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Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. In the printed
dialogue, emphasis is indicated by gesperrt (spaced) text, but is here
also delimited as the italic.
The few footnotes have been collected at the end of the section or act
in which they are referenced. Minor errors, attributable to the printer,
have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of
this text for details regarding the handling of any other textual issues
encountered during its preparation.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN
VOLUME VI
THE LEAGUE OF YOUTH
PILLARS OF SOCIETY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
HENRIK IBSEN
COPYRIGHT EDITION
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VOLUME VI
THE LEAGUE OF YOUTH
PILLARS OF SOCIETY
WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY
WILLIAM ARCHER
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: colophon]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1910
_Copyright Edition_
_First printed January 1907_
_Second Impression December 1910_
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION TO “THE LEAGUE OF YOUTH” vii
INTRODUCTION TO “PILLARS OF SOCIETY” xv
“THE LEAGUE OF YOUTH” 1
_Translated by_ WILLIAM ARCHER
“PILLARS OF SOCIETY” 227
_Translated by_ WILLIAM ARCHER
THE LEAGUE OF YOUTH.
INTRODUCTION.
After the momentous four years of his first visit to Italy, to which we
owe _Brand_ and _Peer Gynt_, Ibsen left Rome in May 1868, visited
Florence, and then spent the summer at Berchtesgaden in Southern
Bavaria. There he was busy “mentally wrestling” with the new play which
was to take shape as _De Unges Forbund_ (_The League of Youth_); but he
did not begin to put it on paper until, after a short stay at Munich, he
settled down in Dresden, in the early autumn. Thence he wrote to his
publisher, Hegel, on October 31: “My new work is making rapid
progress.... The whole outline is finished and written down. The first
act is completed, the second will be in the course of a week, and by the
end of the year I hope to have the play ready. It will be in prose, and
in every way adapted for the stage. The title is _The League of Youth;
or, The Almighty & Co._, a comedy, in five acts.” At Hegel’s suggestion
he omitted the second title, “though,” he wrote, “it could have given
offence to no one _who had read the play_.”
Apparently the polishing of the dialogue took longer than Ibsen
anticipated. It was his first play in modern prose, and the medium did
not come easy to him. Six or seven years earlier, he wrote the opening
scenes of _Love’s Comedy_ in prose, but was dissatisfied with the
effect, and recast the dialogue in rhymed verse. Having now outgrown his
youthful romanticism, and laid down, in _Brand_ and _Peer Gynt_, the
fundamental positions of his criticism of life, he felt that to carry
that criticism into detail he must come to close quarters with reality;
and to that end he required a suppler instrument than verse. He must
cultivate, as he afterwards[1] put it, “the very much more difficult art
of writing the genuine, plain language spoken in real life.” Probably
the mastery of this new art cost him more effort than he anticipated,
for, instead of having the play finished by the end of 1868, he did not
despatch the manuscript to Copenhagen until March 1869. It was published
on September 30 of that year.
While the comedy was still in process of conception, Ibsen had written
to his publisher: “This new, _peaceable_ work is giving me great
pleasure.” It thus appears that he considered it less polemical in its
character than the poems which had immediately preceded it. If his
intentions were pacific, they were entirely frustrated. The play was
regarded as a violent and wanton attack on the Norwegian Liberal party,
while Stensgård was taken for a personal lampoon on Björnson. Its first
performance at the Christiania Theatre (October 18, 1869) passed quietly
enough; but at the second and third performances an organised opposition
took the field, and disturbances amounting almost to a riot occurred.
Public feeling soon calmed down, and the play (the first prose comedy of
any importance in Norwegian literature) became one of the most popular
pieces in the repertory of the theatre. But it led to an estrangement
from Björnson and the Liberal party, which was not healed for many a
day—not, indeed, until _Ghosts_ had shown the Norwegian public the folly
of attempting to make party capital out of the works of a poet who stood
far above party.
The estrangement from Björnson had begun some time before the play
appeared. A certain misunderstanding had followed the appearance of
_Peer Gynt_,[2] and had been deepened by political differences. Björnson
had become an ardent National Liberal, with leanings towards
Republicanism; Ibsen was not at all a Republican (he deeply offended
Björnson by accepting orders and decorations), and his political
sympathies, while not of a partisan nature, were mainly
“Scandinavian”—that is to say, directed towards a closer union of the
three Scandinavian kingdoms. Distance, and the evil offices of gossiping
friends, played their part in begetting dissension. Ibsen’s last
friendly letter to Björnson (of these years) was written in the last
days of 1867; in the first days of 1869, while he was actually busied
with _The League of Youth_, we find him declining to contribute to a
Danish magazine for the reason (among others) that Björnson was to be
one of its joint editors.
