argument in favor of the republic. In his preface to the third edition
he distinctly repudiates the idea. The recent development of the
Norwegian people, has, he says, made the republic a remoter possibility
than it was ten years before (1875). But he qualifies this statement
with the significant condition, "If we are not checked by fraud." And I
fancy that he would have a perfect right to justify his present position
by demonstrating the fraud, trickery, if not treason, by which Norway
has during the last decade been thwarted in her aspirations and checked
in her development. That preface, by the way, dated Paris, October,
1885, is one of the most forceful and luminous of his political
pronunciamientos. It rings from beginning to end with conviction and a
manly indignation. His chief purpose, he says, in writing this drama
was, "to extend the boundaries of free discussion." His polemics against
the clergy are not attacks upon Christianity, though he contends that
religion is subject to growth as well as other things. The ultimate form
of government he believes to be the republic, on the journey toward
which all European states are proceeding fast, or slow, and in various
stages of progress. There is something abrupt, gnarled, Carlylese, in
his urgent admonitions and appeals for fair-play. The personal note is
so distinct that I cannot read the play without unconsciously supplying
the very cadence of Björnson's voice.
A further attempt to extend the boundaries of free discussion is made in
the two dramas, "Leonarda" (1879) and "A Glove" (1883), which both deal
with interesting phases of the woman question, and both wage war
against conventional notions of right and wrong. The former elucidates
the attitude of society toward the woman who has been compromised
(whether justly or not), and the latter its attitude toward the man. I
confess there is something a trifle hazy in his exposition of the
problem in "Leonarda;" and I am unable to determine whether Leonarda
really has anything to reproach herself with or not. In her conversation
with the bishop in the second act, she appears to admit that she has
much to regret. She begs him "help her atone for her past." She
practically throws herself upon his mercy, reminding him that his
Master, Christ, was the friend of sinners. But in the last act she
appears suddenly with the halo of martyrdom. General Rosen, who has been
the cause of her social ostracism, turns out to be her husband, whom she
has divorced on account of his dissipated habits, and now keeps, in the
hope of saving him, on a sort of probation. She believes that without
her he would go straight to perdition, and from a sense of duty she
tolerates him, not daring to shirk her responsibility for the old
reprobate's soul. Truth to tell, she treats him like a naughty boy,
punishing him, when he has been drunk, with a denial of favors; and when
he has been good, rewarding him with her company. I suppose there are
men who might be saved by such treatment, but I venture to doubt whether
they are worth saving. As for Leonarda, she has apparently no cause for
encouragement. But she perseveres, heedless of obloquy, as long as her
own affections are disengaged. She presently falls in love, however,
with a young man named Hagbart Tallhaug, who has insulted her and is now
engaged to her niece, Agot. Hagbart is the nephew of the bishop of the
diocese, who, after much persuasion is induced to receive Agot, on
condition that her aunt will remove from the district and demand no
recognition from the family. Having been informed of these conditions,
Leonarda calls upon the bishop, uninvited, and vainly remonstrates with
him. The young people are, however, unwilling to accept happiness on the
terms offered by his reverence. At this point a new complication arises.
Hagbart who had loved in Agot a kind of reflection of her aunt's
character and manner, being now thrown into the company of the latter,
discovers his mistake and transfers his affection to Leonarda. Exactly
wherein the newness of Leonarda's type consists we are not fully
informed, but we are led to infer that she represents a purer and truer
humanity than the women bred in the traditions of feudalism, with their
hypocritical arts and conventions. She is not meant to be seductive, but
radiant, ravishing.
There is a candor in her speech, and an almost boyish
straightforwardness, for which she is not indebted to nature but to the
stanch idealism of her creator. She is, however, on that account no less
impressionable, no less ready to respond to the call of love. She
struggles manfully (or ought I not, in deference to the author's
contention, to say "womanfully") against her love for Hagbart, and at
last has no choice but to escape from the cruel dilemma by accepting the
bishop's demand. Though she cannot conquer her affection for the young
man, she believes that he will, in the course of time, return to Agot,
as soon as she is out of his way. The author evidently believes the
same. It is a hard lot to be a man in these later dramas of Björnson.
