Kitabı oku: «Essays from the Chap-Book»

Ibsen’s New Play
By
H. H. Boyesen

IBSEN’S NEW PLAY

NEVER has the great master written anything simpler and more human than “Little Eyolf.” The two fundamental chords which sound with varying force through all his earlier works are here struck anew with increased distinctness and resonance. The ennobling power of suffering, the educational value of pain, – that is the first lesson which the play conveys; and the second, which is closely akin to it, is the development of personality through the discipline of renunciation.

Alfred Allmers, a poor and obscure man of letters, has married Rita, a rich and beautiful heiress. During the first seven or eight years of their marriage they live frankly the life of the senses; and in amorous intoxication forget the world with its claims, being completely absorbed in each other. Their little son Eyolf they leave largely to his aunt, Asta (Allmers’s supposed sister), and only interest themselves in him spasmodically, and then to very little purpose. Rita is, in fact, not very fond of the child, and feels vaguely annoyed whenever she is reminded of her duties toward it. It is directly due to her erotic intensity that the boy, who has been left in his high-chair at table, tumbles down and is crippled for life. He then becomes a reproach to his mother, and she rather shuns than seeks the sight of him.

I find this development of Rita to be true and consistent. Women, as a rule, after marriage, develop the wifely character at the expense of the maternal, or the maternal at the expense of the wifely. Rita Allmers belongs to the former class. She is young, beautiful, and passionate; her wifehood is all to her; her motherhood only incidental. But this condition cannot endure. The husband, at all events, feels a subtle change steal over his relation to his wife; and in order to make it clear to himself, he goes on a long pedestrian tour into the mountains. On his return, at the end of two weeks, he is received by Rita with a bacchanalian seductiveness which ill befits his serious mood. He has resolved to introduce a radical change in the household. He will henceforth devote himself to the education of his son, and make that his chief concern. His book on “Human Responsibility,” at which he has been writing in a desultory fashion, shall no longer divert his attention from the actual responsibility, which it were a sin to shirk. Rita, however, when he unfolds his plan to her, is anything but pleased. She wants him all to herself, and is not content to share him with anybody, even though it be her own child. She cannot be put off with crumbs of affection. She coaxes, she threatens; she hints at dire consequences. With the passionate vehemence of a spoiled and petted beauty, who believes her love disdained, she upbraids him, and cries out at last that she wishes the child had never been born. Presently a wild scream is heard from the pier, and little Eyolf’s crutch is seen floating upon the still waters of the fiord.

The second act opens with a scene in which Asta is endeavoring to console Allmers in his affliction. He is trying to find the purpose, the meaning of his bereavement. “For there must be a meaning in it,” he exclaims. “Life, existence, – destiny cannot be so utterly meaningless.” Asta had loved the dead child, and he feels drawn to her by the communion of sorrow. From Rita, on the other hand, he feels repelled, because he cannot, in spite of her wild distraction, believe in the genuineness of her grief. She demands black crape, flag at half mast, and all the outward symbols of mourning; but the sensation which now is torturing her is not pain at the loss of the boy, but self-reproach. The keen tooth of remorse is piercing the very marrow of her bones. For the first time in her life she forgets how she looks, – what impression she is making. And that is, psychologically, a wholesome change. The centre of her consciousness is wrenched violently out of herself, and she sees existence with a different vision. A most admirable symbol for this unsleeping remorse which is stinging and scorching her conscience is “the great, open eyes” of little Eyolf, as he was seen lying on the bottom of the fiord. These eyes pursue the guilty mother. “They will haunt me all my life long,” she declares. Keen, simple, and soul-searching is the conversation between husband and wife, as the first quiverings of a spiritual life are awakened in both of them under the lash of an accusing conscience. Even while they upbraid each other, each trying to shift his share of responsibility upon the other, a vague shame takes possession of them, and the guilty heart knows and avows its guilt. They conceive of Eyolf’s death as a judgment upon them, as a retribution for their shirking their parental duty. For the first time in their lives they stand soul to soul in all their naked paltriness. It is scarcely strange that they should shrink from each other. But a new sincerity is born of the very futility of embellishing pretences. The secret thoughts which each has had of the other, but never has dared to utter, pop forth, like toads out of their holes, and show their ugly faces. His book, which Allmers had professed to regard as his great life-work, was, as Rita has long since guessed, a mere makeshift to give a spurious air of importance to his idleness, and he has abandoned it, not as a sacrifice to parental duty, but because he distrusted his ability to finish it. But when such things have been said – when each has stripped the other of all dissembling draperies – how is life to continue? How is their marriage to regain its former beauty and happiness? Alas, never! The old relation is definitely terminated and can never be renewed. It is because she feels this so deeply that Rita declares that henceforth she must have much company about her; for, she adds, “It will never do for Alfred and me to be alone.” And Allmers, under the same profound revulsion of feeling, expresses his desire to separate from his wife. She wishes forgetfulness, and hopes to drown her remorse in social dissipations; while to him forgetfulness seems like disloyalty to the dead, and he determines to consecrate the future to his grief, with a dim idea that he may thus atone for his guilt. Being equally miserable alone or together, they turn in their despair to Asta and implore her to remain with them, and take the place of little Eyolf. But Asta, having discovered that Alfred is not her brother, is afraid to assume the dangerous rôle of consoler, and departs with the engineer Borgheim, who has long been in love with her.

