Archive for January, 2019

The plays of Sheridan

I wonder if Sheridan’s literary reputation is on the wane these days. Revivals of his plays are not, I think, so common now as they used to be. We still hear of Edith Evans’ splendid Mrs Malaprop, for instance, or of Laurence Olivier’s exuberant performance as Mr Puff (a role which he seemingly alternated with Sophocles’ Oedipus!), but contemporary luminaries of the stage rarely if ever list Sheridan roles in their credits. And in all the years I have spent here in London, I cannot recall a single performance of a Sheridan play. No doubt I have missed a few, but it’s hard to escape the impression that these plays simply aren’t performed that much these days as they not so long ago used to be. Or read either, for that matter. This is in great part due, no doubt, to that questionable dictum that has gained ground that plays are meant “to be seen, not read” – a dictum that has resulted in the undervaluing of a great many dramatists in preference to authors of prose fiction – but it could also be, I think, that our age is out of sympathy with Sheridan’s dramatic ethos.

I was contemplating this matter only quite recently, when it occurred to me that I had never read Sheridan’s plays either. 18th century writers of prose fiction, yes: the novels of Defoe, Fielding, Sterne, Smollett, and even the intimidatingly long Clarissa by Samuel Richardson, have all been duly ticked off the list, and, in many cases, greatly admired and loved; but Sheridan I knew only by reputation. Well, there was only one way to put that right: Penguin Classics do a very useful volume containing his three greatest hits – The Rivals, The School for Scandal, and The Critic – and, while Sheridan is not these days a big enough name for this volume to be readily available in the local bookshop, it is still in print and is easily ordered.

However, on reading these plays, I did, I confess, have a sneaking sympathy with the “meant to be seen, not read” crowd. Imagine never having seen your favourite sitcom, and knowing it only through the script: how much of it would we laugh at? If I had never seen, say, Andrew Sachs’ performance as Manuel in Fawlty Towers, would I have laughed at seeing a mere “ ¿Qué? ” in cold print? The impact of comedy undoubtedly depends to a very great extent on the comic skills and timing of the actors. However, as I was unlikely to see any of Sheridan’s plays any time soon; and, further, as I have gained much merely from reading comic plays (I am an aficionado of Molière, after all); I wasn’t going to let this stop me. After all, reading the lines and trying to imagine how good comic actors would deliver them is in itself great fun.

All this resulted in a very entertaining week’s worth of reading. (Yes, I know … but I’m a slow reader.) In The Rivals, we have all the appurtenances of romantic comedy – young lovers, impossibly eccentric elders, lovers’ tiffs that are lunatic storms in tiny teacups, disguises, misunderstandings, and all the rest of it. It’s the sort of thing that Oscar Wilde wrought to a pitch of perfection in The Importance of Being Earnest, and which Wodehouse later seized upon (albeit as prose fiction rather than as stage drama). If I am to be entirely honest, both Wilde and Wodehouse improved upon Sheridan here: but it is hardly Sheridan’s fault that those who later took up the genre developed it to such an extent. The Rivals still stands up as a fine comedy even on reading: I’d love to see a good comic cast let loose on this.

The tone in The School for Scandal is somewhat darker. Here, Sheridan presents us with a society where gossip, scandalmongering, hypocrisy, gratuitous and mendacious denigration of one’s fellow humans, are virtually social graces: it is almost impossible to be part of society without being part of all this. The world Sheridan presents here is not too dissimilar to the world presented by Molière in possibly his greatest work, Le Misanthrope. There, Molière puts at the centre of his play a man of integrity, Alceste, who deplores all he sees about him, but who is nonetheless hopelessly in love with Célimène, an attractive young lady very much at home in this world that Alceste so deplores.  But ultimately, Alceste refuses to compromise his integrity, leaving himself lonely and isolated, and, in the midst of all the comedy, almost a tragic figure. But this is not the direction Sheridan wants to go in. He gives us delicious characters, a fine farcical plot (involving that famous scene in Act 4 with various people hidden behind screens on various parts of the stage), and a happy ending where all is resolved, although, given the nature of the dramatic world he presents, a completely happy resolution should be well nigh impossible: even if individuals do reform, the nature of the society they inhabit is too inherently corrupt to change even in the slightest: any man of genuine integrity in such a society must, at best, compromise, as Alceste’s friend Philinte does, or, at worst, end up lonely and isolated, like Alceste himself. But this is not Sheridan’s concern. The corruption of society is not here a representation of the fallen nature of Man: it is, rather, a backdrop with great comic potential. And Sheridan exploits this potential brilliantly, squeezing as many laughs out of it as he can with considerable ingenuity.

The Critic seemed to me the funniest of the lot. After all, which other play features as a character an author named Sir Fretful Plagiary? In this play, Sheridan dispenses almost entirely with plot. Most of the play consists of a rehearsal of another play, an absurd “tragic drama” about the Spanish Armada, with comments by the exuberant Mr Puff, author of this play, an enthusiast of the theatre, Mr Dangle, and a dramatic critic, Mr Sneer. That’s it. No young lovers, no-one hiding behind screens, no disguises and misunderstandings to be smoothed out at the denouement. Indeed, no denouement at all, for that matter.