With a slight violation of the chronological sequence I shall discuss "A
Glove" in this connection, because of its organic coherence with
"Leonarda." They are the obverse and reverse of the same subject--the
cruelty of society to the woman of a blemished reputation, and its
leniency to the man.
To those who worship the conventional ideal of womanly innocence "A
Glove" will seem a very shocking book, for it fearlessly discusses, and,
what is more, makes a young girl discuss--the standards of sexual purity
as applied to men and women. The sentiments which she utters are, to be
sure, elevated and of an almost Utopian idealism; and the author
obviously means to raise, not to lower, her in the eyes of the reader by
her passionate frankness.
The problem of the drama is briefly this: Society demands of women an
absolute chastity, and refuses to condone the least lapse, either before
or after marriage. But toward men it is indulgent. It readily overlooks
a plenteous seed of wild oats, and would regard it as the sheerest
Quixotism to judge the bridegroom by the same standard of purity as it
does the bride. It is easy enough, and perhaps also legitimate, to
exclaim with Björnson that this is all wrong, and that a man has no
right to ask any more than he gives. As a mere matter of equity a wife
owes her husband no more fidelity than he owes her, and may exact of
him, if she chooses, the same prematrimonial purity that he exacts of
her. But questions of this kind are never settled on the basis of
equity. The sentiments by which they are determined have long and
intricate roots in the prehistoric past; and we are yet very far from
the millennial condition of absolute equality between the sexes.
According to Herbert Spencer there is a hereditary transmission of
qualities which are confined exclusively to the male, and of others
which are confined to the female; and these are the results of the
primitive environments and conditions which were peculiar to each sex.
Even the best of us have a reminiscent sense of proprietorship in our
wives, dating from the time when she was obtained by purchase or capture
and could be disposed of like any other chattel. Wives, whose
prehistoric discipline has disposed them to humility and submission (I
am speaking of the European, not the American species, of course), have
not yet in the same degree acquired this sense of ownership in their
husbands, involving the same strict accountability for affectional
aberrations. And for this there is a very good reason, which is no less
valid now than it was in the hoariest antiquity. A husband's infidelity,
though morally as reprehensible as that of the wife, does not entail
quite such monstrous consequences. For if she deceives him, he may
ignorantly bring up another man's children, toil for them, bestow his
name and affection upon them, and leave them his property. One can
scarcely conceive of a more outrageous wrong than this; and it is in
order to guard against such a possibility that society from remote ages
has watched over the chastity of women far more jealously than over that
of men. It is as a result of this vigilance of centuries that women
have, among civilized nations, a finer sense of modesty than men, and a
higher standard of personal purity. Men are, as yet, as Mr. Howells
remarks, "imperfectly monogamous;" and Björnson is, no doubt, in the
main right in the tremendous indictment he frames against them in the
present drama.
It may be expedient to give a brief outline of the action. Svava Riis,
the daughter of prosperous and refined parents, becomes engaged to Alf
Christensen, the son of a great commercial magnate.
Her father and mother are overjoyed at the happy event; she is herself
no less delighted. Her _fiancé_ has an excellent reputation, shares her
interest in social questions, and supports her in her efforts to found
kindergartens and to ameliorate the lot of the poor. Each glories in
the exclusive possession of the other's love, and with the retrospective
jealousy of lovers, fancies that he has had no predecessors in the
affection of the beloved. Alf can scarcely endure to have any one touch
Svava, and is almost ill when any one dances with her.
"When I see you among all the others," he exclaims, "and catch, for
instance, a glimpse of your arm, then I think: That arm has been wound
about my neck, and about no one else's in the whole world. She is mine!
She belongs to me, and to no one, no one else!"
Svava finds this feeling perfectly natural, and reciprocates it. She
ardently believes that he brings her as fresh a heart as she brings him;
that his past is as free from contaminating experience as is her own.
