a war against the orthodox miracle faith, were, as far as the Norwegian
people were concerned, somewhat premature. The peasant needs the old
scriptural devil, and is not yet ready to dispense with him. The devil
is a popular character in the folk-stories and legends, and I have known
some excellent people who declare that they have seen him. Creeds are
like certain ancient tumuli, which now are but graves, but were once the
habitations of living men. The dust, ashes, and bones of defunct life
which they often contain, nourish in the dark the green grass, the fair
flowers, the blooming trees, that shoot up into the light. You cannot
dig it all up and throw it out without tearing asunder the net-work of
roots which organically connects the living with the dead.
Björnson, though he is an evolutionist, is far removed from the
philosophic temper in his dealings with the obsolete or obsolescent
remnants in political and religious creeds. He has the healthful
intolerance of strong conviction. He is too good a partisan to admit
that there may be another side to the question which might be worth
considering. With magnificent ruthlessness he plunges ahead, and with a
truly old Norse pugnacity he stands in the thick of the fight, rejoicing
in battle. Only combat arouses his Titanic energy and calls all his
splendid faculties into play.
Even apart from his political propaganda the years 1870-74 were a period
of labor and ferment to Björnson. The mightier the man, the mightier the
powers enlisted in his conversion, and the mightier the struggle. A
tremendous wrench was required to change his point of view from that of
a childlike, wondering believer to that of a critical sceptic and
thinker. In a certain sense Björnson never took this step; for when the
struggle was over, and he had readjusted his vision of life to the
theory of evolution, he became as ardent an adherent of it as he had
ever been of the _naïve_ Grundtvigian miracle-faith. And with the deep
need of his nature to pour itself forth--to share its treasures with all
the world--he started out to proclaim his discoveries. Besides Darwin
and Spencer, he had made a study of Stuart Mill, whose noble sense of
fair-play had impressed him. He plunged with hot zeal into the writings
of Steinthal and Max Müller, whose studies in comparative religion
changed to him the whole aspect of the universe. Taine's historical
criticism, with its disrespectful derivation of the hero from food,
climate, and race, lured him still farther away from his old Norse and
romantic landmarks, until there was no longer any hope of his ever
returning to them. But when from this promontory of advanced thought he
looked back upon his idyllic love-stories of peasant lads and lasses,
and his taciturn saga heroes, with their predatory self-assertion, he
saw that he had done with them forever; that they could never more
enlist his former interest. On the other hand, the problems of modern
contemporary life, of which he had now gained quite a new comprehension,
tempted him. The romantic productions of his youth appeared as a more or
less arbitrary play of fancy emancipated from the stern logic of
reality. It was his purpose henceforth to consecrate his powers to the
study of the deeper soul-life of his own age and the exposition of the
forces which in their interdependence and interaction make modern
society.
This is the significance of the four-act drama "Bankruptcy," with which,
in 1874, he astounded and disappointed the Scandinavian public. I have
called it a drama, in accordance with the author's designation on the
title-page; but it is, in the best sense, a comedy of manners, of the
kind that Augier produced in France; and in everything except the
mechanics of construction superior to the plays of Sardou and Dumas. The
dialogue has the most admirable accent of truth. It is not unnaturally
witty or brilliant; but exhibits exactly the traits which Norwegians of
the higher commercial plutocracy are likely to exhibit. All the poetic
touches which charmed us in Björnson's saga dramas were conspicuous by
their absence. Scarcely a trace was there left of that peculiar and
delightful language of his early novels, which can only be described by
the term "Björnsonian."
"Dry, prosaic, trivial," said the reviewers; "Björnson has evidently
worked out his vein. He has ceased to be a poet. He has lost with his
childhood's faith his ideal view of life, and become a mere prosy
chronicler of uninteresting everyday events."
This was, indeed, the general verdict of the public twenty years ago.
Scarcely anyone had a good word to say for the abused play that marked
the poet's fall from the idealism of his early song. But, for all that,
"Bankruptcy" made a strong impression upon the boards. It not only
conquered a permanent place in the _répertoires_ of the theatres of the
Scandinavian capitals, but it spread through Austria, Germany, and
Holland, and has finally scored a success at the _Théâtre Libre_ in
Paris. There is scarcely a theatre of any consequence in Germany which
has not made "Bankruptcy" part of its _répertoire_. At the Royal Theatre
in Munich it was accorded a most triumphant reception, and something
over sixty representations has not yet exhausted its popularity.
