Complete Works of Henrik Ibsen (287 page)

In England, and probably elsewhere as well,
The Master Builder
produced a curious double effect. It alienated many of the poet’s staunchest admirers, and it powerfully attracted many people who had hitherto been hostile to him. Looking back, it is easy to see why this should have been so; for here was certainly a new thing in drama, which could not but set up many novel reactions. A greater contrast could scarcely be imagined than that between the hard, cold, precise outlines of
Hedda Gabler
and the vague mysterious atmosphere of
The Master Builder
, in which, though the dialogue is sternly restrained within the limits of prose, the art of drama seems for ever on the point of floating away to blend with the art of music. Substantially, the play is one long dialogue between Solness and Hilda; and it would be quite possible to analyse this dialogue in terms of music, noting (for example) the announcement first of this theme and then of that, the resumption and reinforcement of a theme which seemed to have been dropped, the contrapuntal interweaving of two or more motives, a scherzo here, a fugal passage there. Leaving this exercise to some one more skilled in music (or less unskilled) than myself, I may note that in
The Master Builder
Ibsen resumes his favourite retrospective method, from which in
Hedda Gabler
he had in great measure departed. But the retrospect with which we are here concerned is purely psychological. The external events involved in it are few and simple in comparison with the external events which are successively unveiled in retrospective passages of
The Wild Duck
or
Rosmersholm
. The matter of the play is the soul-history of Halvard Solness, recounted to an impassioned listener — so impassioned, indeed, that the soul-changes it begets in her form an absorbing and thrilling drama. The graduations, retardations, accelerations of Solness’s self-revealment are managed with the subtlest art, so as to keep the interest of the spectator ever on the stretch. The technical method was not new; it was simply that which Ibsen had been perfecting from
Pillars of Society
onward; but it was applied to a subject of a nature not only new to him, but new to literature.

That the play is full of symbolism it would be futile to deny; and the symbolism is mainly autobiographic. The churches which Solness sets out building doubtless represent Ibsen’s early romantic plays, the “homes for human beings” his social drama; while the houses with high towers, merging into “castles in the air,” stand for those spiritual dramas, with a wide outlook over the metaphysical environment of humanity, on which he was henceforth to be engaged. Perhaps it is not altogether fanciful to read a personal reference into Solness’s refusal to call himself an architect, on the ground that his training has not been systematic — that he is a self-taught man. Ibsen too was in all essentials self-taught; his philosophy was entirely unsystematic; and, like Solness, he was no student of books. There may be an introspective note also in that dread of the younger generation to which Solness confesses. It is certain that the old Master-Builder was not lavish of his certificates of competence to young aspirants, though there is nothing to show that his reticence ever depressed or quenched any rising genius.

On the whole, then, it cannot be doubted that several symbolic motives are inwoven into the iridescent fabric of the play. But it is a great mistake to regard it as essentially and inseparably a piece of symbolism. Essentially it is a history of a sickly conscience, worked out in terms of pure psychology. Or rather, it is a study of a sickly and a robust conscience side by side. “The conscience is very conservative,” Ibsen has somewhere said; and here Solness’s conservatism is contrasted with Hilda’s radicalism — or rather would-be radicalism, for we are led to suspect, towards the close, that the radical too is a conservative in spite or herself. The fact that Solness cannot climb as high as he builds implies, I take it, that he cannot act as freely as he thinks, or as Hilda would goad him into thinking. At such an altitude his conscience would turn dizzy, and life would become impossible to him. But here I am straying back to the interpretation of symbols. My present purpose is to insist that there is nothing in the play which has no meaning on the natural-psychological plane, and absolutely requires a symbolic interpretation to make it comprehensible. The symbols are harmonic undertones; the psychological melody is clear and consistent without any reference to them.(4) It is true that, in order to accept the action on what we may call the realistic level, we must suppose Solness to possess and to exercise, sometimes unconsciously, a considerable measure of hypnotic power. But time is surely past when we could reckon hypnotism among “supernatural” phenomena. Whether the particular forms of hypnotic influence attributed to Solness do actually exist is a question we need not determine. The poet does not demand our absolute credence, as though he were giving evidence in the witness-box. What he requires is our imaginative acceptance of certain incidents which he purposely leaves hovering on the border between the natural and the preternatural, the explained and the unexplained. In this play, as in
The Lady from the Sea
and
Little Eyolf
, he shows a delicacy of art in his dalliance with the occult which irresistibly recalls the exquisite genius of Nathaniel Hawthorne.(5)