When, therefore, she obtains proof to the contrary, in an indignant
revulsion of feeling, she hurls her glove in his face and breaks the
engagement. This act is, I fancy, intended to be half symbolic. The
young girl expresses not only her personal sense of outrage; but she
flings a challenge in the face of the whole community, which by its
indulgence made his transgression easy. She discovers that what in her
would have been a crime is in him a lapse, readily forgiven. Her whole
soul revolts against this inequality of conditions; and in terminating
their relation, which has lost all its beauty, she wishes to cut off all
chance of its future resumption.
In order to determine whether this sentiment of passionate virginity
(which in effect makes the marriage vow of fidelity retroactive) is not,
in the present condition of the world, a trifle overstrained, I have
submitted the question to two refined women for whom I have a high
regard. To my surprise they both declared that Svava, whatever she may
have said to the contrary, did not love her _fiancé_; that her sorrow
and even her indignation were just and natural; but that her somewhat
over-conscious purity--her _virginité savante_, as Balzac phrases it in
"Modeste Mignon," and her inability to give due weight to ameliorating
circumstances were unwomanly. I confess I am not without sympathy with
this criticism. Svava, though she is right in her vehement protest
against masculine immorality, is not charming--that is, according to our
present notion of what constitutes womanly charm. It is not unlikely,
however, that like Leonarda she is meant to anticipate a new type of
womanhood, co-ordinate and coequal with man, whose charm shall be of a
wholly different order. The coquetry, the sweet hypocrisy, nay, all the
frivolous arts which exercise such a potent sway over the heart of man
have their roots in the prehistoric capture and thraldom; and from the
point of view of the woman suffragists, are so many reminiscences of
degradation. I fancy that Björnson, sharing this view, has with full
deliberation made Svava boldly and inexorably truthful, frank as a boy
and as uncompromisingly honest as a man.
She has sufficient use for this masculine equipment (I am speaking in
accordance with the effete standards) in the battle which is before her.
Dr. Nordan, the family physician, her parents, and those of her
_fiancé_, take her to task and endeavor to demonstrate to her the
consequences of her unprecedented demand. She learns in the course of
this prolonged debate that she has been living in a fool's paradise. She
has been purposely (and with the most benevolent intention) deceived in
regard to this question from the very cradle. Her father, whom she has
believed to be a model husband, proves to have been unworthy of her
trust. The elder Christensen has also had a compromising intrigue of the
same kind; and it becomes obvious that each male creature is so
indulgent in this chapter toward every other male creature, because each
knows himself to be equally vulnerable. There is a sort of tacit
freemasonry among them, which takes its revenge upon him who tells tales
out of school. It is a consciousness of this which makes Christensen,
after having declared war to the knife against the Riises, withdraw his
challenge and become doubly cordial toward his enemy. Alf, who in the
second act has expressed the opinion that a man is responsible to his
wife for his future, but not for his past, retracts, and does penance.
Svava, in consideration of his penitence, gives him a vague hope of
future reconciliation.[9]
[9] In the later acting version of the play, which ends with the
throwing of the glove, this hope of reconciliation is definitely cut
off. The author has evidently come to the conclusion that his
argument is weakened by Svava's conciliatory attitude, and he
enforces his moral by making the sin appear unpardonable. The acting
version, which is more dramatically concise, differs in several
other respects from the version here presented; but the other
changes seem to be dictated by a stricter regard for the exigencies
of theatrical representation. The play has been translated into
English under the title, "A Gauntlet," London, 1894.
It will be observed by every reader of "A Glove" that it is not a drama,
according to our American notion. It has very little dramatic action. It
might be styled a series of brilliant and searching debates concerning a
theme of great moment. The same definition applies, though in a lesser
degree, to "The New System" (1879), a five-act play of great power and
beauty. By power I do not mean noise, but convincing impressiveness and
concentration of interest. One could scarcely imagine anything farther
removed from the ha! and ho! style of melodrama.