The news of the stormy reception of his comedy reached Ibsen in Egypt,
where, as the guest of the Khedive, he was attending the opening of the
Suez Canal. He has recorded the incident in a poem, _At Port Said_. On
his return to Dresden he wrote to Hegel (December 14, 1869): “The
reception of _The League of Youth_ pleases me very much; for the
disapprobation I was prepared, and it would have been a disappointment
to me if there had been none. But what I was not prepared for was that
Björnson should feel himself attacked by the play, as rumour says he
does. Is this really the case? He must surely see that it is not himself
I have had in mind, but his pernicious and ‘lie-steeped’ clique who have
served me as models. However, I will write to him to-day or to-morrow,
and I hope that the affair, in spite of all differences, will end in a
reconciliation.” The intended letter does not appear to have been
written; nor would it, probably, have produced the desired effect, for
Björnson’s resentment was very deep. He had already (in November)
written a poem to Johan Sverdrup, the leader of the Liberal party, in
which he deplored the fact that “the sacred grove of poetry no longer
afforded sanctuary against assassination,” or as the Norwegian word
vigorously expresses it, “sneak-murder.” Long afterwards, in 1881, he
explained what he meant by this term: “It was not the portrayal of
contemporary life and known personages that I called assassination. It
was the fact that _The League of Youth_ sought to represent our young
Liberal party as a gang of ambitious speculators, whose patriotism was
as empty as their phraseology; and particularly that prominent men were
first made clearly recognisable, and then had false hearts and shady
characters foisted upon them.” It is difficult to see, indeed, how Ibsen
can have expected Björnson to distinguish very clearly between an attack
on his “lie-steeped clique” and a lampoon on himself. Even Stensgård’s
religious phraseology, the confidence with which he claims God as a
member of his party, was at that time characteristic of Björnson. The
case, in fact, seems to have been very like that of the portraiture of
Leigh Hunt in Harold Skimpole. Both Dickens and Ibsen had unconsciously
taken more from their respective models than they intended. They
imagined, perhaps, that the features which did not belong to the
original would conceal the likeness; whereas their actual effect was
only to render the portraits libellous.
Eleven years passed before Björnson and Ibsen were reconciled. In 1880
(after the appearance of _A Doll’s House_ and before that of _Ghosts_),
Björnson wrote in an American magazine: “I think I have a pretty
thorough acquaintance with the dramatic literature of the world, and I
have not the slightest hesitation in saying that Henrik Ibsen possesses
more dramatic power than any other playwriter of our day. The fact that
I am not always partial to the style of his work makes me all the more
certain that I am right in my judgment of him.”
_The League of Youth_ soon became very popular in Norway, and it had
considerable success in Sweden and Denmark. It was acted with notable
excellence at the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen. Outside of Scandinavia it
has never taken any hold of the stage. At the date of its appearance,
Ibsen was still quite unknown, even in Germany; and when he became
known, its technique was already antiquated. It has been acted once or
twice both in Germany and England, and has proved very amusing on the
stage; but it is essentially an experimental, transitional work. The
poet is trying his tools.
The technical influence of Scribe and his school is apparent in every
scene. Ibsen’s determination not to rest content with the conventions of
that school may already be discerned, indeed, in his disuse of the
soliloquy and the aside; but, apart from these flagrant absurdities, he
permits himself to employ almost all the devices of the Scribe method.
Note, for example, how much of the action arises from sheer
misunderstanding. The whole second act turns upon the Chamberlain’s
misunderstanding of the bent of Stensgård’s diatribe in the first act.
As the Chamberlain is deliberately misled by his daughter and Fieldbo,
the misunderstanding is not, perhaps, technically inadmissible. Yet it
has to be maintained by very artificial means. Why, one may ask, does
not Fieldbo, in his long conversation with Stensgård, in the second act,
warn him of the thin ice on which he is skating? There is no sufficient
reason, except that the great situation at the end of the act would thus
be rendered impossible. It is in the fourth act, however, that the
methods of the vaudevillist are most apparent. It is one string of
blunders of the particular type which the French significantly call
“quiproquos.” Some arise through the quite diabolical genius for
malicious wire-pulling developed by old Lundestad; but most of them are
based upon that deliberate and elaborate vagueness of expression on the
part of the characters which is the favourite artifice of the professor
of theatrical sleight-of-hand. We are not even spared the classic
quiproquo of the proposal by proxy mistaken for a proposal
direct—Stensgård’s overtures to Madam Rundholmen on behalf of Bastian
being accepted by her as an offer on his own behalf. We are irresistibly
reminded of Mrs. Bardell’s fatal misunderstanding of Mr. Pickwick’s
intentions. All this, to be sure, is excellent farce, but there is no
originality in the expedients by which it is carried on. Equally
conventional, and equally redolent of Scribe, is the conduct of the
fifth act. The last drop of effect is wrung out of the quiproquos with
an almost mathematical accuracy. We are reminded of a game at
puss-in-the-four-corners, in which Stensgård tries every corner in turn,
only to find himself at last left out in the cold. Then, as the time
approaches to ring down the curtain, every one is seized with a fever of
amiability, the Chamberlain abandons all his principles and prejudices,
even to the point of subscribing for twenty copies of Aslaksen’s
newspaper, and the whole thing becomes scarcely less unreal than one of
the old-comedy endings, in which the characters stand in a semicircle
while each delivers a couplet of the epilogue. It is difficult to
believe that the facile optimism of this conclusion could at any time
have satisfied the mind which, only twelve years later, conceived the
picture of Oswald Alving shrinking together in his chair and babbling,
“Mother—give me the sun.”
But, while we realise with what extraordinary rapidity and completeness
Ibsen outgrew this phase of his art, we must not overlook the genuine
merits of this brilliant comedy. With all its faults, it was an advance
on the technique of its day, and was hailed as such by a critic so
penetrating as George Brandes. Placing ourselves at the point of view of
the time, we may perhaps say that its chief defect is its marked
inequality of style. The first act is purely preparatory; the fifth act,
as we have noted, is a rather perfunctory winding-up. The real play lies
in the intervening acts; and each of these belongs to a different order
of art. The second act is a piece of high comedy, quite admirable in its
kind; the third act, both in tone and substance, verges upon melodrama;
while the fourth act is nothing but rattling farce. Even from the Scribe
point of view, this jumping from key to key is a fault. Another
objection which Scribe would probably have urged is that several of
Fieldbo’s speeches, and the attitude of the Chamberlain towards him,
are, on the face of them, incomprehensible, and are only retrospectively
explained. The poetics of that school forbid all reliance on retrospect;
perhaps because they do not contemplate the production of any play about
which any human being would care to think twice.