In that dreary lethargy which follows violent grief, Rita and Allmers stand without the energy to readjust their lives to the changed conditions. The world is disenchanted for them; the very daylight beats upon their eyes with a brazen fierceness, and all things are empty, futile, devoid of meaning. But in the midst of this oppressive stillness new thoughts are born; new sentiments begin to stir. They are bound together, if by nothing else, by their communion in guilt. Their past memories and their common remorse constitute a bond which is scarcely less powerful than love. Very simply and patiently is the new birth of the spiritual life in both of them indicated in the following dialogue: —

Allmers – Yes, but you – you yourself – have bound me to you by our life together.

Rita – Oh, in your eyes I am not – I am not – entrancingly beautiful any more.

Allmers – The law of change may perhaps keep us together, none the less.

Rita (Nodding slowly) – There is a change in me now – I feel the anguish of it.

Allmers – Anguish?

Rita – Yes, for change, too, is a sort of birth.

Allmers – It is – or a resurrection. Transition to a higher life.

Rita (Gazing sadly before her) – Yes, with the loss of all – all life’s happiness.

Allmers – That loss is just the gain.

Rita – Oh, phrases! Good heavens! we are creatures of earth, after all.

Allmers – But something akin to the sea and the heavens, too, Rita.

Rita – You, perhaps; not I.

Allmers – Oh, yes – you, too; more than you suspect.

The force of the common memories asserts itself anew, and they resolve to remain together and help each other bear the burden of life. Death is no longer a horror, but a quiet fellow-traveller, neither welcomed nor dreaded. Very beautifully and naturally is the transition to the new altruistic endeavor indicated in their wonder why the little companions of Eyolf, who all could swim, made no effort to save him. Never had Eyolf’s father and mother interested themselves in these boys; nor had they made the least effort to ameliorate the hard lot of the poor fishing population, settled about them. Having never sown love, they had never reaped it. Now, in order to fill the aching void of her heart with “something that is a little like love,” Rita invites all the little ragamuffins from the village up into her luxurious house, clothes them in Eyolf’s clothes, gives them Eyolf’s toys to play with, and feeds them and warms them and lavishes upon them the homeless love which was her own child’s due, but of which he was defrauded. In the opening up of this new well-spring of love in her heart, she suddenly perceives the meaning of Eyolf’s death.

Rita – I suppose I must try if I cannot lighten – and ennoble their lot in life.

Allmers – If you can do that – then Eyolf was not born in vain.

Rita – Nor taken away from us in vain, either… (Softly, with a melancholy smile) I want to make my peace with the great open eyes, you see.

Allmers (Struck, fixing his eyes upon her) – Perhaps I could join you in that? And help you, too, Rita?

And so they begin together a new existence, with new aims and a deeper sense of human responsibility. The contrast between the old life in the senses and the new life in the spirit, is emphasized in a few striking and simple phrases. Their aspiration is now consciously “upwards – towards the peaks, – towards the great silence.”