Without anything resembling plot, everything stands or falls by the quality of the gags, and, even seen only in print, they are hilarious. The play within the play is extraordinarily bad, but Puff is nonetheless delighted by his own invention, and is not in the slightest bit put out by any criticism. When it is pointed out, for instance, that one of his lines is straight out of Othello, he blithely responds:

Gad! now you put me in mind on’t, I believe there is, but that’s of no consequence: all that can be said is, that two people happened to hit on the same thought, and Shakespeare made use of it first, that’s all.

Puff is particularly proud of the “mad scene”, and proudly reads out his stage direction:

‘Enter Tilburina stark mad in white satin, and her confidant stark mad in white linen.’

Puff patiently explains to the various objectors that, yes, the confidant as well as the heroine must become mad. Stark mad. And once the scene ends, Puff turns to his audience in triumph:

There, do you ever desire to see any body madder than that?

(I must confess this is a line that has run through my mind after reading many a chapter by Dostoyevsky…)

Now that I have read these plays, I don’t know that I’ll be returning to The Rivals, or even to The School for Scandal: it’s not that I didn’t enjoy them – I did – but I’m not sure there’s enough substance in either play to warrant revisiting (although I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing them performed on stage). The Critic I shall most certainly be returning to: it’s one of those instances we sometimes encounter (Don Quixote is another) of a parody that remains funny even when that which it is parodying has vanished from sight. This play alone should be enough to cement Sheridan’s reputation as one of the great comic authors.

Stan and Ollie

Given that this blog has been going for nearly nine years now, and given further that I had set this blog up primarily to talk about various things I love, it is strange that I have managed so far not even  to mention Laurel and Hardy. I suppose it’s because I find it difficult to describe what their films mean to me without gushing. But now that a new film about this duo is doing the rounds to hearteningly popular acclaim, it seems as good a time as any to write something about them on my blog. And I’ll do my best not to gush, as those who are fans will already know what I mean, and those who aren’t will merely be put off.

laurel-and-hardy

Oliver Hardy and Stan Laurel.

I must admit, though, that I am always somewhat shocked when anyone tells me they do not like Laurel and Hardy films. And yes, there are many who think them essentially silly, and simple-minded. And I have to ask myself whether my continued love for them is really justified in terms of their merit, or whether it is merely a leftover from a fondly remembered childhood. I think it’s the former, but I cannot, of course, demonstrate it one way or the other. I plead that, as a child, I used to laugh at Abbott and Costello films as well, but that they soon paled, and now I find them merely irritating; but Laurel and Hardy films I continue to love. That doesn’t constitute a proof, of course – nothing can constitute a proof in this context – but it does indicate, at least, that my continued enjoyment of Laurel and Hardy is due to more than mere nostalgia. Although what that more is, is difficult to identify, let alone articulate.

We can, at least, say what they aren’t. Their humour is not – despite ignorant claims to the contrary – primarily slapstick. Yes, of course they employed slapstick; but so, for that matter, did Cervantes. And yes, of course that slapstick is funny. But what we are laughing at is, I think, more than merely the slapstick, more than the pratfalls that lie in wait of them. And that more lies, I think, in these characters’ relationship with the world around them, with each other, and with us, the audience.

Oliver Hardy once said that people enjoyed watching these films because they can feel smarter than these two. (I’m sorry I can’t link to this, as I can’t find a reference to this quote anywhere:  but I’m sure I read this somewhere – though damned if I can remember where!) I’m not sure what context Oliver said this in, but whatever he meant, he was surely only partly right. Yes, of course we feel we are brighter than these two: there would be something very wrong with us if we didn’t. And yes, of course, we laugh at their stupidity, their ineptitude. But – and here’s the most important thing – we never look down on them. No matter how foolishly they act, no matter how inept they are, we’re on their side. To use that lazy cliché – we can identify with them; we can sympathise with these two essentially well-meaning people who are unequal, as, frankly, we all are, to the demands life makes of us. It is partly because the world conspires against them; it is also partly because they are not very bright, or capable. And yes, as we watch Stan and Ollie struggle with living their lives, we laugh: but we laugh not at them, but in the recognition deep down that, no doubt on a somewhat different level, we too aren’t up to meeting life’s demands.

Flaubert had pulled off this trick in Bouvard et Pécuchet (which often strikes me as Flaubert’s masterpiece): here, too, we have two genuinely well-meaning people trying to grapple with the complexities of life, and repeatedly failing. However, we do not look down on them, for we see in them, despite a comic exaggeration, an image of our own state. But Flaubert observed his creations with a studied ironic distance, whereas I don’t think even detractors of Stan and Ollie could fail to notice the genuine warmth with which these two characters are portrayed. And frankly, this is a mystery to me.  I too sense the warmth in their films; and yet, Ollie is an overbearing, pompous bully who frequently hits Stan. (And Stan occasionally hits back.) I once saw an interview with the late Richard Briers, one of the finest comic actors of his generation, who also admitted that he couldn’t explain this. We all hate pompous, self-important people, he said, we all hate bullies, and yet, we watch Oliver Hardy’s performance, and we love him. He said he watched these films repeatedly just to see how Oliver Hardy achieved this, but that he never could work it out. He thought it was simply a miracle.

