INDRIDI EINARSSON: ICELANDIC DRAMATIST AND HIS SAGA DRAMA
BY LEE M. HOLLANDER
Indridi Einarsson's 'Sword and Crozier' is the first Icelandic play to be done into English. Very probably, the well-informed reader will wonder, not so much that a translation 'should be so late in forthcoming,' but that, of all things, there should exist a dramatic literature worthy the name in that Ultima Thule. He is, indeed, not in any way to be blamed for not suspecting the possibility of a highly developed drama under conditions such as obtain in Iceland, even though he may well be aware that lyric poetry has been cultivated there with ardor and success.
When authors of small nations, such as Denmark and Holland, have been known to complain about the limited circle they can hope to reach, how true, how pathetically true, is this of Iceland, with its scant eighty thousand inhabitants of poor fishermen and farmers thinly spread over the lordly spaces of their far-away, rugged and barren island! What audience can an author expect there? Nor is it to be thought that his very difficult mother-tongue will permit a comprehension of his work among the reading public of the other Scandinavian lands.
It stands to reason—whatever enthusiasts on the subject have said to the contrary—that, by its very nature, the drama can attain independent and legitimate growth only in centers of human habitation, where the stage—very necessarily—epitomizes the tendencies of the times, and, if occupied by a real literature in every sense, is the self-expression of a great community. As late as 1886 a sober-minded author on Scandinavian literature was able to say, with some justice, 'Iceland lacks all conditions for a dramatic literature.' And the situation has not changed essentially since. Whatever has been done in that line in recent times is to all intents and purposes due to stimulation from abroad and, in so far, artificial. So far, none of the more ambitious native efforts have been on the program of the stage of Reykjavik to be performed by the very estimable amateur players of that town.
The above is by no means said in a spirit of reproach. On the contrary, all honor to the patriotic men who, by writing dramas in their mother-tongue, are willing to forego the emoluments and recognition to be gained from audiences in more favored lands: for the sake of enriching their native literature; for the sake of showing both the world and their own people that neither in this art are they inferior to other nations; for the sake of demonstrating to their satisfaction that a contribution of Iceland to world-literature is no more an impossibility now than in the older times, when it enriched us with lore and history, and gave the world what Greece and Rome did not, the realistic novel.
Three authors divide the honors in this field: Matthías Jochumsson, a gifted lyric poet, now in his old age; the promising young playwright, Jóhann Sigurjónsson; and Indridi Einarsson, now in his prime, whose most original contribution to Icelandic literature is herewith presented. The poet having excellent command of English, I am fortunate to be able (with his permission) to quote ipsissima verba on his life and development.
'I was born in the North of Iceland, on April 30, 1851, and was a farmer's boy of good old family. My chief work at home was haymaking in summer, and in winter being a shepherd. Every spring I was up all the long bright nights, watching the flock that they should not damage the cultivated soil by eating the young grass. I think that solitude (from the eighth to fourteenth year of my life) has fostered my fancy and imagination and dipped me deep in the romanticism of that time (1858-64). In 1865 I went to Reykjavik, and was initiated at the Lyceum (Latin school) in the spring of 1866. I went through the Lyceum in ordinary course. When I began to read Virgilius I felt as if I got wings on my immortal soul, and I think I shall never lose them wholly again. I began to read the poets, starting with the comedies of Old Holberg the Dane, and passing to Schiller and Goethe and Heine. I read all plays of Shakespeare (in Danish translation, then). I studied "Oidipous Tyrannos," Sophocles' awful tragedy, in the original, and read Plautus and Terentius as other boys, Icelandic and Danish fiction.
'During my first year at college I saw Matthías Jochumsson's "Utilegumenn" (The Outlaws) performed at Reykjavik: they had then very fine Icelandic scenery, and went home in ecstasy over the performance, feeling that I had seen the brightest and strongest play in the world. Of my reading I thought "Macbeth," "Gretchen im Carcer" ("Faust" I), and "Oidipous Tyrannos" finest and fullest. While at Reykjavik I wrote "Nyársnóttin" (New Year's Night) and got it acted at the college, with the greatest possible success. That drama formed a turning point in my life—as the author of it I went to Copenhagen to pursue my studies as graduate student. I left college made to half of what I am.