The effort to come to close quarters with reality is visible in every
phrase. The denial of the value of all the old romantic stage machinery,
with its artificial climaxes and explosive effects, is perceptible in
the quiet endings of the acts and the entirely unsensational exposition
of the dramatic action. There is one scene (and by no means an unnatural
one) in which there is a touch of violence, viz., where Tjaelde, while
he hopes to avert his bankruptcy, threatens to shoot Lawyer Berent and
himself; but there is a very human quiver in the threat and in the
passionate outbreak which precedes it. Nowhere is there a breath of that
superheated hot-house atmosphere which usually pervades the modern
drama.
"Bankruptcy" deals, as the title indicates, with the question of
financial honesty. Zola has in _Le Roman Sentimental_ made the
observation that "absolute honesty no more exists than perfect
healthfulness. There is a tinge of the human beast in us all, as there
is a tinge of illness." Tjaelde, the great merchant, exemplifies this
proposition. He is a fairly honest man, who by the modern commercial
methods, which, in self-defence, he has been forced to adopt, gets into
the position of a rogue. The commandment, "Thou shalt not steal," seems
at first glance an extremely simple injunction; but in the light of
Björnson's searching analysis it becomes a complex and intricate tangle,
capable of interesting shades and _nuances_ of meaning. Tjaelde, in the
author's opinion, certainly does steal, when, in order to save himself
(and thereby the thousands who are involved in his affairs), he
speculates with other people's money and presents a rose-colored account
of his business, when he knows that he is on the verge of bankruptcy.
But, on the other hand, it is extremely difficult to determine the point
where legitimate speculation ceases and the illegitimate begins. And if
Tjaelde neglected any legitimate means of saving his estate he would be
culpable. A stern code of morals (which the commercial world of to-day
would scarcely exact), the poet enforces in the fourth act, where
Tjaelde refuses to accept any concession from his creditors, but insists
upon devoting the remainder of his life to the liquidation of his debts.
Admirably strong and vital is the exposition of the _rôle_ and functions
of money in the modern world, and the nearer and remoter psychological
effects of the tremendous tyranny of money. A certain external _éclat_
is required to give the great commercial house the proper splendor in
the sight of the world. Thus Tjaelde speculates in hospitality as in
everything else, and when he virtually has nothing, makes the grandest
splurge in order to give a spurious impression of prosperity. Though by
nature an affectionate man, he neglects his family because business
demands all his time. He defrauds himself of the happiness which knocks
at his door, because business fills his head by night and by day, and
absorbs all his energy. A number of parasites (such as the
fortune-hunting lieutenant) attach themselves to him, as long as he is
reputed to be rich, and make haste to vanish when his riches take wings.
On the other hand, the true friends whom in his prosperity he hectored
and contemned are revealed by adversity. There would be nothing
remarkable in so common an experience, if the friends themselves, as
well as the parasites, were not so delightfully delineated. The
lieutenant, with his almost farcical interest in the bay trotter, is
amusingly but lightly drawn; but the awkward young clerk, Sannaes, who
refuses to abandon his master in the hour of trial, is a deeply typical
Norwegian figure. All the little coast towns have specimens to show of
these aspiring, faithful, sensitively organized souls, who, having had
no social advantages are painfully conscious of their deficiencies, but
whose patient industry and sterling worth in the end will triumph. No
less keenly observed and effectively sketched is the whole gallery of
dastardly little village figures--Holm, Falbe, Knutson with an s,
Knutzon, with a z, etc. Signe and Valborg, the two daughters of Tjaelde,
have, in spite of their diversity, a common tinge of Norwegian
nationality which gives a gentle distinctness and relief to the
world-old types.