The critics who insist on finding nothing but symbolism in the play have fastened on Mrs. Solness’s “nine lovely dolls,” and provided the most amazing interpretations for them. A letter which I contributed in 1893 to the
Westminster Gazette
records an incident which throws a curious light on the subject and may be worth preserving. “At a recent first night,” I wrote, “I happened to be seated just behind a well-known critic. He turned round to me and said, ‘I want you to tell me what is YOUR theory of those “nine lovely dolls.” Of course one can see that they are entirely symbolical.’ ‘I am not so sure of that,’ I replied, remembering a Norwegian cousin of my own who treasured a favourite doll until she was nearer thirty than twenty. ‘They of course symbolise the unsatisfied passion of motherhood in Mrs. Solness’s heart, but I have very little doubt that Ibsen makes use of this “symbol” because he has observed a similar case, or cases, in real life.’ ‘What!’ cried the critic. ‘He has seen a grown-up, a middle-aged woman continuing to “live with” her dolls!’ I was about to say that it did not seem to me so very improbable, when a lady who was seated next me, a total stranger to both of us, leant forward and said, ‘Excuse my interrupting you, but it may perhaps interest you to know that I HAVE THREE DOLLS TO WHICH I AM DEEPLY ATTACHED!’ I will not be so rude as to conjecture this lady’s age, but we may be sure that a very young woman would not have had the courage to make such an avowal. Does it not seem that Ibsen knows a thing or two about human nature — English as well as Norwegian — which we dramatic critics, though bound by our calling to be subtle psychologists, have not yet fathomed?” In the course of the correspondence which followed, one very apposite anecdote was quoted from an American paper, the
Argonaut
: “An old Virginia lady said to a friend, on finding a treasured old cup cracked by a careless maid, ‘I know of nothing to compare with the affliction of losing a handsome piece of old china.’ ‘Surely,’ said the friend, ‘it is not so bad as losing one’s children.’ ‘Yes, it is,’ replied the old lady, ‘for when your children die, you do have the consolations of religion, you know.’”

It would be a paradox to call
The Master Builder
Ibsen’s greatest work, but one of his three or four greatest it assuredly is. Of all his writings, it is probably the most original, the most individual, the most unlike any other drama by any other writer. The form of
Brand
and
Peer Gynt
was doubtless suggested by other dramatic poems — notably by
Faust
. In
The Wild Duck
, in
Rosmersholm
, in
Hedda Gabler
, even in
Little Eyolf
and
John Gabriel Borkman
, there remain faint traces of the French leaven which is so strong in the earlier plays. But
The Master Builder
had no model and has no parallel. It shows no slightest vestige of outside influence. It is Ibsen, and nothing but Ibsen.

CHARACTERS
.

HALVARD SOLNESS, Master Builder.

ALINE SOLNESS, his wife.

DOCTOR HERDAL, physician.

KNUT BROVIK, formerly an architect, now in SOLNESS’S employment.

RAGNAR BROVIK, his son, draughtsman.

KAIA BROVIK, his niece, book-keeper.

MISS HILDA WANGEL.

Some Ladies.

A Crowd in the street.

SCENE: The action passes in and about SOLNESS’S house.

ACT FIRST
.

A plainly-furnished work-room in the house of HALVARD SOLNESS. Folding doors on the left lead out to the hall.
 
On the right is the door leading to the inner rooms of the house.
 
At the back is an open door into the draughtsmen’s office.
 
In front, on the left, a desk with books, papers and writing materials. Further back than the folding door, a stove.
 
In the right- hand corner, a sofa, a table, and one or two chairs.
 
On the table a water-bottle and glass.
 
A smaller table, with a rocking-chair and arm-chair, in front on the right.
 
Lighted lamps, with shades, on the table in the draughtmen’s office, on the table in the corner, and on the desk.

In the draughtsmen’s office sit KNUT BROVIK and his son RAGNAR, occupied with plans and calculations.
 
At the desk in the outer office stands KAIA FOSLI, writing in the ledger.
 
KNUT BROVICK is a spare old man with white hair and beard.
 
He wears a rather threadbare but well-brushed black coat, with spectacles, and a somewhat discoloured white neckcloth.
 
RAGNAR BROVIK is a well-dressed, light-haired man in his thirties, with a slight stoop.
 
KAIA FOSLI is a slightly built girl, a little over twenty, carefully dressed, and delicate-looking.
 
