Essays on Scandinavian Literature | Page 9

am sure; it is that of the race," she makes an
intellectual somersault from the twelfth century into the nineteenth, and
never gets back firmly on her pagan feet again. As Brandes wittily
observes: "People who talk like that do not torture their enemy to death;
they backbite him."
The third part opens with Sigurd's appearance at court, where he
reveals his origin and asks for his share of the kingdom. The king is not
disinclined to grant his request, but is overruled by his councillors, who
profit by his weakness and rule in his name. They fear this man of
many battles, with the mark of kingship on his brow; and they
determine to murder him. But Sigurd escapes from prison, and, holding
the king responsible for the treachery, kills him. From this time forth he
is an outlaw, hunted over field and fell, and roaming with untold
sufferings through the mountains and wildernesses. There he meets a
Finnish maiden who loves him, reveals his fate to him, and implores
him to abandon his ambition and dwell among her people. These scenes

amid the eternal wastes of snow are perhaps the most striking in the
trilogy and most abounding in exquisite poetic thought. Sigurd hastens
hence to his doom at the battle of Holmengra, where he is defeated, and,
with fiendish atrocity, slowly tortured to death. The rather lyrical
monologue preceding his death, in which he bids farewell to life and
calmly adjusts his gaze to eternity, is very beautiful, but, historically, a
trifle out of tune. Barring these occasional lapses from the key, the
trilogy of "Sigurd Slembe" is a noble work.
A respectful, and in part enthusiastic, reception had been accorded to
Björnson's early plays. But his first dramatic triumph he celebrated at
the performance of "Mary Stuart in Scotland." Externally this is the
most effective of his plays. The dialogue is often brilliant, and bristles
with telling points. It is eminently "actable," presenting striking
tableaus and situations. Behind the author we catch a glimpse of the
practical stage-manager who knows how a scene will look on the
boards and how a speech will sound--who can surmise with tolerable
accuracy how they will affect a first-night audience.
"Mary Stuart" is theatrically no less than dramatically conceived.
Theatrically it is far superior to Swinburne's "Chastelard" (not to speak
of his interminable musical verbiage in "Bothwell") but it is paler,
colder, and poetically inferior. The voluptuous warmth and wealth of
color, the exquisite levity, the débonnaire grace of the Swinburnian
drama we seek in vain. Björnson is vigorous, but he is not subtile. Mere
feline amorousness, such as Swinburne so inimitably portrays, he
would disdain to deal with if even he could. Such a bit of intricate
self-characterization as the English poet puts into the Queen's mouth in
the first scene with Chastelard, in the third act, lies utterly beyond the
range of the sturdier Norseman.
Queen: "Nay, dear, I have No tears in me; I never shall weep much, I
think, in all my life: I have wept for wrath Sometimes, and for mere
pain, but for love's pity I cannot weep at all. I would to God You loved
me less: I give you all I can For all this love of yours, and yet I am sure
I shall live out the sorrow of your death And be glad afterwards. You
know I am sorry. I should weep now; forgive me for your part. God

made me hard, I think. Alas! you see I had fain been other than I am."
Add to this the beautifully illuminating threat, "I shall be deadly to
you," uttered in the midst of amorous cooings and murmurings, and we
catch a glimpse of the demoniac depth of this woman's nature.
Björnson's "Mary Stuart" weeps more than once; nay, she says to
Bothwell, when he has forcibly abducted her to his castle:
"This is my first prayer to you, That I may weep."
Quite in the same key is her exclamation (in the same scene) in
response to Bothwell's reference to her son:
"My son, my lovely boy! Oh, God, now he lies sleeping in his little
white bed, and does not know how his mother is battling for his sake."
Schiller, whose conception of womankind was as honestly single and
respectful as that of Björnson, had set a notable precedent in
representing Mary Stuart as a martyr of a lost cause. The psychological
antitheses of her character, her softness and loving surrender, and her
treachery and cruelty--he left out of account.
Without troubling himself greatly about her guilt, which, though with
many palliating circumstances, he admitted, he undertook to exemplify
in her the beauty and exaltation of noble suffering. His Mary (which
has always been a favorite with tragic actresses) is in