But, whatever life throws at them, they never give up, or give way to despondency. They keep on failing, and not even failing better. But they carry on. Because, like the rest of us I guess, they must.

Fans of Laurel and Hardy are probably a bit cheesed off with me by now. Here I am, talking about Cervantes and Flaubert and what not, while ignoring the most salient aspect of their genius – they were funny.

Yes, they certainly were. Are.

But I challenge anyone to explain what it is about them that makes one laugh. It’s an impossible task, and I’m not even going to try. In any case, if anyone needs to ask why they are funny, they’re not going to get it anyway.

The recent film Stan and Ollie has excited much comment, especially around my neck of the net. The Laurel and Hardy fan club page on Facebook has been buzzing with excitement, with virtually everyone recommending the film, and praising Steve Coogan’s and John C. Reilly’s superbly convincing performances. I must admit I tend to steer away from showbiz biopics: if they are hagiographies, I find that boring and pointless; and if they are hatchet jobs, they are equally boring and pointless, and also somewhat repugnant. Sometimes, the middle course is taken, showing both the  virtues and the vices of the subjects, but even there, I remain dubious: we all have our character flaws – what purpose does it serve to dramatise these peoples’ personal flaws and foibles? But in this case,  I must admit I was quite pleasantly surprised.

I do not know much of the biographical details of these two: I am  generally more interested in artists’ works  rather than their lives; but I do know that the  two got on  really well together, and had for each other a great respect and affection. But the film-makers also take – as I discover from some of the posts on this Facebook page from those who know about their lives far better than I do – a few liberties. Producer Hal Roach was no money-grubbing philistine as is portrayed here; and while Stan and Ollie did have a few differences with him, it was never about pay. More significantly, Laurel and Hardy never quarrelled with each other in real life. No doubt they had some minor disagreements when filming, but it never amounted to a break in their friendly relations. In this film, Stan is somewhat resentful of Ollie going off to make a film on his own: in real life, Stan had actually congratulated Ollie. I assume that the quarrel was introduced into this film to inject some drama into the proceedings: two people getting on just fine is no doubt admirable, but frankly a bit boring. However, it was made clear that neither was at peace till they had made it up and acknowledged to each other that they had not meant the words spoken in anger; and the reconciliation scene was genuinely touching. It is impossible for us fans to think of Stan and Ollie without feeling a sense of warmth, and of generosity: both these qualities came over very strongly.

The film focuses on the tour they made of Britain in 1953, when they were both getting old, and somewhat past it (at least, on the evidence of their later films, which I frankly find a bit painful to watch). And Ollie’s health was clearly failing. The film could easily have become sentimental, but it didn’t. Even their reconciliation scene, which, fictional or not, no fan of the pair could fail to find touching, consisted of only a few words:  no more needed to be said. One thing I hadn’t realised, and which, I admit, did leave me a bit tearful, was that for the eight years Stan lived on after Ollie’s death, he continued writing gags for the two. Obviously, he knew that these gags would never be performed (and I, for one, hope they never are, not even by the excellent Coogan and Reilly): presumably, Stan wrote these gags because that was his way of keeping in touch with precious, vanished times, and with a precious, vanished friend. I’m glad the film only mentioned this in passing at the end: some things really don’t need to be dwelt upon.

cooganreilly

John C. Reilly as Oliver Hardy, and Steve Coogan as Stan Laurel, from the film “Stan and Ollie”, courtesy of producing companies Entertainment One BBC Films Fable Pictures Laurel and Hardy Feature Productions Sonesta Films

 

After seeing the film, I came back home, and immediately put on one of their two-reelers. (I chose Midnight Patrol at random.) And I laughed all over again, although I knew all the gags by heart. I think I just enjoy their company. Foolish, inept, pompous (on one side) and vacant (on the other), utterly unable to cope with all that life throws at them, often cruelly defeated – but however stupid we may think them, we never look down upon them: they’re still one of us.

If I had to pick a single DVD set to keep from my collection,  I would undoubtedly choose the Laurel and Hardy films.

Putting the plebs back in their place

Imagine that you have a profound artistic vision. And imagine also that you have the ability to communicate this vision. Imagine you have an extraordinary mastery of language, and that there is nothing – no nuance, no shade of thought or feeling – that you cannot communicate with words.

Now, if you are so gifted, what would you do with these gifts? What would you devote your life to? What would you work on assiduously through all hours of day and night?

Keeping the working classes at bay, obviously. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn’t it?

I am afraid this is precisely the contention that is made by many. It’s not new, of course, but I had rather hoped that this kind of nonsense would have run its course by now. So it’s sad to see that it is still very much alive and kicking.