Björnson's next play,[7] "The Editor," grapples with an equally modern
and timely subject, viz., the license of the press. With terrible
vividness he shows the misery, ruin, and degradation which result from
the present journalistic practice of misrepresentation, sophistry, and
defamation. It is a very dark picture he draws, with scarcely a gleam of
light. The satire is savage; and the quiver of wrath is perceptible in
many a sledge-hammer phrase. You feel that Björnson himself has suffered
from the terrorism which he here describes, and you would surmise too,
even if you did not know it, that the editor whom he has here pilloried
is no mere general editorial type, but a well-known person who, until
recently, conducted one of the most influential journals in Norway. The
play is an act of retribution, and a deserved one. But its weaknesses,
which it is vain to disguise, are also explained by the author's
personal bias--the desire to wreak vengeance upon an enemy.
[7] All the literary histories and other authorities which I have
consulted put the publication of "Bankruptcy," as well as that of
"The Editor," in 1875. But my own copy of the latter play bears on
its title-page the year 1874.
The situation is as follows: Mr. Evje, a rich and generally respected
distiller, has a daughter, Gertrude, who is engaged to Harold Rein, a
political leader of peasant origin. Mr. Rein's brother, Halfdan, from
whom he has, in a measure, inherited the leadership, is dying from the
persecution to which he has been exposed by the Conservative press and
public. In his zeal for the Radical cause it is his consolation that he
leaves it in such strong hands as those of his brother. The election is
impending and a meeting of the electors has been called for the
following day. Harold is the candidate of the Left. It now becomes a
question with the party of the Right so to ridicule and defame him as to
ruin his chances. His position as prospective son-in-law of the rich
Mr. Evje lends an air of importance and respectability to his candidacy.
Mr. Evje must therefore be induced, or, if necessary, compelled, to
throw him overboard. With this end in view the editor of the
Conservative journal goes to Evje (whose schoolmate and friend he has
been) and tries to persuade him to break the alliance with Rein. Evje,
who prides himself on his "moderation" and tolerance, and his purpose to
keep aloof from partisanship, refuses to be bullied; whereupon the
editor threatens him with social ostracism and commercial ruin. The
distiller, who is at heart a coward, is completely unnerved by this
threat. Well knowing how a paper can undermine a man's reputation
without making itself liable for libel, he sends his friend the doctor
to the editor, suing for peace. Late in the evening he meets his foe
outside of his house, and after much shuffling and parleying agrees to
do his will. He surprises his daughter and Harold Rein in a loving
_tête-à-tête_, and lacks the courage to carry out his bargain. He vainly
endeavors to persuade them to break the engagement and separate until
after the election.
In the meanwhile, John, a discharged servant of Evje (of whose
drunkenness and political radicalism we have previously been informed),
has overheard the parley with the editor, and in order to get even with
his master countermands in the editor's name his order to the foreman of
the printing-office; and the obnoxious article which was intended to be
omitted appears in the paper. John also takes care to procure Evje an
early copy, which, first utterly crushes him, then arouses his wrath,
convinces him that "holding aloof" is mere cowardice, and makes him
resolve to bear his share in the great political battle. The meanness,
the malice of each ingenious thrust, while it stings and burns also
awakens a righteous indignation. He goes straight to the lodgings of
Harold Rein and determines to attend the Radical meeting. Not finding
him at home he goes to the house of his brother Halfdan, where he leaves
the copy of the paper. The sick man picks it up, reads an onslaught on
himself which in baseness surpasses the attack on Evje, starts up in
uncontrollable excitement, and dies of a hemorrhage. The maid, who sees
him lying on the floor, cries out into the street for help, and the
editor, who chances to pass by, enters. He finds the Radical leader
dead, with the paper clutched in his hand.
The fourth act opens with a festal arrangement at Evje's in honor of the
great success of Rein's electoral meeting. There is no more "holding
aloof." Everybody has convictions and is ready to avow the party that
upholds them. All are ignorant of Halfdan Rein's death, until the editor
arrives, utterly broken in spirit and asks Evje's pardon. He wishes to
explain, but no one wishes to listen. When Evje wavers and is on the
point of accepting his proffered hand, his wife and daughter loudly
protest.