The third act, though superficially a rather tame interlude between the
vigorous second act and the bustling fourth, is in reality the most
characteristic of the five. The second act might be signed Augier, and
the fourth Labiche; but in the third the coming Ibsen is manifest. The
scene between the Chamberlain and Monsen is, in its disentangling of the
past, a preliminary study for much of his later work—a premonition, in
fact, of his characteristic method. Here, too, in the character of Selma
and her outburst of revolt, we have by far the most original feature of
the play. In Selma there is no trace of French influence, spiritual or
technical. With admirable perspicacity, Dr. Brandes realised from the
outset the significance of this figure. “Selma,” he wrote, “is a new
creation, and her relation to the family might form the subject of a
whole drama. But in the play as it stands she has scarcely room to
move.” The drama which Brandes here foresaw, Ibsen wrote ten year’s
later in _A Doll’s House_.
With reference to the phrase “De lokale forhold,” here lamely
represented by “the local situation,” Ibsen has a curious remark in a
letter to Markus Grönvold, dated Stockholm, September 3, 1877. His
German translator, he says, has rendered the phrase literally “lokale
Verhältnisse”—“which is wrong, because no suggestion of comicality or
narrow-mindedness is conveyed by this German expression. The rendering
ought to be ‘unsere berechtigten Eigenthümlichkeiten,’ an expression
which conveys the same meaning to Germans as the Norwegian one does to
us Scandinavians.” This suggestion is, unfortunately, of no help to the
English translator, especially when it is remembered in what context
Aslaksen uses the phrase “de lokale forhold” in the fifth act of _An
Enemy of the People_.
PILLARS OF SOCIETY.
INTRODUCTION.
In the eight years that intervened between _The League of Youth_ and
_Pillars of Society_—his second prose play of modern life—Ibsen
published a small collection of his poems (1871), and his
“World-Historic Drama,” _Emperor and Galilean_ (1873). After he had thus
dismissed from his mind the figure of Julian the Apostate, which had
haunted it ever since his earliest days in Rome, he deliberately
abandoned, once for all, what may be called masquerade romanticism—that
external stimulus to the imagination which lies in remoteness of time
and unfamiliarity of scene and costume. It may be that, for the moment,
he also intended to abandon, not merely romanticism, but romance—to deal
solely with the literal and commonplace facts of life, studied in the
dry light of everyday experience. If that was his purpose, it was very
soon to break down; but in _Pillars of Society_ he more nearly achieved
it than in any other work.
Many causes contributed to the unusually long pause between _Emperor and
Galilean_ and _Pillars of Society_. The summer of 1874 was occupied with
a visit to Norway—the first he had paid since the Hegira of ten years
earlier. A good deal of time was devoted to the revision of some of his
earlier works, which were republished in Copenhagen; while the
increasing vogue of his plays on the stage involved a considerable
amount of business correspondence. _The Vikings_ and _The Pretenders_
were acted in these years, not only throughout Scandinavia, but at many
of the leading theatres of Germany; and in 1876, after much discussion
and negotiation, _Peer Gynt_ was for the first time placed on the stage,
in Christiania.
The first mention of _Pillars of Society_ occurs in a letter from Ibsen
to his publisher, Hegel, of October 23, 1875, in which he mentions that
the first act, “always to me the most difficult part of a play,” is
ready, and states that it will be “a drama in five acts.” Unless this be
a mere slip of the pen, it is curious as showing that, even when the
first act was finished, Ibsen did not foresee in detail the remainder of
the action. In the course of further development an act dropped out of
his scheme. On November 25, 1875, he reports to Hegel: “The first act of
my new drama is ready—the fair copy written; I am now working at Act
Second”; but it was not until the summer of 1877 that the completed
manuscript was sent to Copenhagen. The book was published in the early
autumn.
The theatrical success of _Pillars of Society_ was immediate and
striking. First performed in Copenhagen, November 18, 1877, it soon
found its way to all the leading stages of Scandinavia. In Berlin, in
the early spring of 1878, it was produced at five different theatres
within a single fortnight; and it has ever since maintained its hold on
the German stage. Before the end of the century, it had been acted more
than 1200 times in Germany and Austria. An adaptation of the play, by
the present writer, was produced at the old Gaiety Theatre, London, for
a single performance, on the afternoon of December 15, 1880—this being
the first time that Ibsen’s name had appeared on an English playbill.
Again, in 1889, a single performance of it was given at the Opera
Comique Theatre; and yet again in May 1901 the Stage Society gave two
performances of it at the Strand Theatre. In the United States it has
been acted frequently in German, but very rarely in English. The first
performance took place in New York in 1891. The play did not reach the
French stage until 1896, when it was performed by M. Lugné-Poë's
organisation, L'Œuvre. In other countries one hears of a single
performance of it, here and there; but, except in Scandinavia and
Germany, it has nowhere taken a permanent hold upon the theatre.
Nor is the reason far to seek. By the time the English, American, and
French public had fully awakened to the existence of Ibsen, he himself
had so far outgrown the phase of his development marked by _Pillars of
Society_, that the play already seemed commonplace and old-fashioned. It
exactly suited the German public of the 'eighties; it was exactly on a
level with their theatrical intelligence. But it was above the
theatrical intelligence of the Anglo-American public, and—I had almost
said—below that of the French public. This is, of course, an
exaggeration. What I mean is that there was no possible reason why the
countrymen of Augier and Dumas should take any special interest in
_Pillars of Society_. It was not obviously in advance of these masters
in technical skill, and the vein of Teutonic sentiment running through
it could not greatly appeal to the Parisian public of that period. Thus
it is not in the least surprising that, outside of Germany and
Scandinavia, _Pillars of Society_ had everywhere to follow in the wake
of _A Doll’s House_ and _Ghosts_, and was everywhere found something of
an anti-climax. Possibly its time may be yet to come in England and
America. A thoroughly well-mounted and well-acted revival might now
appeal to that large class of play-goers which stands on very much the
same intellectual level on which the German public stood in the
eighteen-eighties.