“Little Eyolf,” though its theme is closely akin to those of Ibsen’s previous plays, is yet written in a new key, and it strikes in its conclusion a note which is quite alien to the author’s earlier work. The declaration of human responsibility – in the sense of accountability, on the part of the refined and prosperous, for the degradation of the poor or miserable – sounds very strange upon his lips. If Carlyle at three score and ten had lifted up his voice and sung “The Song of the Shirt,” or “The Cry of the Children,” we could not have been more surprised. Ibsen’s scorn of the nameless herd – of its meanness, its baseness, its purblind gropings and coarse enjoyments – rings loudly enough through “Peer Gynt,” “The League of Youth,” and “An Enemy of the People.” What means this wonderful softening of his heart toward Nature’s step-children, if not that his own vision has been enlarged, a new warm spring has been opened up in his old age, watering the roots of his being. It is obvious that in returning to his native land and becoming a world-renowned man, he has celebrated his reconciliation with humanity. The world is no longer so dark to him, nor destiny so cruel and meaningless as in the days of his obscurity. Very noble sound these mellow notes in the final scenes of “Little Eyolf,” even though we miss occasionally the cadence of the harsh voice that spoke so many wholesome truths in “Brand” and “Rusmersholm.” Interesting, too, it is to observe that the moral lesson of “Little Eyolf” is the very same as that of a score of Robert Browning’s poems and dramas. Though Browning never emphasizes altruism to the extent that Ibsen does in the present play, the arousing of man, through suffering, from the life of the senses to that of the spirit is succinctly stated, the very soul of the Gospel according to Browning.

Bits of Criticism
By
John Burroughs

BITS OF CRITICISM

THE difference between a precious stone and a common stone is not an essential difference – not a difference of substance, but of arrangement of the particles – the crystallization. In substance the charcoal and the diamond are one, but in form and effect how widely they differ. The pearl contains nothing that is not found in the coarsest oyster-shell.

Two men have the same thoughts; they use about the same words in expressing them; yet with one the product is real literature, with the other it is a platitude.

The difference is all in the presentation; a finer and more compendious process has gone on in the one case than in the other. The elements are better fused and knitted together; they are in some way heightened and intensified. Is not here a clew to what we mean by style? Style transforms common quartz into an Egyptian pebble. We are apt to think of style as something external, that can be put on, something in and of itself. But it is not; it is in the inmost texture of the substance itself. Polish, choice words, faultless rhetoric, are only the accidents of style. Indeed, perfect workmanship is one thing; style, as the great writers have it, is quite another. It may, and often does, go with faulty workmanship. It is the use of words in a fresh and vital way, so as to give us a vivid sense of a new spiritual force and personality. In the best work the style is found and hidden in the matter.

I heard a reader observe, after finishing one of Robert Louis Stevenson’s books, “How well it is written!” I thought it a doubtful compliment. It should have been so well written that the reader would not have been conscious of the writing at all. If we could only get the writing, the craft, out of our stories and essays and poems, and make the reader feel he was face to face with the real thing! The complete identification of the style with the thought; the complete absorption of the man with his matter, so that the reader shall say, “How good, how real, how true!” that is the great success. Seek ye the kingdom of truth first, and all things shall be added. I think we do feel, with regard to some of Stevenson’s books, like “An Inland Voyage,” “Travels with a Donkey,” etc., how well they are written. Certainly one would not have the literary skill any less, but would have one’s attention kept from it by the richness of the matter. Hence I think a British critic hits the mark when he says Stevenson lacks homeliness.

Dr. Holmes wrote fine and eloquent poems, yet I think one does not feel that he is essentially a poet. His work has not the inevitableness of nature; it is a skilful literary feat; we admire it, but seldom return to it. His poetry is a stream in an artificial channel; his natural channel is his prose; here we get his freest and most spontaneous activity.

One fault that I find with our younger and more promising school of novelists is that their aim is too literary; we feel that they are striving mainly for artistic effects. Do we feel this at all in Scott, Dickens, Hawthorne, or Tolstoi? These men are not thinking about art but about life; how to reproduce life. In essayists like Pater, Wilde, Lang, the same thing occurs; we are constantly aware of the literary artist; they are not in love with life, reality, so much as they are with words, style, literary effects. Their seriousness is mainly an artistic seriousness. It is not so much that they have something to say, as that they are filled with a desire to say something. Nearly all our magazine poets seem filled with the same desire; what labor, what art and technique; but what a dearth of feeling and spontaneity! I read a few lines or stanzas and then stop. I see it is only deft handicraft, and that the heart and soul are not in it. One day my boy killed what an old hunter told him was a mock duck. It looked like a duck, it acted like a duck, it quacked like a duck, but when it came upon the table – it mocked us. These mock poems of the magazines remind me of it.