I am not sure when these ideas started, but I first heard them articulated by John Carey, no less. I must confess that I haven’t read the book he wrote on this matter – The Intellectuals and the Masses; but I did see a television documentary he fronted at around the time this book was published, in which he expressed his view that modernists had deliberately made their work difficult to keep the “masses” out. I must admit that what I heard on that programme did surprise me considerably. But I am reluctant to attack Carey, as he is someone whom I admire greatly: had it not been for his brilliant edition of Milton, with its superbly detailed and erudite notes and annotations, I am not sure I could have negotiated my way around these immensely difficult poems.

There are, sadly, a great many other very difficult works of literature that I haven’t, as yet, been able to get my head around – not even with all the critical commentaries available. Yes, I made a few inroads into Milton (thanks to John Carey and a number of other Milton scholars); but the works of Spenser, say, or of the much-loved Donne, refuse resolutely to penetrate through my thick skull. There are other difficult works where, I can see quite clearly for myself without having to be told, my understanding is at best partial: the late novels of Henry James, say (The Golden Bowl especially). Even my beloved Shakespeare loses me with The Phoenix and the Turtle. All these works, it may be noted, are pre-modernist. In short, difficulty is hardly a modernist invention. So it genuinely puzzles me to read something like this:

If more and more working people were reading the classics, if they were closing the cultural gap between themselves and the middle classes, how could intellectuals preserve their elite status as arbiters of taste and custodians of rare knowledge? They had to create a new body of modernist literature which was deliberately made so difficult and obscure that the average reader did not understand it.

This is written by scholar Jonathan Rose, and is approvingly quoted by Matthew Wills in the article I linked to above.

The contention that certain writers, of a certain era, had deliberately introduced difficulty (a quality that, presumably, had not existed earlier) specifically in order to exclude the “working people” seems, in view of the extreme difficulty I encounter in so many pre-modernist works, frankly absurd. It gives me a mental picture of the likes of Joyce, Woolf, Eliot, etc. all getting together & rubbing their hands with glee – “These plebs are getting a bit above themselves, aren’t they? Right, no more easy stuff like Spenser or Milton or Henry James from now on … we’ll soon put the bastards back in their place!”

And so they put all their time and effort putting us bastards back in our place. Because, obviously, it’s such a worthy cause for gifted people to dedicate their lives to.

In my experience, virtually every contention relating to cultural matters that claims to be egalitarian has at its root a barely disguised contempt for the very people it pretends to champion. Behind the contention that the difficulty of modernism is intended to ward off the “working people” is the insulting belief that the “working people”, the “masses”, are less capable than others of negotiating difficulty. The very title The Intellectuals and the Masses assumes that the two are distinct groups – that the “masses” are incapable of being intellectuals; or that, those who do become intellectuals are, by definition, no longer authentically one of the “masses”. In which case the distinction between the two seems to me to become rather inconsequential: what point would such a distinction serve?

Yet, it seems, this continues to do the rounds. The net result is further denigration and belittlement of anything that smacks of the intellectual. Which, I can’t help thinking, has been the aim all along. But since it is impertinent to speculate on what anyone’s unstated motives may be, let us not go there. Let me just restrict myself to saying that I, who am most definitely among the “masses” (since I am still waiting for my invitation to join this shady elite of intellectuals), continue to find the whole thing frankly bizarre.

“The Lady from the Sea” by Henrik Ibsen

*** SPOILER WARNING: The following post inevitably reveals some of the plot details of this play, and so, if such things are important to you, it is possibly best not to read this post till you’ve read or seen the play for yourself. 

All quoted passages from “The Lady from the Sea” are taken from the translation by Michael Meyer, published by Methuen

Looking through the mature plays of Ibsen, I am frequently left with an impression of terror, but it is not always easy to pinpoint where this terror comes from. If pressed, I would say it comes from his various depictions of what I, at any rate, would term fanaticism – a single-mindedness that refuses to be deflected, that rejects any form of compromise. Often, perhaps always, this fanaticism is in a good cause: it is on the side of Truth; it looks with fresh eyes at all that custom has dictated, and re-examines without fear or favour; it refuses to live a life based upon a Lie. And it is perhaps for this very reason that I find myself all the more terrified by where such single-mindedness leads us. For it is easy to identify the flaw of that which is based upon a lie, and reject it for that very reason; but when one cannot accept the logical consequences of something based upon Truth, the earth itself seems to open at our feet.

And Ibsen’s plays offer us no respite, no consolation: they are deeply uncomfortable works, and, I think, less overtly didactic than is often thought. For while the Lie is rejected, the Truth is often seen as something that most humans cannot live with. And Ibsen populates his plays with characters who make us uncomfortable, who, indeed, terrify us, with their unflinching adherence to what they know, or believe, to be true. Take Nora in A Doll’s House, for instance: at the end, she famously walks out on her husband and children, and the last sound we hear before the final curtain is the slamming of the front door. This slam, predictably, outraged Ibsen’s audiences. We moderns, on the other hand, are more likely to cheer, and pat ourselves on the back for being so much more enlightened than our predecessors. Both reactions seem to me to underestimate the complexity of what Ibsen presents. For while it is true that Nora’s logic is impeccable; and while it is true that her refusing to live a Lie is admirable; it is also true that deserting her beloved children will cause her immense pain, and that the children themselves, deprived so suddenly of a loving mother, will be traumatised. Pursuing the Truth at all costs may indeed be admirable, but there is also about it something that is inhuman, something not consistent with what we generally think of as human values. It is like the “ice church” in which Brand meets his end – holy and beautiful and pristine, but cold, bloodless, and remote from the warmth of humanity.