But it is of all Ibsen’s works the least characteristic, because, acting
on a transitory phase of theory; he has been almost successful in
divesting it of poetic charm. There is not even a Selma in it. Of his
later plays, only _An Enemy of the People_ is equally prosaic in
substance; and it is raised far above the level of the commonplace by
the genial humour, the magnificent creative energy, displayed in the
character of Stockmann. In _Pillars of Society_ there is nothing that
rises above the commonplace. Compared with Stockmann, Bernick seems
almost a lay-figure, and even Lona Hessel is an intellectual
construction—formed of a blend of new theory with old sentiment—rather
than an absolute creation, a living and breathing woman, like Nora, or
Mrs. Alving, or Rebecca, or Hedda. This is, in brief, the only play of
Ibsen’s in which plot can be said to preponderate over character. The
plot is extraordinarily ingenious and deftly pieced together. Several of
the scenes are extremely effective from the theatrical point of view,
and in a good many individual touches we may recognise the incomparable
master-hand. One of these touches is the scene between Bernick and
Rörlund in the third act, in which Bernick’s craving for casuistical
consolation meets with so painful a rebuff. Only a great dramatist could
have devised this scene; but to compare it with a somewhat similar
passage in _The Pretenders_—the scene in the fourth act between King
Skule and Jatgeir Skald—is to realise what is meant by the difference
between dramatic poetry and dramatic prose.
I have called Lona Hessel a composite character, because she embodies in
a concentrated form the two different strains of feeling that run
through the whole play. Beyond the general attack on social pharisaism
announced in the very title, we have a clear assertion of the claim of
women to moral and economical individuality and independence. Dina, with
her insistence on “becoming something for herself” before she will marry
Johan, unmistakably foreshadows Nora and Petra. But at the same time the
poet is far from having cleared his mind of the old ideal of the
infinitely self-sacrificing, dumbly devoted woman, whose life has no
meaning save in relation to some more or less unworthy male—the
Ingeborg-Agnes-Solveig ideal we may call it. In the original edition of
_The Pretenders_, Ingeborg said to Skule: “To love, to sacrifice all,
and be forgotten, that is woman’s saga;” and out of that conception
arose the very tenderly touched figure of Martha in this play. If
Martha, then, stands for the old ideal—the ideal of the older
generation—and Dina for the ideal of the younger generation, Lona Hessel
hovers between the two. At first sight she seems like an embodiment of
the “strong-minded female,” the champion of Woman’s Rights, and despiser
of all feminine graces and foibles. But in the end it appears that her
devotion to Bernick has been no less deep and enduring than Martha’s
devotion to Johan. Her “old friendship does not rust” is a delightful
speech; but it points back to the Ibsen of the past, not forward to the
Ibsen of the future. Yet this is not wholly true: for the strain of
sentiment which inspired it never became extinct in the poet. He
believed to the end in the possibility and the beauty of great
self-forgetful human emotions; and there his philosophy went very much
deeper than that of some of his disciples.
In consistency of style, and in architectural symmetry of construction,
the play marks a great advance upon _The League of Youth_. From the end
of the first act to the middle of the last, it is a model of skilful
plot-development. The exposition, which occupies so much of the first
act, is carried out by means of a somewhat cumbrous mechanism. No doubt
the “Kaffee-Klatsch” is in great measure justified as a picture of the
tattling society of the little town. It does not altogether ignore the
principle of economy. But it is curious to note the rapid shrinkage in
the poet’s expositions. Here we have the necessary information conveyed
by a whole party of subsidiary characters. In the next play, _A Doll’s
House_,—we have still a set exposition, but two characters suffice for
it, and one the heroine. In the next play again—that is to say, in
_Ghosts_—the poet has arrived at his own peculiar formula, and the
exposition is indistinguishably merged in the action. Still greater is
the contrast between the conclusion of _Pillars of Society_ and that of
_A Doll’s House_. It would be too much to call Bernick’s conversion and
promise to turn over a new leaf as conventional as the Chamberlain’s
right-about-face in _The League of Youth_. Bernick has passed through a
terrible period of mental agony which may well have brought home to him
a conviction of sin. Still, the way in which everything suddenly comes
right, Olaf is recovered, the _Indian Girl_ is stopped, Aune is
reconciled to the use of the new machines, and even the weather
improves, so as to promise Johan and Dina a prosperous voyage to
America—all this is a manifest concession to popular optimism. We are
not to conceive, of course, that the poet deliberately compromised with
an artistic ideal for the sake of popularity, but rather that he had not
yet arrived at the ideal of logical and moral consistency which he was
soon afterwards to attain. To use his own metaphor, the ghost of the
excellent Eugène Scribe still walked in him. He still instinctively
thought of a play as a storm in a tea-cup, which must naturally blow
over in the allotted two hours and a half. Even in his next play—so
gradual is the process of evolution—he still makes the external storm,
so to speak, blow over at the appointed time. But, instead of the
general reconciliation and serenity upon which the curtain falls in _The
League of Youth_ and _Pillars of Society_—instead of the “happy ending”
which Helmer so confidently expects—he gives us that famous scene of
Nora’s revolt and departure, in which he himself may be said to have
made his exit from the school of Scribe, banging the door behind him.