Is it not unfair to take any book, certainly any great piece of literature, and deliberately sit down to pass judgment upon it? Great books are not addressed to the critical judgment, but to the life, the soul. They need to slide into one’s life earnestly, and find him with his guard down, his doors open, his attitude disinterested. The reader is to give himself to them, as they give themselves to him; there must be self-sacrifice. We find the great books when we are young, eager, receptive. After we grow hard and critical we find few great books. A recent French critic says: “It seems to me works of art are not made to be judged, but to be loved, to please, to dissipate the cares of real life. It is precisely by wishing to judge them that one loses sight of their true significance.”

“How can a man learn to know himself?” inquires Goethe. “Never by reflection, only by action.” Is not this a half-truth? One can only learn his powers of action by action, and his powers of thought by thinking. He can only learn whether or not he has power to command, to lead, to be an orator or legislator, by actual trial. Has he courage, self-control, self-denial, fortitude, etc.? In life alone can he find out. Action tests his moral virtues, reflection his intellectual. If he would define himself to himself he must think. “We are weak in action,” says Renan, “by our best qualities; we are strong in action by will and a certain one-sidedness.” “The moment Byron reflects,” says Goethe, “he is a child.” Byron had no self-knowledge. We have all known people who were ready and sure in action who did not know themselves at all. Your weakness or strength as a person comes out in action; your weakness or strength as an intellectual force comes out in reflection.

Verlaine: A Feminine Appreciation
By
Mrs. Reginald de Koven

VERLAINE: A FEMININE APPRECIATION

IN early days, when the triumphs and the torments of his overwhelming vitality swept at will across his soul, Paul Verlaine was sometimes god and sometimes satyr. From aspiring altitudes of spiritual emotions he swung like a pendulum to unspoken depths of vice.

The world spirit doubly charged his strange and terrible personality, pouring into it the essences and intuitions of the body and the soul. Into the alembic were dissolved the entities of Baudelaire and Villon, floating still upon the earth.

Then the whole was set to the vibration of a new rhythm as strange and as remote from the consciousness of men as the songs of inter-lunar space, so that his utterances with the naturalness of a bird’s song or an infant’s lisp should have the accents of melody undreamed of. And this is not all – strangest and most tragically terrible in its possibilities of pain – the chrism of conscience burns his sinister brow. The phantom of the immortal soul drives him into the outer darkness.

What are the undiscovered laws of spiritual heredity and of a poetic paternity, such as are suggested in the likeness of Baudelaire and Verlaine to their prototype Villon? The secret is yet to find. It is all as strange as the mystery of Bernhardt’s strayed existence in this modern day. An emanation from some Egyptian tomb, wild spirit of genius and of vice is she, vampire-like, inhuman, wandering among a people who have thrilled to her voice and wondered, not knowing whence she came.

Behind them both – Baudelaire with his luminous, despairing eyes, and Verlaine with his terrible glabrous head – the madcap figure of Villon shines out of a cloud of time, and we hear the sound of his reckless laughter and the music of his tears.

But if the relation between these two moderns and this singing renegade of the Middle Ages is that of mysterious paternity, between Baudelaire and Verlaine there is a brotherhood which is as wonderful as an oriental dream of metempsychosis.

Baudelaire’s verses, read in early youth, so saturated and possessed the new-born soul of Paul Verlaine that he became more a reincarnation of Baudelaire than a separate existence. The passions and the madness of Baudelaire became his own – he heard the same strange music – saw the same visions. Incarnate of the mad poet, Verlaine, his second soul, fled a second slave in the footsteps of the same strange goddess – beauty in decay.

And where one had madly followed, so the other fled, enamoured of her fatal loveliness, wherever her fickle steps should lead. Sometimes she would escape them, disappearing in mists and mysterious darkness, and sometimes they would come upon her suddenly in glimpses of green light, dancing strange frivolous steps, and the color of her robes would be mingled rose and mystic blue, and the halo of her head the phosphor of decay.

And she has led them through strange paths into the dwelling-place of death, and where love and life live together, for these two are never separated, and, through many places of terror and delight, to that ultimate spot, occult, remote, where dwells the soul of woman.