We may see this pattern repeated throughout Ibsen’s plays. Dr Stockmann stands up for an important truth, but does not stop to think what this will mean for the townspeople. Of course, he could have argued against the townspeople on purely utilitarian terms – by pointing out, for instance, that failing to address immediately the issue of the polluted waters will mean storing up even greater problems for the future; but he does not make this argument. Instead, he reviles the people for failing to accept the Truth, which, for him, is by definition absolute, and sacred. In The Wild Duck, the truth-seeker is Gregers Werle, who, with the best of moral intentions, effectively plays the part of Iago, destroying what had till then been a contented marriage, and creating an environment that drives the innocent Hedwig to despair and to death. And, so certain is he of his moral righteousness, that even at the height of the tragedy he does not stop even to question his actions. Is this really the price we need to pay for Truth? – depriving small children of their mother, driving teenage girls to suicide? Ibsen’s plays are populated by characters who would insist that it is – that the price for Truth, however high, is worth paying. And since this blog claims to be no more than a record of my own subjective impressions, I must admit that this terrifies me.

So what is the alternative? I think we may dismiss Dr Relling’s view that we might as well live by lies, since that is the only way we may lead lives that can at least be contented. Whatever we may think of Gregers Werle, I find it hard not to agree with him when he says that if Relling’s view were true, life really would not be worth living. But what about a middle way? What about compromise? What about accepting the importance of Truth, but stopping before we exceed the point where we harm ourselves by pursuing it? Ibsen had touched upon this theme of compromise before: in Ghosts, Mrs Alving, long before the dramatic action we see on stage, had been persuaded to return to her dissolute husband, and live a Lie: that is, she had been persuaded to do that which Nora (despite having been in a very different kind of marriage) had refused to do. And the results were catastrophic. In The Lady from the Sea, Ibsen returns again to the possibility of compromise, and, while the dark clouds are by no means completely banished, he finds in this a possibility, at least, of redemption: at the end of this play, very unusually for this author of deeply troubled dramatic visions, the stage fills with hope, with sunlight. But, just as the heroic and seemingly admirable refusal to stray from the Truth is fraught with immense and possibly insuperable difficulties, compromise is no easy path either: nothing can be straight-forward given our infinitely complex natures.

In the series of twelve plays stretching from The Pillars of the Community to Ibsen’s last play, When We Dead Awaken – which we may think of as a cycle – The Lady from the Sea seems to me to mark something of a turning point. Although set, realistically enough, in a small town by the fjord, we seem far from the hurly-burly of public affairs, which, even in the previous play Rosmersholm, was present, albeit off-stage. We may even question to what extent the action presented may be seen as entirely realistic: elements of folklore, and of the supernatural, never seem too far away. On top of that, this is the first play in this series of plays where we find scenes outdoors. This may seem a trivial consideration, but it isn’t: the setting of the scenes is always important in Ibsen, and it contributes to the feel of this play – its atmosphere, its texture, as it were – that four of its five acts are set outdoors. No longer do we feel the claustrophobia of those stuffy bourgeois drawing rooms: we are out by the fjord, in the fresh air, in the natural light of a northern summer.

In the first act, the young consumptive Lyngstrand tells of an event that had taken place some three years earlier, involving a man who, unknown to him, had played an important part in the life of the one of his listeners. Such outrageous coincidence to help the plot along had long been staple stuff of the creaky old dramaturgy that Ibsen, in the previous plays in this series, had been trying to move away from: that he is happy to include this here should really warn us that the world we are now in is not quite realistic.

In the opening scene, Ballested, a sort of Jack-of-all-Trades in the town, speaks of a picture he is painting. “The Dead Mermaid”, he calls it. It depicts a mermaid who haa become stranded on land, and has died. Ibsen here is alluding to the same folk take that had inspired Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid”: a creature from the sea comes to land, and, unable to acclimatise, perishes. Ballested himself speaks of how he had acclimatised after the theatrical company he had been working for had broken up. He stutters on the word “acclimatise”, thus drawing attention to it: it is an important concept in this play. This ability we have to adapt ourselves, to change in order to accommodate ourselves to our circumstances, allows us to live, and not perish like the mermaid: it may even be our saving grace. But this capacity to adapt – more importantly, perhaps, this willingness to adapt – is a quality generally in short supply in Ibsen’s plays, populated as they are with unbending fanatics.