The Norwegian title, _Samfundets Stötter_, means literally _Society’s
Pillars_. In the text, the word “Samfund” has sometimes been translated
“society,” sometimes “community.” The noun “stötte,” a pillar, has for
its correlative the verb, “at stötte,” to support; so that where the
English phrase, “to support society,” occurs, there is, in the original,
a direct allusion to the title of the play. The leading merchants in
Norwegian seaports often serve as consuls for one or other foreign
Power—whence the title by which Bernick is addressed. Rörlund, in the
original is called “Adjunkt”—that is to say, he is an assistant master
in a school, subordinate to the headmaster or rector.
W. A.
THE LEAGUE OF YOUTH
(1869)
CHARACTERS.
CHAMBERLAIN BRATSBERG,[3] _owner of iron-works_.
ERIK BRATSBERG, _his son, a merchant_.
THORA, _his daughter_.
SELMA, _Erik’s wife_.
DOCTOR FIELDBO, _physician at the Chamberlain’s works_.
STENSGÅRD,[4] _a lawyer_.
MONS MONSEN, _of Stonelee_.[5]
BASTIAN MONSEN, _his son_.
RAGNA, _his daughter_.
HELLE,[6] _student of theology, tutor at Stonelee_.
RINGDAL, _manager of the iron-works_.
ANDERS LUNDESTAD, _landowner_.
DANIEL HEIRE.[7]
MADAM[8] RUNDHOLMEN, _widow of a storekeeper and publican_.
ASLAKSEN, _a printer_.
A MAID-SERVANT AT THE CHAMBERLAIN’S.
A WAITER.
A WAITRESS AT MADAM RUNDHOLMEN’S.
_Townspeople, Guests at the Chamberlain’s, etc. etc._
_The action takes place in the neighbourhood of the iron-works, not far
from a market town in Southern Norway._
THE LEAGUE OF YOUTH.
ACT FIRST.
_The Seventeenth of May.[9] A popular fête in the Chamberlain’s grounds.
Music and dancing in the background. Coloured lights among the
trees. In the middle, somewhat towards the back, a rostrum. To the
right, the entrance to a large refreshment-tent; before it, a
table with benches. In the foreground, on the left, another table,
decorated with flowers and surrounded with lounging-chairs._
_A Crowd of People._ LUNDESTAD, _with a committee-badge at his
button-hole, stands on the rostrum._ RINGDAL, _also with a
committee-badge, at the table on the left._
LUNDESTAD.
... Therefore, friends and fellow citizens, I drink to our freedom! As
we have inherited it from our fathers, so will we preserve it for
ourselves and for our children! Three cheers for the day! Three cheers
for the Seventeenth of May!
THE CROWD.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
RINGDAL.
[_As_ LUNDESTAD _descends from the rostrum._] And one cheer more for old
Lundestad!
SOME OF THE CROWD.
[_Hissing._] Ss! Ss!
MANY VOICES.
[_Drowning the others._] Hurrah for Lundestad! Long live old Lundestad!
Hurrah!
[_The_ CROWD _gradually disperses._ MONSEN, _his son_ BASTIAN,
STENSGÅRD, _and_ ASLAKSEN _make their way forward through
the throng._
MONSEN.
'Pon my soul, it’s time he was laid on the shelf!
ASLAKSEN.
It was the local situation[10] he was talking about! Ho-ho!
MONSEN.
He has made the same speech year after year as long as I can remember.
Come over here.
STENSGÅRD.
No, no, not that way, Mr. Monsen. We are quite deserting your daughter.
MONSEN.
Oh, Ragna will find us again.
BASTIAN.
She’s all right; young Helle is with her.
STENSGÅRD.
Helle?
MONSEN.
Yes, Helle. But [_Nudging_ STENSGÅRD _familiarly_] you have _me_ here,
you see, and the rest of us. Come on! Here we shall be out of the crowd,
and can discuss more fully what——
[_Has meanwhile taken a seat beside the table on the left._
RINGDAL.
[_Approaching._] Excuse me, Mr. Monsen—that table is reserved——
STENSGÅRD.
Reserved? For whom?
RINGDAL.
For the Chamberlain’s party.
STENSGÅRD.
Oh, confound the Chamberlain’s party! There’s none of them here.
RINGDAL.
No, but we expect them every minute.
STENSGÅRD.
Then let them sit somewhere else.
[_Takes a chair._
LUNDESTAD.
[_Laying his hand on the chair._] No, the table is reserved, and there’s
an end of it.
MONSEN.
[_Rising._] Come, Mr. Stensgård; there are just as good seats over
there. [_Crosses to the right._] Waiter! Ha, no waiters either. The
Committee should have seen to that in time. Oh, Aslaksen, just go in and
get us four bottles of champagne. Order the dearest; tell them to put it
down to Monsen!
[ASLAKSEN _goes into the tent; the three others seat
themselves._
LUNDESTAD.
[_Goes quietly over to them and addresses_ STENSGÅRD.] I hope you won’t
take it ill——
MONSEN.
Take it ill! Good gracious, no! Not in the least.
LUNDESTAD.
[_Still to_ STENSGÅRD.] It’s not my doing; it’s the Committee that
decided——
MONSEN.
Of course. The Committee orders, and we must obey.
LUNDESTAD.
[_As before._] You see, we are on the Chamberlain’s own ground here. He
has been so kind as to throw open his park and garden for this evening;
so we thought——
STENSGÅRD.
We’re extremely comfortable here, Mr. Lundestad—if only people would
leave us in peace—the crowd, I mean.
LUNDESTAD.