The editor declares his purpose to renounce journalism. The festivities
are abandoned, and all betake themselves to the house of the dead
leader. Thus the play ends; there is no tableau, no climax, no dramatic
catastrophe. It is Zola's theory[8] and Maeterlink's practice
anticipated.
[8] "Naturalism on the Stage."
The journalistic conditions here described are, of course, those of the
Norwegian capital nearly a quarter of a century ago. Few editors, I
fancy, outside of country towns, now go about personally spreading
rumors, with malice aforethought, and collecting gossip. But the power
of the press for good and for ill, and the terrorism which, in evil
hands, it exercises, are surely not exaggerated. But its most striking
application has the drama in its exposure of the desperate and
ignominious expedients to which a party will resort in order to defeat,
defame, and utterly destroy a political opponent. The following passages
may be worth quoting:
"Most of the successful politicians nowadays win not by their own
greatness but by the paltriness of the rest."
"Here is a fine specimen of a fossil. It is a piece of a palm-leaf, ...
which was found in a stratum of Siberian rock.... Thus one must become
in order to endure the ice-storms. Then one is not harmed. But your
brother! In him lived yet the whole murmuring, singing palm-forest....
As regards you, it remains to be seen whether you can get all humanity
in you completely killed.... But who would at that price be a
politician?... That one must be hardened is the watchword of all
nowadays. Not only army officers but physicians, merchants, officials
are to be hardened or dried up; ... hardened for the battle of life, as
they say. But what does that mean? We are to expel and evaporate the
warmth of the heart, the fancy's yearning, ... before we are fit for
life.... No, I say, it is those very things we are to preserve. That's
what we have got them for."
Björnson's increasing Radicalism and his outspoken Socialistic
sympathies had by this time alienated a large portion of the
Scandinavian public. The cry was heard on all sides that he had ceased
to be a poet, and had become instead a mere political agitator. I cannot
deny myself the pleasure of quoting Björnson's reply when at his request
a friend repeated to him the opinion which was entertained of him in
certain quarters:
"Oh, yes," he cried, with a wrathful laugh, "don't I know it? You must
be a poet! You must not mingle in the world's harsh and jarring tumult.
They have a notion that a poet is a longhaired man who sits on the top
of a tower and plays upon a harp while his hair streams in the wind.
Yes, a fine kind of poet is that! No, my boy, I am a poet, not primarily
because I can write verse (there are lots of people who can do that) but
by virtue of seeing more clearly, and feeling more deeply, and speaking
more truly than the majority of men. All that concerns humanity
concerns me. If by my song or my speech I can contribute ever so little
toward the amelioration of the lot of the millions of my poorer
fellow-creatures, I shall be prouder of that than of the combined
laurels of Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe."
This is the conception of a poet which was prevalent in Norway in the
olden time. The scalds of the sagas were warriors as well as singers.
They fought with sword and battle-axe, and their song rang the more
boldly because they knew how to strike up another tune--the fierce song
of the sword. In modern times Wergeland and Welhaven have demonstrated
not only the pugnacity, but also the noble courage of their ancestry by
espousing the cause of opposing parties during the struggle for national
independence.
Those who demand that literature shall be untinged by any tendency or
strong conviction will do well to eschew all the subsequent works of
Björnson. They might perhaps put up with the brief novel "Magnhild,"
which is tolerably neutral in tone, though it is the least enjoyable of
all Björnson's works. It gives the impression that the author is half
afraid of his subject (which is an illicit love), and only dares to
handle it so gingerly as to leave half the tale untold. The short,
abrupt sentences which seemed natural enough when he was dealing with
the peasants, with their laconic speech and blunt manners, have a forced
and unnatural air when applied to people to whom this style of language
is foreign. Moreover, these condensed sentences are often vague, full of
innuendo, and mysterious as hieroglyphics. It is as if the author, in
the consciousness of the delicacy of his theme, had lost the bold
security of touch which in his earlier works made his meaning
unmistakable.
The drama "The King" (1877) is an attack upon the monarchical principle
in its political as well as its personal aspect. It is shown how
destructive the royal prerogative is and must be to the king as an
individual; how the artificial regard which hedges him in, interposing
countless barriers between the truth and him, makes his relations to his
surroundings false and deprives him of the opportunity for
self-knowledge which normal relations supply. Royalty is therefore a
curse, because it robs its possessor of the wholesome discipline of life
which is the right of every man that is born into the world.