The identity of the mermaid in this play is obvious – Ellida Wangel, the Lady From the Sea herself. Like Rebecca West in Rosmersholm, she is an outsider: and, again like Rebecca, she is originally from the far north – not from the banks of a narrow fjord, as here, but from the shores of the vast, open sea. She cannot keep away from the sea: even here in the fjord, she bathes regularly, and has come to be known locally as “The lady From the Sea”. But how she longs for that open sea from her younger days!

ELLIDA: Fresh? Dear God, the water here is never fresh. It’s lifeless and stale. Ugh! The water is sick here in the fjord.

ARNHOLM: Sick?

ELLIDA: Yes – sick. I mean, I think it makes one sick. Poisonous too.

Of course, by this stage, we all know a symbol when we see one. Ellida’s current environment is as poison to her, and she longs for the open sea of her childhood. But what exactly does that open sea represent? This is a question not even to be asked. Seeing Ellida so obviously unhappy, her husband, the kindly Dr Wangel, offers for her sake to move north, away from the environment in which he had lived all his life; but he mistakes the symbol for that which it symbolises. The narrow fjord, the open sea – these are but symbols: the underlying malaise lies deeper.

Ellida is the second wife of Dr Wangel, a man much older than her. He had been a widower when he had first met her, and when he had proposed to her, she had agreed, because, as she later explains, for no better reason than that she had not been in a position to refuse. But Ellida has never settled into life in her new home, with her husband, and with his daughters from his first marriage: she has remained detached from them all, and, while her husband is pained and concerned by her detachment, the two daughters are resentful: the elder, Bolette, not much younger than Ellida herself, generally tries to keep her dislike hidden under her polite exterior, while the younger daughter, Hilde – who, as her sister correctly intuits, secretly longs to be close to her stepmother – frequently comes close to expressing her dislike openly. Dr Wangel’s first marriage had been happy, and Ellida has never come close to replacing the first Mrs Wangel in the family’s affection. Nor, frankly, has she tried to: she has throughout remained remote and distant. As with Rebecca West in Rosmersholm, her new surroundings have changed her up to a point; she has, as Ballasted might put it, “acclimatised”; but it is precisely this acclimatisation that troubles her:

ELLIDA: … I’ve grown so very fond of him. That’s what makes it so dreadful.

When she speaks these enigmatic words in the first act, it is hard to see why she should find this acclimatisation “dreadful”, why she should keep herself aloof so as not to acclimatise herself further. But before the reason unravels, we find ourselves in a strange world where the real and the unreal seem to mingle. For Ellida is, quite literally, haunted.

Back in the north, where she had grown up, she had once promised herself to an American sailor. He was a mysterious figure, and, most likely, a dangerous man: he had disappeared after the captain of his ship had been found murdered, and it had been generally assumed that it was he who had been the murderer. Indeed, as Ellida reveals later, he had admitted to her that he had killed the captain, and, although he did not go into the details of the matter, gave her to understand that he had not been at fault. But he had to leave. And before he left, he promised Ellida that he would come back for her. They were, in a sense, already married: they had put their rings together on a keychain, and had thrown it far into the sea. They were married themselves to the vast, mysterious sea itself.

And he seemed to exert a strange power over her. His eyes, she claimed, changed colour with the sea itself. And this strange, dangerous man, with eyes the colour of the sea, continued to haunt her.

Three years earlier, this American sailor had, most likely, died in a shipwreck. Lyngstrand, the young consumptive who visits the Wangels, had been a sailor, and had nearly died as well in that same shipwreck. Not knowing of Ellida’s connection with this man, he tells her about this American sailor they had taken on, who used to read through Norwegian newspapers, because, he said, he wanted to learn the language. But one day, he found in the papers a wedding announcement: the woman he loved has married another man. Lyngstrand had heard his howl of despair. But later, the American sailor had told him in a calm voice:

“But mine she is, and mine she will always be. And she will come to join me, even if I go as a drowned man to claim her.”

And Lyngstrand, who fancies himself a sculptor, imagines a work he will create, with the deceiving woman lying asleep in bed, dreaming, while standing over her was a ghostly drowned man, still wet from the sea, returning to keep his promise.

This story naturally resonates with Ellida. For, we find out later, three years ago, when the shipwreck had happened, and while she had been pregnant with her husband’s child (the child had not lived long), this ghostly drowned man did indeed come to her. And he has been visiting her ever since. And he terrifies her.

WANGEL: To think that for three years you have been in love with another man! Not with me.

ELLIDA: I don’t love anyone else. Only you.

WANGEL (in a subdued voice): Then why have you refused to live with me as my wife all these years?

ELLIDA: Because I am afraid. Afraid of the stranger.

WANGEL: Afraid?

ELLIDA: Yes, afraid. The sort of fear that only the sea can give you.

We are very far now from the very realistic dramatic world Ibsen had been presenting till now. We are far even from the world of Rosmersholm, with its mythical white horses that presage doom. The setting here is realistic enough, but we have entered the realm of ghost stories, of folklore. And suddenly, all possibilities, possibilities that don’t exist in strictly realistic drama, become available. As with perhaps the most famous ghost story of all, The Turn of the Screw, we must ask ourselves whether this ghost is real, or whether it is not, perhaps, an emanation of Ellida’s own troubled psyche, a resurgence of her repressed desire. Of course, others too see the ghost (if ghost he is): but the creation of the mind taking on real, physical form should not surprise us from the author of Peer Gynt, a play in which reality and unreality prove infinitely malleable.