She has a green shade over her eyes. — All three go on working for some time in silence.

KNUT BROVIK.
[Rises suddenly, as if in distress, from the table; breathes heavily and laboriously as he comes forward into the doorway.]
No, I can’t bear it much longer!

KAIA.
[Going up to him.]
You are feeling very ill this evening, are you not, Uncle?

BROVIK. Oh, I seem to get worse every day.

RAGNAR.
[Has risen and advances.]
You ought to go home, father. Try to get a little sleep —

BROVIK.
[Impatiently.]
Go to bed, I suppose? Would you have me stifled outright?

KAIA. Then take a little walk.

RAGNAR. Yes, do. I will come with you.

BROVIK.
[With warmth.]
I will not go till he comes! I and determined to have it out this evening with —
[in a tone of suppressed bitterness]
— with him — with the chief.

KAIA.
[Anxiously.]
Oh no, uncle, — do wait awhile before doing that!

RAGNAR. Yes, better wait, father!

BROVIK.
[Draws is breath laboriously.]
Ha — ha — !
I
haven’t much time for waiting.

KAIA.
[Listening.]
Hush! I hear him on the stairs.

[All three go back to their work.
 
A short silence. HALVARD SOLNESS comes in through the hall door.
 
He is a man no longer young, but healthy and vigorous, with close-cut curly hair, dark moustache and dark thick eyebrows.
 
He wears a greyish-green buttoned jacket with an upstanding collar and broad lapels.
 
On his head he wears a soft grey felt hat, and he has one or two light portfolios under his arm.

SOLNESS.
[Near the door, points towards the draughtsmen’s office, and asks in a whisper:]
Are they gone?

KAIA.
[Softly, shaking her]
No.

[She takes the shade off her eyes.
 
SOLNESS crosses the room, throws his hat on a chair, places the portfolios on the table by the sofa, and approaches the desk again.
 
KAIA goes on writing without intermission, but seems nervous and uneasy.

SOLNESS.
[Aloud.]
What is that you are entering, Miss Fosli?

KAIA.
[Starts.]
Oh, it is only something that —

SOLNESS. Let me look at it, Miss Fosli.
[Bends over her, pretends to be looking into the ledger, and whispers:]
Kaia!

KAIA.
[Softly, still writing.]
Well?

SOLNESS. Why do you always take that shade off when I come?

KAIA.
[As before.]
I look so ugly with it on.

SOLNESS.
[Smiling.]
Then you don’t like to look ugly, Kaia?

KAIA.
[Half glancing up at him.]
Not for all the world. Not in your eyes.

SOLNESS.
[Strokes her hair gently.]
Poor, poor little Kaia —

KAIA.
[Bending her head.]
Hush — they can hear you!

[SOLNESS strolls across the room to the right, turns and pauses at the door of the draughtsmen’s office.

SOLNESS. Has any one been here for me?

RAGNAR.
[Rising.]
Yes, the young couple who want a villa built, out at Lovstrand.

SOLNESS.
[Growling.]
Oh, those two! They must wait. I am not quite clear about the plans yet.

RAGNAR.
[Advancing, with some hesitation.]
They were very anxious to have the drawings at once.

SOLNESS.
[As before.]
Yes, of course — so they all are.

BROVIK.
[Looks up.]
They say they are longing so to get into a house of their own.

SOLNESS. Yes, yes — we know all that! And so they are content to take whatever is offered them. They get a — a roof over their heads — an address — but nothing to call a home. No thank you! In that case, let them apply to somebody else. Tell them that, the next time they call.

BROVIK.
[Pushes his glasses up on to his forehead and looks in astonishment at him.]
To somebody else? Are you prepared to give up the commission?

SOLNESS.
[Impatiently.]
Yes, yes, yes, devil take it! If that is to be the way of it — . Rather that, than build away at random.
[Vehemently.]
Besides, I know very little about these people as yet.

BROVIK. The people are safe enough. Ragnar knows them. He is a friend of the family.

SOLNESS. Oh, safe — safe enough! That is not at all what I mean. Good lord — don’t you understand me either?
[Angrily.]
I won’t have anything to do with these strangers. They may apply to whom they please, so far as I am concerned.

BROVIK.
[Rising.]
Do you really mean that?

SOLNESS.
[Sulkily.]
Yes I do. — For once in a way. [He comes forward.

[BROVIK exchanges a glance with RAGNAR, who makes a warning gesture.
 
