so. We have our magnificent new Baths. Mark my words! The whole
life of the town will centre around the Baths, Mr. Hovstad. There can be
no doubt of it!
MRS. STOCKMANN.
That is just what Thomas says.
BURGOMASTER.
How marvellously the place has developed, even in this couple of years!
Money has come into circulation, and brought life and movement with it.
Houses and ground-rents rise in value every day.
HOVSTAD.
And there are fewer people out of work.
BURGOMASTER.
That is true. There is a gratifying diminution in the burden imposed on
the well-to-do classes by the poor-rates; and they will be still further
lightened if only we have a really good summer this year—a rush of
visitors—plenty of invalids, to give the Baths a reputation.
HOVSTAD.
I hear there is every prospect of that.
BURGOMASTER.
Things look most promising. Inquiries about apartments and so forth keep
on pouring in.
HOVSTAD.
Then the Doctor’s paper will come in very opportunely.
BURGOMASTER.
Has he been writing again?
HOVSTAD.
This is a thing he wrote in the winter; enlarging on the virtues of the
Baths, and on the excellent sanitary conditions of the town. But at that
time I held it over.
BURGOMASTER.
Ah—I suppose there was something not quite judicious about it?
HOVSTAD.
Not at all. But I thought it better to keep it till the spring, when
people are beginning to look about them, and think of their summer
quarters——
BURGOMASTER.
You were right, quite right, Mr. Hovstad.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Yes, Thomas is really indefatigable where the Baths are concerned.
BURGOMASTER.
It is his duty as one of the staff.
HOVSTAD.
And of course he was really their creator.
BURGOMASTER.
Was he? Indeed! I gather that certain persons are of that opinion. But I
should have thought that I, too, had a modest share in that undertaking.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Yes, that is what Thomas is always saying.
HOVSTAD.
No one dreams of denying it, Burgomaster. You set the thing going, and
put it on a practical basis; everybody knows that. I only meant that the
original idea was the doctor’s.
BURGOMASTER.
Yes, my brother has certainly had ideas enough in his time—worse luck!
But when it comes to realising them, Mr. Hovstad, we want men of another
stamp. I should have thought that in this house at any rate——
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Why, my dear brother-in-law——
HOVSTAD.
Burgomaster, how can you——?
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Do go in and have some supper, Mr. Hovstad; my husband is sure to be
home directly.
HOVSTAD.
Thanks; just a mouthful, perhaps.
[_He goes into the dining-room._
BURGOMASTER.
[_Speaking in a low voice._] It is extraordinary how people who spring
direct from the peasant class never can get over their want of tact.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
But why should you care? Surely you and Thomas can share the honour,
like brothers.
BURGOMASTER.
Yes, one would suppose so; but it seems a share of the honour is not
enough for some persons.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
What nonsense! You and Thomas always get on so well together.
[_Listening._] There, I think I hear him.
_Goes and opens the door to the hall._
DR. STOCKMANN.
[_Laughing and talking loudly, without._] Here’s another visitor for
you, Katrina. Isn’t it capital, eh? Come in, Captain Horster. Hang your
coat on that peg. What! you don’t wear an overcoat? Fancy, Katrina, I
caught him in the street, and I could hardly get him to come in.
CAPTAIN HORSTER.
_Enters and bows to MRS. STOCKMANN._
DR. STOCKMANN.
[_In the doorway._] In with you, boys. They’re famishing again! Come
along, Captain Horster; you must try our roast beef——
[_He forces HORSTER into the dining-room. EILIF and MORTEN
follow them._
MRS. STOCKMANN.
But, Thomas, don’t you see——
DR. STOCKMANN.
[_Turning round in the doorway._] Oh, is that you, Peter! [_Goes up to
him and holds out his hand._] Now this is really capital.
BURGOMASTER.
Unfortunately, I have only a moment to spare——
DR. STOCKMANN.
Nonsense! We shall have some toddy in a minute. You’re not forgetting
the toddy, Katrina?
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Of course not; the water’s boiling.
[_She goes into the dining-room._
BURGOMASTER.
Toddy too——!
DR. STOCKMANN.
Yes; sit down, and let’s make ourselves comfortable.
BURGOMASTER.
Thanks; I never join in drinking parties.
DR. STOCKMANN.
But this isn’t a party.