The Ghosts of Ibsen’s earlier play, Gengangere – literally, “those who walk again” – had been no more than metaphorical; but here, the past takes on a palpable physical form, and the ghost literally walks again. The past cannot remain repressed: it will out. Here, that stranger with eyes like the sea does not merely haunt Ellida at nights: he keeps his promise, and comes to the town claim her. He may be a ghost; or he may be a physical manifestation of a creation of Ellida’s mind. Or, more prosaically than either, he may be a living man who had, against expectations, escaped the shipwreck. In a play such as this, in which reality and unreality meld into each other, it hardly seems to matter.

Ellida is not the only one who sees the stranger. Her husband, to whom she confides, also sees her. Lyngstrand and the others see him too. Wangel’s reaction is to protect her: he is her husband, after all, and, whatever the state of the marriage, it is the husband’s duty to protect the wife. But things are more complicated. In the fourth of the five acts, husband and wife speak openly to each other, much as Nora and Torvald speak openly to each other in the final scene of A Doll’s House. And, as in the earlier play, the wife cannot continue to live a lie, and has some serious things to say to her husband that are painful.

ELLIDA: Wangel, it’s no use us going on lying to ourselves.

WANGEL: Lying?

ELLIDA: Yes. Or hiding the truth. The real truth of the matter is that you came out there and bought me.

WANGEL: Bought! Did you say bought?

ELLIDA: Oh, I wasn’t any better than you. I agreed to the bargain. Left home and sold myself to you.

WANGEL: Ellida!

ELLIDA: Is there any other word for it?

And we begin to understand why Ellida had considered her acclimatising herself to become fond of her husband so “dreadful”, for it was acclimatising herself to living a lie. We begin to understand also why she had remained so aloof, so detached: Ellida is at heart another of those terrifying Ibsen characters who cannot bear to live a life based on a lie. And the truth that must be acknowledged is that she had been bought, that her decision to accept Dr Wangel had not been a free decision.

WANGEL: Then have these five or six years we have lived together meant nothing to you at all?

ELLIDA: Oh no, Wangel, no! I have had everything here that anyone could wish for. But I didn’t come to your home of my own free will.

The man she had promised herself to, of her own free will, is a ghost. Or maybe not. He has come to claim her. She knows nothing about him – not even, perhaps, whether he is alive. And he is most likely a murderer. It is utterly irrational for Ellida to choose such a man over a kind, loving husband like Dr Wangel. But, as with Dostoyevsky’s Underground Man, Ellida would rather choose the irrational, the demonic, if only to assert her freedom to do so.

WANGEL: What do you know about him? Nothing. Not even who he is – or what he is.

ELLIDA (to herself): I know. It’s just that that is so – demonic.

WANGEL It certainly is.

ELLIDA: That’s why I think I must go to meet it.

WANGEL (looking at her): Because it is demonic?

ELLIDA: Yes.

WANGEL (comes closer to her): Ellida, what exactly do you mean by demonic?

ELLIDA (pauses): The demonic – is something that appals – and attracts.

Or, as she had said earlier, it inspires “the sort of fear that only the sea can give you”.

And as they wait for the stranger to come again to claim his bride, Wangel’s elder daughter Bolette too is being “bought”. Arnholm, Bolette’s former tutor and some twenty or so years older than her, proposes to her – but it is a strange sort of proposal. Throughout the play, he had been viewing her almost as if their future marriage was a given, and when Bolette speaks despairingly of being such forever in the dreary backwater, he tells her that he would be happy to prevent that happening. Bolette misunderstands him at first: she could never accept such generosity, she says. But then she realises: he is actually proposing to her. She is taken aback, and is, indeed, quite horrified by the suggestion. But he calmly goes on to explain: if she does not accept him, what future would she have to look forward to? What prospect does she have but to remain for ever in this provincial backwater, merely becoming older and lonelier? So she agrees. As with Ellida and Wangel, Arnholm buys her, and she agrees to the bargain. And we may ask ourselves, what price compromise now?

In an essay in The Cambridge Companion to Ibsen, Janet Garton speaks of a production in which Arnholm, having been accepted, strips Bolette to see what he has bought. I haven’t seen this production, but this strikes me as utterly misconceived. For what Arnholm tells her is nothing but the truth. Bolette is coerced not by male brutality, but by reason – the very reason that Ellida cannot reconcile herself to. To put it bluntly, how can we claim to be truly free if our freedom must submit constantly to reason? – to that tyrant reason that brooks no dissent? Maybe, in time, Bolette too will learn to compromise; she too may acclimatise. But a union on terms so unequal that only one party needs to acclimatise is not really a proper marriage at all.