Then BROVIK comes into the front room.

BROVIK. May I have a few words with you?

SOLNESS. Certainly.

BROVIK.
[To KAIA.]
Just go in there for moment, Kaia.

KAIA.
[Uneasily.]
Oh, but uncle —

BROVIK. Do as I say, child. And shut the door after you.

[KAIA goes reluctantly into the draughtsmen’s office, glances anxiously and imploringly at SOLNESS, and shuts the door.

BROVIK.
[Lowering his voice a little.]
I don’t want the poor children to know how I am.

SOLNESS. Yes, you have been looking very poorly of late.

BROVIK. It will soon be all over with me. My strength is ebbing — from day to day.

SOLNESS. Won’t you sit down?

BROVIK. Thanks — may I?

SOLNESS.
[Placing the arm-chair more conveniently.]
Here — take this chair. — And now?

BROVIK.
[Has seated himself with difficulty.]
Well, you see, it’s about Ragnar. That is what weighs most upon me. What is to become of him?

SOLNESS. Of course your son will stay with me as long as ever he likes.

BROVIK. But that is just what he does not like. He feels that he cannot stay here any longer.

SOLNESS. Why, I should say he was very well off here. But if he wants more money, I should not mind —

BROVIK. No, no! It is not that.
[Impatiently.]
But sooner or later he, too, must have a chance of doing something on his own account.

SOLNESS.
[Without looking at him.]
Do you think that Ragnar has quite talent enough to stand alone?

BROVIK. No, that is just the heartbreaking part of it — I have begun to have my doubts about the boy. For you have never said so much as — as one encouraging word about him. And yet I cannot but think there must be something in him — he can’t be without talent.

SOLNESS. Well, but he has learnt nothing — nothing thoroughly, I mean. Except, of course, to draw.

BROVIK.
[Looks at him with covert hatred, and says hoarsely.]
You had learned little enough of the business when you were in my employment. But that did not prevent you from setting to work —
[breathing with difficulty]
— and pushing your way up, and taking the wind out of my sails — mine, and so may other people’s.

SOLNESS. Yes, you see — circumstances favoured me.

BROVIK. You are right there. Everything favoured you. But then how can you have the heart to let me go to my grave — without having seen what Ragnar is fit for? And of course I am anxious to see them married, too — before I go.

SOLNESS.
[Sharply.]
Is it she who wishes it?

BROVIK. Not Kaia so much as Ragnar — he talks about it every day.
[Appealingly.]
You must help him to get some independent work now! I must see something that the lad has done. Do you hear?

SOLNESS.
[Peevishly.]
Hang it, man, you can’t expect me to drag commissions down from the moon for him!

BROVIK. He has the chance of a capital commission at this very moment. A big bit of work.

SOLNESS.
[Uneasily, startled.]
Has he?

BROVIK. I you would give your consent.

SOLNESS. What sort of work do you mean?

BROVIK.
[With some hesitation.]
He can have the building of that villa out at Lovstrand.

SOLNESS. That! Why I am going to build that myself.

BROVIK. Oh you don’t much care about doing it.

SOLNESS.
[Flaring up.]
Don’t care! Who dares to say that?

BROVIK. You said so yourself just now.

SOLNESS. Oh, never mind what I say. — Would they give Ragnar the building of that villa?

BROVIK. Yes. You see, he knows the family. And then — just for the fun of the thing — he has made drawings and estimates and so forth —

SOLNESS. Are they pleased with the drawings? The people who will have to live in the house?

BROVIK. Yes. If you would only look through them and approve of them —

SOLNESS. Then they would let Ragnar build their home for them?

BROVIK. They were immensely pleased with his idea. They thought it exceedingly original, they said.

SOLNESS. Oho! Original! Not the old-fashioned stuff that
I
am in the habit of turning out!

BROVIK. It seemed to them different.

SOLNESS.
[With suppressed irritation.]
So it was to see Ragnar that they came here — whilst I was out!

BROVIK. They came to call upon you — and at the same time to ask whether you would mind retiring —

SOLNESS.
[Angrily.]
Retire? I?

BROVIK. In case you thought that Ragnar’s drawings —

SOLNESS. I! Retire in favour of your son!

BROVIK. Retire from the agreement, they meant.

SOLNESS. Oh, it comes to the same thing.
[Laughs angrily.]
So that is it, is it? Halvard Solness is to see about retiring now! To make room for younger men! For the very youngest, perhaps! He must make room! Room! Room!