There the youngest of her slaves found himself one day outstripping his brother, and saw with living eyes the mystery, – and thenceforward he was no more Paul Verlaine; he was the prophet and interpreter of woman.

To him alone has the secret been revealed; to him alone, the mantle of deceit she wears, the slavish dress of the centuries, is no concealment. He has seen, has known, and he understands. “The very worst thing in the world,” says an unknown writer, “is the soul of a woman.” Forced to inaction, and fed on lies, her principal power, founded on man’s weakness, curiosity, and the imagination of the intellect, lead her in many wandering ways. Tasting but few of the actual joys, the triumphs, and the trials of life, from the harem of her slavery her fancy has wandered with the winds. In her mind the unique and fatal experimenter, she has known all crimes, all horrors, as well as martyrdoms and joys. And this, while her gentle feminine hands have ministered to suffering, her voice has cheered, her smile has illumined, and her divine patience has endured.

Consider these lines – their spiritual intuition is the parallel of Wordsworth in his limpid moods; their knowledge, like a single glow of summer lightning, illumines all the darkened land as the glimmering patient light of Bourget’s candle in cycles of encyclopedics will never do.

Behold the woman!

 
“Beauté des femmes, leur faiblesse et ces mains pâles,
Qui font souvent le bien et peuvent tout le mal.”
 

The appealing weakness of women is the first note, invariably stronger than command – and then the reference to their hands. This is very characteristic of Verlaine – they haunt him.

 
“Les chères mains qui furent miennes,
Toutes petites, toutes belles.”
 

…

 
“Mains en songes – main sur mon âme.”
 

The last is a very poignant line – and again in “Ariettes Oubliées,” —

“Le piano que baise une main frêle.”

Then comes the reflection as to the eyes of women, profoundly true and observant, contained in the last two verses of the first stanza: —

 
“Et ces yeux où plus rien ne reste d’animal
Que juste assez pour dire ‘assez’ aux fureurs mâles!”
 

Then the next stanza: —

 
“Et toujours, maternelle endormeuse des râles,
Même quand elle ment – .”
 

Here is the creature who could be both nurse and courtesan – concise and convincing classification.

Then he continues relating how, as man as well as poet, he has vibrated to the clear soprano of

 
“Cette voix! Matinal
Appel, ou chant bien doux à vêpres, ou frais signal,
Ou beau sanglot qui va mourir au pli des châles!..”
 

How he has dreamed over the tender sentiment of her twilight song, and been melted and conquered by the still greater, more beautiful appeal of the emotional soul for love and understanding, – “beau sanglot” indeed!

Then comes the wonderful third stanza, and its denunciation of man’s brutality and selfishness.

 
“Hommes durs! Vie atroce et laide d’ici-bas!
Ah! que du moins, loins des baisers et des combats,
Quelque chose demeure un peu sur la montagne.”
 

Here is the appeal for sentiment, for the love of the spirit, choked in the throats of dumb and suffering women.

“Quelque chose du cœur,” he repeats and persuades, “enfantin et subtil.”

 
“Bonté, respect! car qu’est-ce qui nous accompagne,
Et vraiment, quand la mort viendra, que reste-t-il?”
 

From him, the convict poet, from this heart rotten with all the sins of fancy and of deed, bursts this plea – as naive as it is earnest, for the spiritual in love – for sentiment, the essence of the soul. Strange anomaly – stranger still that it should be he who has understood.

Three lines more, from an early poem called “Vœu,” of such condensed significance and biting truth as lacks a parallel.

 
“O la femme à l’amour câlin et rechauffant,
Douce, pensive et brune, et jamais étonnée,
Et qui parfois vous baise au front, comme un enfant.”
 

What a portrait, typical and individual – “jamais étonnée,” my sisters, what an accusation!

…

Verlaine is dead. The last shred of that ruined soul which has for years been rotting away in chance Parisian brasseries, has loosened its hold upon life and slipped into the unknown; but the poetry he has left behind him, with its sighs and bitter sobbings, and its few gleams of beauty and of joy, contains the essence of his strange nature.

Although repudiating the responsibility of the position, he was the founder and leader of that school of poetic expression which has most importantly distinguished the end of his century.

Half faun, half satyr, his nature was allied to baseness and brutal animalism, but possessed a strange and childish naïveté which remained with him to the last, and a spirit remotely intact in the chaos of his wayward senses, whence issued songs of matchless purity and inimitable music.