Furthermore, there is an obvious intention to show that the monarchy,
being founded upon a lie, is incapable of any real adaptation to the
age, and reconciliation with modern progress. The king in the play is a
young, talented, liberal-minded man, who is fully conscious of the
anomaly of his position, and determined to save his throne by stripping
it of all mediæval and mythological garniture. He dreams of being a
"folk-king," the first citizen of a free people, a kind of hereditary
president, with no sham divinity to fall back upon, and no "grace of
God" to shield him from criticism and sanctify his blunders. He resents
the _rôle_ of being the lock of the merchant's strong-box and the head
of that mutual insurance company which is called the state. He goes
about _incognito_, first in search of love adventures, and later in
order to acquaint himself with public opinion; and he proves himself
remarkably unprejudiced and capable of profiting by experience. He falls
in love with Clara Ernst, the daughter of a Radical professor, who, on
account of a book he has written, has been sentenced for _crimen læsæ
majestatis_, and in an attempt to escape from prison has broken both his
legs. Clara, who is supporting her father in his exile by teaching,
repels the king's advances with indignation and contempt. He perseveres,
however, fascinated by the novelty of such treatment. He manages to
convince her of the purity of his motives; and finally succeeds in
winning her love. It is not a _liaison_ he contemplates, but a valid and
legitimate marriage for which he means to compel recognition. The court,
which he has no more use for, he desires to abolish as a costly and
degrading luxury; and in its place to establish a home--a model
_bourgeois_ home--where affection and virtue shall flourish. Clara,
seeing the vast significance of such a step, is aglow with enthusiasm
for its realization. It is not vanity, but a lofty faith in her mission
to regenerate royalty, by discarding its senseless pomp and bringing it
into accord with, and down to the level of, common citizenship--it is
this, I say, which upholds her in the midst of opprobrium, insults, and
hostile demonstrations. For the king's subjects, so far from being
charmed by his resolution to marry a woman out of their midst, are
scandalized. They riot, sing mocking songs, circulate base slanders, and
threaten to mob the royal bride on her way to her first public function.
She is herself terribly wrought up, particularly by the curse of her
father, who hates the king with the deep hatred of a fanatical
Republican. A royal princess, who had come to insult her, is conquered
by her candor and truth, and stays to sympathize with her and lend her
the support of her presence. But just as the king comes to lead her out
to face the populace, the wraith of her father rises upon the threshold
and she falls back dead. It is learned afterward that Professor Ernst
had died in that very hour.
The king's bosom friend, the Minister of the Interior, Gran, who is
largely responsible for his liberalism, and whose whole policy it has
been to rejuvenate and revitalize the monarchy, is challenged and shot
by his old teacher, the Republican Flink; and the king himself,
convinced of the futility of all his efforts to realize his idea of a
democratic monarchy, commits suicide.
As a piece of sanguinary satire on royalty as an institution "The King"
is most interesting--that is, royalty logically and speculatively
considered, without reference to its historical basis and development.
To me the postulate that it had its origin in a kind of conspiracy (for
mutual benefit) of the priest and the king seems shallow and
unphilosophical. Björnson's fanatical partisanship has evidently carried
him a little too far. For surely he would himself admit that every free
nation is governed about as well as it deserves to be--that its
political institutions are a reflection of its maturity and capacity for
self-government. A certain allowance must, indeed, be made for the _vis
inertiæ_ of whatever exists, which makes it exert a stubborn and not
unwholesome resistance to the reformer's zeal. This conservatism (which
may, however, have more laudable motives than mere self-interest)
Björnson has happily satirized in the scene before the Noblemen's Club
in the third act. But, I fancy, it looks to him only as a sinister
power, which for its own base purposes has smitten humanity with
blindness to its own welfare. Though not intending to enter into a
discussion, I am also tempted to put a respectful little interrogation
mark after the statement that the republic is so very much cheaper than
the monarchy. If the experience of the two largest republics in the
world counts for anything, I should say that in point of economy there
was not much to choose.