BURGOMASTER.
I don’t know what else—— [_Looks towards the dining-room._] It’s
extraordinary how they can get through all that food.
DR. STOCKMANN.
[_Rubbing his hands._] Yes, doesn’t it do one good to see young people
eat? Always hungry! That’s as it should be. They need good, solid meat
to put stamina into them! It is they that have got to whip up the
ferment of the future, Peter.
BURGOMASTER.
May I ask what there is to be “whipped up,” as you call it?
DR. STOCKMANN.
You’ll have to ask the young people that—when the time comes. We shan’t
see it, of course. Two old fogies like you and me——
BURGOMASTER.
Come, come! Surely that is a very extraordinary expression to use——
DR. STOCKMANN.
Oh, you mustn’t mind my nonsense, Peter. I'm in such glorious spirits,
you see. I feel so unspeakably happy in the midst of all this growing,
germinating life. Isn’t it a marvellous time we live in! It seems as
though a whole new world were springing up around us.
BURGOMASTER.
Do you really think so?
DR. STOCKMANN.
Of course, you can’t see it as clearly as I do. You have passed your
life in the midst of it all; and that deadens the impression. But I who
had to vegetate all those years in that little hole in the north, hardly
ever seeing a soul that could speak a stimulating word to me—all this
affects me as if I had suddenly dropped into the heart of some teeming
metropolis.
BURGOMASTER.
Well, metropolis——
DR. STOCKMANN.
Oh, I know well enough that things are on a small scale here, compared
with many other places. But there’s life here—there’s promise—there’s an
infinity of things to work and strive for; and that is the main point.
[_Calling._] Katrina, haven’t there been any letters?
MRS. STOCKMANN.
[_In the dining-room._] No, none at all.
DR. STOCKMANN.
And then a good income, Peter! That’s a thing one learns to appreciate
when one has lived on starvation wages——
BURGOMASTER.
Good heavens——!
DR. STOCKMANN.
Oh yes, I can tell you we often had hard times of it up there. And now
we can live like princes! To-day, for example, we had roast beef for
dinner; and we’ve had some of it for supper too. Won’t you have some?
Come along—just look at it, at any rate——
BURGOMASTER.
No, no; certainly not——
DR. STOCKMANN.
Well then, look here—do you see we’ve bought a table-cover?
BURGOMASTER.
Yes, so I observed.
DR. STOCKMANN.
And a lamp-shade, too. Do you see? Katrina has been saving up for them.
They make the room look comfortable, don’t they? Come over here. No, no,
no, not there. So—yes! Now you see how it concentrates the light——. I
really think it has quite an artistic effect. Eh?
BURGOMASTER.
Yes, when one can afford such luxuries——
DR. STOCKMANN.
Oh, I can afford it now. Katrina says I make almost as much as we spend.
BURGOMASTER.
Ah—almost!
DR. STOCKMANN.
Besides, a man of science must live in some style. Why, I believe a mere
sheriff[7] spends much more a year than I do.
BURGOMASTER.
Yes, I should think so! A member of the superior magistracy——
DR. STOCKMANN.
Well then, even a common shipowner! A man of that sort will get through
many times as much——
BURGOMASTER.
That is natural, in your relative positions.
DR. STOCKMANN.
And after all, Peter, I really don’t squander any money. But I can’t
deny myself the delight of having people about me. I must have them.
After living so long out of the world, I find it a necessity of life to
have bright, cheerful, freedom-loving, hard-working young fellows around
me—and that’s what they are, all of them, that are sitting there eating
so heartily. I wish you knew more of Hovstad——
BURGOMASTER.
Ah, that reminds me—Hovstad was telling me that he is going to publish
another article of yours.
DR. STOCKMANN.
An article of mine?
BURGOMASTER.
Yes, about the Baths. An article you wrote last winter.
DR. STOCKMANN.
Oh, that one! But I don’t want that to appear for the present.
BURGOMASTER.
Why not? It seems to me this is the very time for it.
DR. STOCKMANN.
Very likely—under ordinary circumstances——
[_Crosses the room._
BURGOMASTER.
[_Following him with his eyes._] And what is unusual in the
circumstances now?
DR. STOCKMANN.
[_Standing still._] The fact is, Peter, I really cannot tell you just
now; not this evening, at all events. There may prove to be a great deal
that is unusual in the circumstances. On the other hand, there may be
nothing at all. Very likely it’s only my fancy.
