A new set of Faddists has been gradually growing up, not in our midst,
but in the parts about Literature and the Drama. The object of their
cult is, one HENRIK IBSEN, a Norwegian Dramatist, (perhaps it would
be more correct to say, _the_ Norwegian Dramatist,) of whose plays
a pretty sprinkling of scribes, amateur and professional, but all of
the very highest culture, profess themselves the uncompromisingly
enthusiastic admirers. You may not know the Ibsenites or any of their
works, but in their company at least,--that is, supposing yourself so
highly privileged as to be admitted within the innermost circle of the
Inner Ibsen Brotherhood,--_not_ to know IBSEN would be proof positive
of your being in the outer darkness of ignorance, and in need, however
unworthy, of the grace of Ibsenitish enlightenment. Recruits are
wanted in the Ibsenite ranks, so as to strengthen numerically the one
party against the other; for the Ibsenitish sect has so for progressed
as to be at loggerheads amongst themselves; not indeed on any really
essential question, such as would be, for example, any doubt as to
the position of IBSEN as a Dramatist, or as to the order of merit and
precedence to be assigned to his works. No, on such matters they are
apparently at one; but in other matters they are at one another. Thus
the unity appears to be only superficial, a decent plaster hiding the
rift occasioned by one of their number having literally translated
into English IBSEN's latest Norwegian drama, of which translation the
verbal correctness is impugned by another learned Ibsenite.
Not being "a hardy Norseman," and having neither a reading nor
speaking acquaintance with the Norse language, I am unable to decide
abstruse points on which such learned doctors disagree; but not being
altogether without some practical experience of English and French
drama, I venture to call in question not only the dramatic ability of
the dramatist himself, but also, after perhaps allowing him some merit
as a type-writer or character-sketcher, to assert that the style and
matter of most of his work is always tiresome, frequently childish,
and the subject often morbid and unhealthy; and, further, that his
method is tedious to the last degree of boredom; for, as a writer, if
I may judge him fairly by his translators, he is didactic and prosy,
and never more tedious than when his dialogue is intended to be at its
very crispest. As a playwright his construction is faulty. Here and
there he gives expression to pretty ideas, reminding me (still judging
by the translation) of TOM ROBERTSON, not when the latter was in his
happiest vein, but when laboriously striving to make his puppets talk
in a sweetly ingenuous manner.
I have never seen any play of IBSEN's on the stage, but I have read
several of them--indeed, as I believe, all that have hitherto been
translated and published in this country. I was prepared to be
charmed, expecting much. I was soon disillusioned, and great was my
disappointment. Then I re-read them, to judge of them not merely as
dramas for the closet, but as dramas for the stage, written to be
acted, not to be read; or, at all events, as far as the general public
were concerned, to be acted first, and to be read afterwards. As
acting dramas, it is difficult to conceive anything less practically
dramatic. I do not know what the pecuniary result of his theatrical
productions may be in his own country--where, I believe, he doesn't
reside--but, out of his own country (say, here in London), I should
say that a one-night's performance, with a house half full, would
exhaust IBSEN's English public, and quite exhaust the patience of
those who know not IBSEN.
Years ago we had the Chatterton-Boucicault dictum that "SHAKSPEARE
spelt failure." Now, for SHAKSPEARE read "IBSEN," and insert the words
"swift and utter" before "failure," and you have my opinion as to how
the formula would stand with regard to IBSEN. I should be sorry to
see any professional Manager making himself pecuniarily responsible
for the success of such an undertaking, a word which, in its funereal
sense, is of ill omen to the attempt. Let the Ibsenites club
together, lease a theatre, and see how the public likes their show.
There's nothing doing at the Royalty just now; let them pay rent
in advance, and become Miss KATE SANTLEY's tenants; then, if the
IBSEN-worshippers, with their Arch-priest, or ARCHER-priest, at their
head, come to a temporary understanding with the Gosse-Ibsenites,
they could craftily contrive to be invited as guests to a dinner at
the Playwreckers' Club. The _dilettanti_ members of this association
the United Ibsenites could flatter by deferring to the opinions of
their hosts, while inculcating their own, thus securing the goodwill
and patronage of the Playwreckers, a plan nowadays adopted with
considerable success by some of our wiliest dramatists, eager to
secure a free course and be glorified; and so, by making each one of
these mighty amateurs feel that the success of IBSEN in this country
depended on him personally, that is, on his verdict or "_Ibsen
dixit_," a run of, say, perhaps three nights might possibly be
secured, when they could play to fairly-filled houses. One "nicht wi'
IBSEN," one night only, would, I venture to say, be quite enough for
most of us. "Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!" "Oh, that my
enemy would bring out an Ibsenite play," and try to run it! Perhaps he
will. In which case I will either alter my opinion or give him a dose
of ANTI-FAD.
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[Illustration: MR. GLADSTONE'S NEW HOUSE.
"The house which Mr. GLADSTONE has just taken in Park Lane is, it is
reported, the selection of Mrs. GLADSTONE, who recommends it with a
view to her husband's opportunities for exercise."--_Daily Paper_.]
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