"The New System" is primarily social satire. It is a psychological
analysis of the effect of the "small state" upon its citizens. It is an
expansion and exemplification of the proposition (Act I., 1) that "while
the great states cannot subsist without sacrificing their small people
by the thousands, small states cannot subsist without the sacrifice of
many of their great men, nay of the very greatest." The smooth, crafty
man, "who can smile ingratiatingly like a woman," rises to the higher
heights; while the bold, strong, capable man, who is unversed in the
arts of humility and intrigue, struggles hopelessly, and perhaps in the
end goes to the dogs, because he is denied the proper field for his
energy. Never has Björnson written anything more convincing,
penetrating, subtly satirical. He cuts deep; every incision draws blood.
A Norwegian who reads the play cannot well rid himself of a startled
sense of exposure that is at first wounding to his patriotism. It is
mortifying to have to admit that things are thus in Norway. And the
worst of it is that there appears to be no remedy. The condition is,
according to Björnson, inherent in all small states which cripple the
souls of men, stunt their growth, and contract their horizon.
The first act opens with a conversation between the civil engineers
Kampe and Ravn, and the former's son Hans, who has just returned from a
prolonged sojourn abroad. The keynote is struck in the sarcastic remark
of Ravn, that in a small society only small truths can be tolerated--of
the kind that takes twenty to the inch; but great truths are apt to be
explosive and should therefore be avoided, for they might burst the
whole society. This is _à propos_ of a book which Hans Kampe has
written, exposing the wastefulness and antiquated condition of the
so-called "new system" of railway management introduced, or supposed to
have been introduced, by Kampe's and Ravn's brother-in-law, the
supervisor-general Riis. The way for Hans to make a career, declares the
worldly wise Ravn, is not to oppose the source of promotion and power,
but to be silent and marry the supervisor-general's daughter. Ravn has
learned this lesson by bitter experience, and hopes that his nephew will
profit by it. All talk about duty to the state and society he pretends
to regard as pure moonshine, and he professes not to see the connection
between the elder Kampe's drunkenness and the artificial bottling up to
which he has been subjected, the curbing and jailing of Titanic powers
which once sought outlet in significant action. The same mighty force
which in its repression drives the men to the brandy-bottle makes the
women intoxicate themselves with fictitious narratives of high courage,
daring rescues, and all kinds of melodramatic heroism. Extremely amusing
is the scene in which Karen Riis (who loves Hans and is beloved by him)
goes rowing with her friends Nora and Lisa, taking with her a stock of
high-strung novels, and when a drowning man cries to them for help they
row away posthaste, because the man is naked.
The second act shows us the type of the successful man of compromise,
who takes the world as he finds it, and cleverly utilizes the foibles of
his fellow-men. The supervisor-general is a sort of personification of
public opinion. He is always correct, professes to believe what others
believe, and conforms from prudent calculation to the religious customs
of the community. He demands of his son Frederic that he shall abandon a
young girl whom he loves and has seduced, and he requires of his
daughter Karen that she shall, out of regard for her family, renounce
her lover. He feigns all proper sentiments and emotions, while under
the smooth, agreeable mask lurk malice and cunning. When Hans Kampe's
book reaches him, it never occurs to him to examine it on its merits;
his only thought is to make it harmless by inventing a scandalous
motive. The elder Kampe has just resigned from the railway service; the
supervisor-general (with infamous shrewdness) demands an official
inquiry into the state of his accounts. Then all the world will say that
Hans Kampe has been used as a cat's-paw by his father, who, knowing that
an investigation is inevitable, wishes to throw dust in the eyes of the
public and save his own reputation by attacking that of his superior. It
is needless to say that he has not a shadow of suspicion regarding
Kampe's honesty, but merely chooses for his own defence the weapon which
he knows to be the most effective.