[_Unruffled._] Very well; then it’s all right.
[_Goes towards the back._
ASLAKSEN.
[_Entering from the tent._] The waiter is just coming with the wine.
[_Sits._
MONSEN.
A table apart, under special care of the Committee! And on our
Independence Day of all others! There you have a specimen of the way
things go.
STENSGÅRD.
But why on earth do you put up with all this, you good people?
MONSEN.
The habit of generations, you see.
ASLAKSEN.
You’re new to the district, Mr. Stensgård. If only you knew a little of
the local situation——
A WAITER.
[_Brings champagne._] Was it you that ordered—?
ASLAKSEN.
Yes, certainly; open the bottle.
THE WAITER.
[_Pouring out the wine._] It goes to your account, Mr. Monsen?
MONSEN.
The whole thing; don’t be afraid.
[_The_ WAITER _goes._
MONSEN.
[_Clinks glasses with_ STENSGÅRD.] Here’s welcome among us, Mr.
Stensgård! It gives me great pleasure to have made your acquaintance; I
cannot but call it an honour to the district that such a man should
settle here. The newspapers have made us familiar with your name, on all
sorts of public occasions. You have great gifts of oratory, Mr.
Stensgård, and a warm heart for the public weal. I trust you will enter
with life and vigour into the—h’m, into the——
ASLAKSEN.
The local situation.
MONSEN.
Oh yes, the local situation. I drink to that.
[_They drink._
STENSGÅRD.
Whatever I do, I shall certainly put life and vigour into it.
MONSEN.
Bravo! Hear, hear! Another glass in honour of that promise.
STENSGÅRD.
No, stop; I’ve already——
MONSEN.
Oh, nonsense! Another glass, I say—to seal the bond!
[_They clink glasses and drink. During what follows_ BASTIAN
_keeps on filling the glasses as soon as they are empty._
MONSEN.
However—since we have got upon the subject—I must tell you that it’s not
the Chamberlain himself that keeps everything under his thumb. No,
sir—old Lundestad is the man that stands behind and drives the sledge.
STENSGÅRD.
So I am told, in many quarters. I can’t understand how a Liberal like
him——
MONSEN.
Lundestad? Do you call Anders Lundestad a Liberal? To be sure, he
professed Liberalism in his young days, when he was still at the foot of
the ladder. And then he inherited his seat in Parliament from his
father. Good Lord! everything runs in families here.
STENSGÅRD.
But there must be some means of putting a stop to all these abuses.
ASLAKSEN.
Yes, damn it all, Mr. Stensgård—see if you can’t put a stop to them!
STENSGÅRD.
I don’t say that I——
ASLAKSEN.
Yes, you! You are just the man. You have the gift of the gab, as the
saying goes; and what’s more: you have the pen of a ready writer. My
paper’s at your disposal, you know.
MONSEN.
If anything is to be done, it must be done quickly. The preliminary
election[11] comes on in three days now.
STENSGÅRD.
And if you were elected, your private affairs would not prevent your
accepting the charge?
MONSEN.
My private affairs would suffer, of course; but if it appeared that the
good of the community demanded the sacrifice, I should have to put aside
all personal considerations.
STENSGÅRD.
Good; that’s good. And you have a party already: that I can see clearly.
MONSEN.
I flatter myself the majority of the younger, go-ahead generation——
ASLAKSEN.
H’m, h’m! 'ware spies!
DANIEL HEIRE _enters from the tent; he peers about
shortsightedly, and approaches._
HEIRE.
May I beg for the loan of a spare seat; I want to sit over there.
MONSEN.
The benches are fastened here, you see; but won’t you take a place at
this table?
HEIRE.
Here? At this table? Oh yes, with pleasure. [_Sits._] Dear, dear!
Champagne, I believe.
MONSEN.
Yes; won’t you join us in a glass?
HEIRE.
No, thank you! Madam Rundholmen’s champagne——Well, well, just half a
glass to keep you company. If only one _had_ a glass, now.
MONSEN.
Bastian, go and get one.
BASTIAN.
Oh, Aslaksen, just go and fetch a glass.
[ASLAKSEN _goes into the tent. A pause_
HEIRE.
Don’t let me interrupt you, gentlemen. I wouldn’t for the world——!
Thanks, Aslaksen. [_Bows to_ STENSGÅRD.] A strange face—a recent
arrival! Have I the pleasure of addressing our new legal luminary, Mr.
Stensgård?
MONSEN.
Quite right. [_Introducing them._] Mr. Stensgård, Mr. Daniel Heire——
BASTIAN.
Capitalist.
HEIRE.
Ex-capitalist, you should rather say. It’s all gone now; slipped through
my fingers, so to speak. Not that I’m bankrupt—for goodness' sake don’t
think that.
MONSEN.
Drink, drink, while the froth is on it.
HEIRE.
But rascality, you understand—sharp practice and so forth——I say no
more. Well, well, I am confident it is only temporary. When I get my
outstanding law-suits and some other little matters off my hands, I
shall soon be on the track of our aristocratic old Reynard the Fox. Let
us drink to that! You won’t, eh?
STENSGÅRD.
I should like to know first who your aristocratic old Reynard the Fox
may be.
HEIRE.
Hee-hee; you needn’t look so uncomfortable, man. You don’t suppose I’m
alluding to Mr. Monsen. No one can accuse Mr. Monsen of being
aristocratic. No; it’s Chamberlain Bratsberg, my dear young friend.
STENSGÅRD.
What! In money matters the Chamberlain is surely above reproach.
HEIRE.