Meanwhile, the younger sister, Hilde, is fascinated with the consumptive Lyngstrand. Lyngstrand is dying, though he doesn’t know it. Bolette, aware of his condition, does her best to be kind to him, even despite his comical foolishness and self-regard, and his unshakable belief that he has it in him to become a great sculptor. He tells Bolette at one point that it is a wife’s duty to accommodate herself to her husband, but that the husband has no reason to reciprocate: it is the husband’s part to develop his talent, and the wife’s part to help him do so. (Bolette is not to know that she herself would shortly agree to just such a bargain.) But Hilde shows no such compunction with Lyngstrand. There is in Hilde a strong streak of cruelty: she is fascinated by the fact that Lyngstrand is dying, and teases him mercilessly. We haven’t seen here the last of Hilde: she reappears as a major character in The Master Builder, written in 1892, just four years after The Lady from the Sea.

Marriage, Lyngstrand declares somewhat smugly, is a “miracle”. Perhaps even he is not quite sure what he means by that word, but this is the very word used in the final scene of A Doll’s House: in that play, Nora had said that only a “miracle” could save their marriage; and, as Torvald muses on what that word may mean, we hear the famous slam of the front door as Nora walks out. What the miracle might be, we do not know, any more than Torvald does. But in this play, a miracle does occur. The ghostly stranger re-appears, as he had said he would. Dr Wangel tries at first to protect his wife, but he knows it is no use; and, in one of the most moving moments in all dramatic literature, he gives his wife the freedom she had so long yearned for – complete freedom, to choose, as she wills. “With all your heart?” she asks him, astonished. “Yes, I mean it,” he replies, “with all my heart.” With all his suffering heart. “Who chooseth me shall give and hazard all he hath,” said the leaden casket in The Merchant of Venice, and Dr Wangel, the stolid, respectable, bourgeois doctor, becomes the most unlikely of dramatic heroes: he gives and hazards all he has, and it is indeed heroic. And this is the miracle that Nora did not find, and Ellida did not expect. But once she has the freedom, she knows what her choice is. The ghostly stranger now loses his power over her: no longer can he terrify. It is as if a weight from Ellida’s troubled psyche has been lifted, and she is troubled no more. The ghost’s exit is almost an anti-climax. And, in the closing moments, the play fills with light. Wangel has given her freedom; he has offered not merely to compromise, but to give up everything he has, everything, for her sake. So now, she can reconcile herself to “acclimatising”: it is no longer a “dreadful” thing. Ibsen is not an author we normally associate with joy, but here is little in all dramatic literature to match the what we find at the end of this play.

But this is not, of course, by any means Ibsen’s last word. In the course of the journey to this ending, some very dark clouds have been seen, and they aren’t going to go away. There is a long way to go yet. Only two years after The Lady from the Sea, Ibsen brought us back down to earth with the uncompromisingly grim and claustrophobic Hedda Gabler. But let’s keep that one till later.

Slaps

I wonder if anyone remembers the game of “slaps”. Or indeed, if anyone has encountered it at all. I’m sure mine wasn’t the only school in which boys – and it was only boys, girls being presumably too sensible – who played this game. But when I was about 11 or 12, and possibly even older, this game was all the rage. Let me explain.

Two boys would stand facing each other, their hands held out, palms joined as if in prayer. One boy is nominated the slapper, and the other – I suppose – the slappee. That is, one does the slapping, and the other gets slapped. The slapper then gets to slap the hands of the slappee as often as he likes, and as hard as he likes. However, if the slappee moves his hands away I n time, and the slapper misses, then roles change: the slappee becomes the slapper, and the boy who had been the slapper now has to take the slaps.

There are further complications. The slapper can make false moves, that is, make out he is going to slap, but keep his palms in contact with each other. And if the slappee moves his hands away while the slapper still has his palms together, then the slapper gets a “free slap” – that is, the slapper gets to slap the slappee’s hands, and this time, the slappee does not have the option of moving his hands away: he has to stand there and take it.

And so the game continued, indefinitely, free slaps and all, roles changing with every missed slap.

I’m not sure what the attraction was of this game, but we played it anyway, despite strict instructions from our teachers not to. And after the breaks, we would return to class, our hands red and raw with being slapped, but determined nonetheless to continue as soon as class finished.

Presumably, you are probably thinking, I am leading up to finding some sort of parallel with this game that will throw some light on some aspect of our lives. Sadly, no. I did think long and hard to find some way to metaphorise this – that is, to find something for which the game of slaps could serve as a metaphor – but I couldn’t really come across anything too convincing. The only reason I mention this game of slaps at all is because, reminiscing on the past (as one tends to do at New Year), memories of this long-forgotten game suddenly emerged out of nowhere and flooded my mind, and made me laugh quite immoderately.

So, a pointless post, I suppose. As pointless as the game itself. Possibly, as I slip into old age, there will be many more such pointless posts. Well, why not? It gets so tiresome trying to make points all the time.

So here’s to another new year, where, hopefully, I may try, at least, to mingle at least a few pointful posts with all the pointless. Happy New Year, everyone!