BURGOMASTER.
Upon my word, you are very enigmatical. Is there anything in the wind?
Anything I am to be kept in the dark about? I should think, as Chairman
of the Bath Committee——
DR. STOCKMANN.
And I should think that I——Well, well, don’t let us get our backs up,
Peter.
BURGOMASTER.
God forbid! I am not in the habit of “getting my back up,” as you
express it. But I must absolutely insist that all arrangements shall be
made and carried out in a businesslike manner, and through the properly
constituted authorities. I cannot be a party to crooked or underhand
courses.
DR. STOCKMANN.
Have _I_ ever been given to crooked or underhand courses?
BURGOMASTER.
At any rate you have an ingrained propensity to taking your own course.
And that, in a well-ordered community, is almost as inadmissible. The
individual must subordinate himself to society, or, more precisely, to
the authorities whose business it is to watch over the welfare of
society.
DR. STOCKMANN.
Maybe. But what the devil has that to do with me?
BURGOMASTER.
Why this is the very thing, my dear Thomas, that it seems you will never
learn. But take care; you will have to pay for it—sooner or later. Now I
have warned you. Good-bye.
DR. STOCKMANN.
Are you stark mad? You’re on a totally wrong track——
BURGOMASTER.
I am not often on the wrong track. Moreover, I must protest
against——[_Bowing towards dining-room._] Good-bye, sister-in-law;
good-day to you, gentlemen.
[_He goes._
MRS. STOCKMANN.
[_Entering the sitting-room._] Has he gone?
DR. STOCKMANN.
Yes, and in a fine temper, too.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Why, my dear Thomas, what have you been doing to him now?
DR. STOCKMANN.
Nothing at all. He can’t possibly expect me to account to him for
everything—before the time comes.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
What have you to account to him for?
DR. STOCKMANN.
H'm;—never mind about that, Katrina.—It’s very odd the postman doesn’t
come.
[HOVSTAD, BILLING _and_ HORSTER _have risen from table and come
forward into the sitting-room._ EILIF _and_ MORTEN
_presently follow._
BILLING.
[_Stretching himself._] Ah! Strike me dead if one doesn’t feel a new man
after such a meal.
HOVSTAD.
The Burgomaster didn’t seem in the best of tempers this evening.
DR. STOCKMANN.
That’s his stomach. He has a very poor digestion.
HOVSTAD.
I fancy it’s the staff of the _Messenger_ he finds it hardest to
stomach.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
I thought you got on well enough with him.
HOVSTAD.
Oh, yes; but it’s only a sort of armistice between us.
BILLING.
That’s it. That word sums up the situation.
DR. STOCKMANN.
We must remember that Peter is a lonely bachelor, poor devil! He has no
home to be happy in; only business, business. And then all that cursëd
weak tea he goes and pours down his throat! Now then, chairs round the
table, boys! Katrina, shan’t we have the toddy now?
MRS. STOCKMANN.
[_Going towards the dining-room._] I am just getting it.
DR. STOCKMANN.
And you, Captain Horster, sit beside me on the sofa. So rare a guest as
you——. Sit down, gentlemen, sit down.
[_The men sit round the table; MRS. STOCKMANN brings in a tray
with kettle, glasses, decanters, etc._
MRS. STOCKMANN.
Here you have it: here’s arrak, and this is rum, and this cognac. Now,
help yourselves.
DR. STOCKMANN.
[_Taking a glass._] So we will. [_While the toddy is being mixed._] And
now out with the cigars. Eilif, I think you know where the box is. And
Morten, you may fetch my pipe. [_The boys go into the room on the
right._] I have a suspicion that Eilif sneaks a cigar now and then, but
I pretend not to notice. [_Calls._] And my smoking-cap, Morten! Katrina,
can’t you tell him where I left it. Ah, he’s got it. [_The boys bring in
the things._] Now, friends, help yourselves. I stick to my pipe, you
know;—this one has been on many a stormy journey with me, up there in
the north. [_They clink glasses._] Your health! Ah, I can tell you it’s
better fun to sit cosily here, safe from wind and weather.
MRS. STOCKMANN.
[_Who sits knitting._] Do you sail soon, Captain Horster?
HORSTER.