You think so, young man? H’m; I say no more. [_Draws nearer._] Twenty
years ago I was worth no end of money. My father left me a great
fortune. You’ve heard of my father, I daresay? No? Old Hans Heire? They
called him Gold Hans. He was a shipowner: made heaps of money in the
blockade time; had his window-frames and door-posts gilded; he could
afford it——I say no more; so they called him Gold Hans.
ASLAKSEN.
Didn’t he gild his chimney-pots too?
HEIRE.
No; that was only a penny-a-liner’s lie; invented long before your time,
however. But he made the money fly; and so did I in my time. My visit to
London, for instance—haven’t you heard of my visit to London? I took a
prince’s retinue with me. Have you really not heard of it, eh? And the
sums I have lavished on art and science! And on bringing rising talent
to the front!
ASLAKSEN.
[_Rises._] Well, good-bye, gentlemen.
MONSEN.
What? Are you leaving us?
ASLAKSEN.
Yes; I want to stretch my legs a bit. [_Goes._
HEIRE.
[_Speaking low._] He was one of them—just as grateful as the rest,
hee-hee! Do you know, I kept him a whole year at college?
STENSGÅRD.
Indeed? Has Aslaksen been to college?
HEIRE.
Like young Monsen. He made nothing of it; also like——I say no more. Had
to give him up, you see; he had already developed his unhappy taste for
spirits——
MONSEN.
But you’ve forgotten what you were going to tell Mr. Stensgård about the
Chamberlain.
HEIRE.
Oh, it’s a complicated business. When my father was in his glory, things
were going downhill with the old Chamberlain—this one’s father, you
understand; he was a Chamberlain too.
BASTIAN.
Of course; everything runs in families here.
HEIRE.
Including the social graces——I say no more. The conversion of the
currency, rash speculations, extravagances he launched out into, in the
year 1816 or thereabouts, forced him to sell some of his land.
STENSGÅRD.
And your father bought it?
HEIRE.
Bought and paid for it. Well, what then? I come into my property; I make
improvements by the thousand——
BASTIAN.
Of course.
HEIRE.
Your health, my young friend!—Improvements by the thousand, I
say—thinning the woods, and so forth. Years pass; and then comes Master
Reynard—the present one, I mean—and repudiates the bargain!
STENSGÅRD.
But, my dear Mr. Heire, you could surely have snapped your fingers at
him.
HEIRE.
Not so easily! Some small formalities had been overlooked, he declared.
Besides, I happened then to be in temporary difficulties, which
afterwards became permanent. And what can a man do nowadays without
capital?
MONSEN.
You’re right there, by God! And in many ways you can’t do very much
_with_ capital either. That I know to my cost. Why, even my innocent
children——
BASTIAN.
[_Thumps the table._] Ugh, father! if I only had certain people here!
STENSGÅRD.
Your children, you say?
MONSEN.
Yes; take Bastian, for example. Perhaps I haven’t given him a good
education?
HEIRE.
A threefold education! First for the University; then for painting; and
then for—what is it?—it’s a civil engineer he is now, isn’t it?
BASTIAN.
Yes, that I am, by the Lord!
MONSEN.
Yes, that he is; I can produce his bills and his certificates to prove
it! But who gets the town business? Who has got the local
road-making—especially these last two years? Foreigners, or at any rate
strangers—in short, people no one knows anything about!
HEIRE.
Yes; it’s shameful the way things go on. Only last New Year, when the
managership of the Savings Bank fell vacant, what must they do but give
Monsen the go-by, and choose an individual that knew—[_Coughs_]—that
knew how to keep his purse-strings drawn—which our princely host
obviously does not. Whenever there’s a post of confidence going, it’s
always the same! Never Monsen—always some one that enjoys the
confidence—of the people in power. Well, well; _commune suffragium_, as
the Roman Law puts it; that means shipwreck in the Common Council,
sir.[12] It’s a shame! Your health!
MONSEN.
Thanks! But, to change the subject—how are all your law-suits getting
on?
HEIRE.
They are still pending; I can say no more for the present. What endless
annoyance they do give me! Next week I shall have to summon the whole
Town Council before the Arbitration Commission.[13]
BASTIAN.
Is it true that you once summoned yourself before the Arbitration
Commission?
HEIRE.
Myself? Yes; but I didn’t put in an appearance.
MONSEN.
Ha, ha! You didn’t, eh?
HEIRE.
I had a sufficient excuse: had to cross the river, and it was
unfortunately the very year of Bastian’s bridge—plump! down it went, you
know——
BASTIAN.
Why, confound it all——!
HEIRE.
Take it coolly, young man! You are not the first that has bent the bow
till it breaks. Everything runs in families, you know——I say no more.
MONSEN.
Ho ho ho! You say no more, eh? Well, drink, then, and say no more! [_To_
STENSGÅRD.] You see, Mr. Heire’s tongue is licensed to wag as it
pleases.
HEIRE.
Yes, freedom of speech is the only civic right I really value.
STENSGÅRD.
What a pity the law should restrict it.
HEIRE.
Hee-hee! Our legal friend’s mouth is watering for a nice action for
slander, eh? Make your mind easy, my dear sir! I’m an old hand, let me
tell you!
STENSGÅRD.
Especially at slander?
HEIRE.
Your pardon, young man! That outburst of indignation does honour to your
heart. I beg you to forget an old man’s untimely frankness about your
absent friends.
STENSGÅRD.
Absent friends?
HEIRE.
I have nothing to say against the son, of course—nor against the
daughter. And if I happened to cast a passing slur upon the
Chamberlain’s character——
STENSGÅRD.
The Chamberlain’s? Is it the Chamberlain’s family you call my friends?
HEIRE.
Well, you don’t pay visits to your enemies, I presume?