In order to fortify his position and sound the sentiment of the
profession, Riis gives a grand dinner to the engineers of the city, to
which Kampe and his son are also invited. The chairman of the committee
on railways (of the national diet) is present, and when it appears that
Hans Kampe makes a favorable impression upon him, the friends of Riis
concoct a scheme to injure him. They inform his father that he is
suspected of embezzlement, and get him drunk, whereupon the old man
scandalizes the company by a burst of uncomplimentary candor. When Hans
arrives the mischief is done; though the pathetic scene between father
and son convinces the chairman that, whatever their failings, these men
are true and genuine. Simply delicious is the satire in the scene where
the ladies discuss the question at issue between Riis and Kampe. But
this satire is deprived of much of its force by the subsequent
development of the plot. The logical ending would seem to be the triumph
of the supervisor-general's defensive tactics and the discomfiture of
his critics. That would have given point to the criticism of the small
state and invested the victims of progress with an almost tragic
dignity. Björnson chooses, however, to let neither the one party nor the
other triumph. In a small state, he says, no one is victorious;
everything ends in compromise. If two parties championed two different
plans of railway construction, the one of which was demonstrated to be
superior in economy and safety to the other, such a demonstration would
not be likely to result in its adoption. No, the two parties would come
together, dicker and compromise, and in the end the diet would agree to
build one road according to the one plan, and one according to the
other. Agreeably to this principle Björnson leaves the honors between
the combatants about easy; but Riis, deserted by his children, undergoes
a partial change of heart and is seized with doubt as to the excellence
of his philosophy of life.
That the satire of "The New System" struck home is obvious from the
fierceness and virulence of the criticism with which it was hailed. It
has never become fairly domesticated on the Scandinavian stages, and
probably never will be. In Germany, France, and Holland it has received
respectful attention, and (I am informed) has proved extremely effective
upon the boards.
In the same year as "The New System" (1879) appeared the delightful
novelette "Captain Mansana," dealing with Italian life, and throwing
interesting side-lights upon the War of Liberation. There is an
irresistible charm in the freshness, the vividness, the extreme
modernness of this little tale. The mingled simplicity and
sophistication of the Italian character, the histrionic touch which yet
goes with perfect sincerity, the author has apprehended and presented
with happy realism.
In "Beyond their Strength" (_Over Aevne_) (1883) Björnson has invaded
the twilight realm of psycho-pathological phenomena, and refers the
reader for further information to _Leçons sur le système nerveux, faites
par J. M. Charcot_, and _Études cliniques sur l'hystéro-épilepsie ou
grande hystérie, par le Dr. Richer_. As a man is always in danger of
talking nonsense in dealing with a subject concerning which his
knowledge is superficial, I shall not undertake to pronounce upon the
validity of the theory which is here advanced. The play is an inquiry
into the significance and authenticity of miracles. Incidentally the
theme is faith-healing, the hypnotic effect of prayer, and kindred
phenomena.
Pastor Sang, a clergyman in a remote parish of Northern Norway, is famed
far and wide as the miracle-priest, and it is popularly believed that he
can work wonders, as the apostles did of old. He has given away his
large fortune to the poor; in a fervor of faith he plunges into every
danger, and comes out unscathed; he lives constantly in an overstrained
ecstasy, and by his mere presence, and the atmosphere which surrounds
him, forces his wife and children to live in the same state of high
nervous tension and unnatural abstraction from mundane reality and all
its concerns. His wife, Clara, who loves him ardently, is gradually worn
out by this perpetual strain, which involves a daily overdraft upon her
vitality; and finally the break comes, and she is paralyzed. For, like
everyone who comes in contact with Sang, she has had to live "beyond her
strength." She does not fully share her husband's faith, and though she
feels his influence and admires his lofty devotion, there is a
half-suppressed criticism in her mind. She feels the unwholesomeness of
thus "living by inspiration, and not by reason." When he comes to her,
"beaming always with a Sabbath joy," she would fain tune him down, if
she could, into a lower key, "the C-major of every-day life," as
Browning calls it. But in this effort she has had no success, for Sang's
ecstatic elevation above the concerns of earth is not only
temperamental; nature itself, in the extreme North, favors it. As Clara
expresses it: