"The reproach was levelled against my tragedy, 'The Father,' that it was
so sad, as though one wanted merry tragedies. People clamour for the joy
of life, and the theatrical managers order farces, as though the joy of
life consisted in being foolish, and in describing people as if they
were each and all afflicted with St. Vitus's dance or idiocy. I find the
joy of life in the powerful, cruel struggle of life, and my enjoyment in
discovering something, in learning something."
The passionate desire to discover something, to learn something, has
made of August Strindberg a keen dissector of souls. Above all, of his
own soul.
Surely there is no figure in contemporary literature, outside of
Tolstoy, that laid bare the most secret nooks and corners of his own
soul with the sincerity of August Strindberg. One so relentlessly honest
with himself, could be no less with others.
That explains the bitter opposition and hatred of his critics. They did
not object so much to Strindberg's self-torture; but that he should
have dared to torture _them_, to hold up his searching mirror to
_their_ sore spots, that they could not forgive.
Especially is this true of woman. For centuries she has been lulled into
a trance by the songs of the troubadours who paid homage to her
goodness, her sweetness, her selflessness and, above all, her noble
motherhood. And though she is beginning to appreciate that all this
incense has befogged her mind and paralyzed her soul, she hates to give
up the tribute laid at her feet by sentimental moonshiners of the past.
To be sure, it is rude to turn on the full searchlight upon a painted
face. But how is one to know what is back of the paint and artifice?
August Strindberg hated artifice with all the passion of his being;
hence his severe criticism of woman. Perhaps it was his tragedy to see
her as she really is, and not as she appears in her trance. To love with
open eyes is, indeed, a tragedy, and Strindberg loved woman. All his
life long he yearned for her love, as mother, as wife, as companion. But
his longing for, and his need of her, were the crucible of Strindberg,
as they have been the crucible of every man, even of the mightiest
spirit.
Why it is so is best expressed in the words of the old nurse, _Margret_,
in "The Father": "Because all you men, great and small, are woman's
children, every man of you."
The child in man--- and the greater the man the more dominant the child
in him--has ever succumbed to the Earth Spirit, Woman, and as long as
that is her only drawing power, Man, with all his strength and genius,
will ever be at her feet.
The Earth Spirit is motherhood carrying the race in its womb; the flame
of life luring the moth, often against its will, to destruction.
In all of Strindberg's plays we see the flame of life at work, ravishing
man's brain, consuming man's faith, rousing man's passion. Always,
always the flame of life is drawing its victims with irresistible force.
August Strindberg's arraignment of that force is at the same time a
confession of faith. He, too, was the child of woman, and utterly
helpless before her.