BASTIAN.
Visits?
MONSEN.
What?
HEIRE.
Ow, ow, ow! Here am I letting cats out of bags——!
MONSEN.
_Have_ you been paying visits at the Chamberlain’s?
STENSGÅRD.
Nonsense! A misunderstanding——
HEIRE.
A most unhappy slip on my part. But how was I to know it was a secret?
[_To_ MONSEN.] Besides, you musn’t take my expressions too literally.
When I say a visit, I mean only a sort of formal call; a frock-coat and
yellow gloves affair——
STENSGÅRD.
I tell you I haven’t exchanged a single word with any of that family!
HEIRE.
Is it possible? Were you not received the second time either? I know
they were “not at home” the first time.
STENSGÅRD.
[_To_ MONSEN.] I had a letter to deliver from a friend in
Christiania—that was all.
HEIRE.
[_Rising._] I’ll be hanged if it isn’t positively revolting! Here is a
young man at the outset of his career; full of simple-minded confidence,
he seeks out the experienced man-of-the-world and knocks at his door;
turns to him, who has brought his ship to port, to beg for——I say no
more! The man-of-the-world shuts the door in his face; is not at home;
never _is_ at home when it’s his duty to be——I say no more! [_With
indignation._] Was there ever such shameful insolence!
STENSGÅRD.
Oh, never mind that stupid business.
HEIRE.
Not at home! He, who goes about professing that he is always at home to
reputable people!
STENSGÅRD.
Does he say that?
HEIRE.
A mere empty phrase. He’s not at home to Mr. Monsen either. But I can’t
think what has made him hate you so much. Yes, hate you, I say; for what
do you think I heard yesterday?
STENSGÅRD.
I don’t want to know what you heard yesterday.
HEIRE.
Then I say no more. Besides, the expressions didn’t surprise me—coming
from the Chamberlain, I mean. Only I can’t understand why he should have
added “demagogue.”
STENSGÅRD.
Demagogue!
HEIRE.
Well, since you insist upon it, I must confess that the Chamberlain
called you an adventurer and demagogue.
STENSGÅRD.
[_Jumps up._] What!
HEIRE.
Adventurer and demagogue—or demagogue and adventurer; I won’t answer for
the order.
STENSGÅRD.
And you heard that?
HEIRE.
I? If I had been present, Mr. Stensgård, you may be sure I should have
stood up for you as you deserve.
MONSEN.
There, you see what comes of——
STENSGÅRD.
How dare the old scoundrel——?
HEIRE.
Come, come, come! Keep your temper. Very likely it was a mere figure of
speech—a harmless little joke, I have no doubt. You can demand an
explanation to-morrow; for I suppose you are going to the great
dinner-party, eh?
STENSGÅRD.
I am not going to any dinner-party.
HEIRE.
Two calls and no invitation——!
STENSGÅRD.
Demagogue and adventurer! What can he be thinking of?
MONSEN.
Look there! Talk of the devil——! Come, Bastian.
[_Goes off with_ BASTIAN.
STENSGÅRD.
What did he mean by it, Mr. Heire?
HEIRE.
Haven’t the ghost of an idea.—It pains you? Your hand, young man! Pardon
me if my frankness has wounded you. Believe me, you have yet many bitter
lessons to learn in this life. You are young; you are confiding; you are
trustful. It is beautiful; it is even touching; but—but—trustfulness is
silver, experience is gold: that’s a proverb of my own invention, sir!
God bless you!
[_Goes._
CHAMBERLAIN BRATSBERG, _his daughter_ THORA, _and_ DOCTOR FIELDBO _enter
from the left._
LUNDESTAD.
[_Strikes the bell on the rostrum._] Silence for Mr. Ringdal’s speech!
STENSGÅRD.
[_Shouts._] Mr. Lundestad, I demand to be heard!
LUNDESTAD.
Afterwards.
STENSGÅRD.
No, now! at once!
LUNDESTAD.
You can’t speak just now. Silence for Mr. Ringdal!
RINGDAL.
[_On the rostrum._] Ladies and gentlemen! We have at this moment the
honour of seeing in our midst the man with the warm heart and the open
hand—the man we have all looked up to for many a year, as to a
father—the man who is always ready to help us, both in word and deed—the
man whose door is never closed to any reputable citizen—the man
who—who—ladies and gentlemen, our honoured guest is no lover of long
speeches; so, without more words, I call for three cheers for
Chamberlain Bratsberg and his family! Long life to them! Hurrah!
THE CROWD.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
[_Great enthusiasm; people press around the_ CHAMBERLAIN, _who
thanks them and shakes hands with those nearest him._
STENSGÅRD.
Now may I speak?
LUNDESTAD.
By all means. The platform is at your service.
STENSGÅRD.
[_Jumps upon the table._] I shall choose my own platform!
THE YOUNG MEN.
[_Crowding around him._] Hurrah!
THE CHAMBERLAIN.
[_To the_ DOCTOR.] Who is this obstreperous personage?
FIELDBO.
Mr. Stensgård.
THE CHAMBERLAIN.
Oh, it’s he, is it?
STENSGÅRD.
Listen to me, my glad-hearted brothers and sisters! Hear me, all you who
have in your souls—though it may not reach your lips—the exultant song
of the day, the day of our freedom! I am a stranger among you——
ASLAKSEN.
No!
STENSGÅRD.
Thanks for that “No!” I take it as the utterance of a longing, an
aspiration. A stranger I am, however; but this I swear, that I come
among you with a great and open-hearted sympathy for your sorrows and
your joys, your victories and defeats. If it lay in my power——
ASLAKSEN.
It does, it does!
LUNDESTAD.