'While studying Political Science at Copenhagen I wrote the drama, "Hellismenn" (The Cave-dwellers). I had come south with two other dramas in my mind. But the atmosphere in Copenhagen was strongly realistic at that time; my Romanticism was not able to withstand it. Without my knowledge I turned to Realism, and when I began to think about my intended dramas I could not write on them because all my thoughts had taken another direction. After completing my examinations I returned, Copenhagen having made the other half of what I am. In 1880 I was appointed auditor of the Official Accounts of Iceland, and got married. During the ten ensuing years I was buried under an avalanche of accounts and official documents and could hardly hold my head up above the waters. The wings of my soul drooped with exhaustion. My dramatic muse awakened several times, but I could not receive her visits. At last, in 1890, I began to write "Skipit sekkur" [The Ship is Sinking,—a naturalistic drama], parts of which I rewrote seven times; so badly had I treated my muse that she began to work so slowly….'
To this I shall only add that the poet has modestly omitted to state that in his capacity of Chief of the Department of Statistics he is the compiler of an excellent year-book on the trade relations and industries of his native isle; that he is the author of several dramas not mentioned by him; and that 'Sword and Crozier,' his latest drama (1899), has already been translated into German and Danish.
I subjoin a synopsis of this play, in order to facilitate an appreciation of it at the first reading.
Act I.—The chieftain of the North Quarter of Iceland, Kolbein the Young, lies sick unto death from the after-effects of an old wound and sends for his kinsmen and other nobles of the Quarter. While delivering his message to them, Thorolf, his favorite (secretly the lover of the chieftain's wife, Helga), and long a thorn in the flesh of these proud men as an upstart, infuriates them anew by his insolent bearing. Obedient to the call of their chief, they assemble about him to determine on measures for the defence of the land, and to learn of the disposition of his dominions. The weak Brand is given his lawful share, which agrees well enough with Lady Helga's self-seeking plans of uniting all the land under her and Thorolf's rule. The more forceful Broddi is entitled to the other half; but when Kolbein, very conveniently for her, becomes delirious she substitutes Thorolf's name instead, shrewdly taking the precaution of compelling Brand by force of arms to swear him an everlasting truce—ostensibly to atone for having offered an insult to Brand.
Act II.—Broddi now assumes the leadership of the outraged nobles, Brand being bound, as he thinks, by his oath, and incapable of strongly opposing their intention to kill Thorolf. By chance, and in fulfillment of a prophecy, Thorolf seeks refuge from a snowstorm in a wintry cave and there is forewarned of his impending death by Woden himself. He is surprised by the allies and slain. But no sooner is their purpose accomplished than Helga, his protectress, appears on the scene and smilingly assures them of retribution awaiting them. Her information that Kolbein is on the road to recovery strikes the nobles with dismay. Broddi immediately decides on assuming the aggressive; but on Brand's suggestion they choose first to cleanse themselves before the world by receiving absolution for their deed from Bishop Botolf at Holar.
Act III.—Here Kolbein puts them to flight. He, in his turn, must flee before Broddi's superior forces, but not without audaciously carrying along the bishop, who in his fear and rage has the Treuga Dei rung over the land. This frustrates the immediate pursuit by Broddi.
Act IV.—While the truce is still in force, Lady Helga visits Brand's wife, Jorun. Childless herself, she desires to foster up one of Jorun's sons in her own cruel way, promising, in return, to procure an honorable peace for Brand; or else, to destroy him. The loving mother staunchly refuses. But soon the weakness of Brand's situation becomes evident. Unable to act with the requisite force and severity, he has lost the confidence of his dependents who fear to rise against the superior genius of Kolbein. The last hope departs when Broddi learns through a (forged) letter that his fortifications are accessible to Kolbein by subterranean passages. Utterly dismayed, the allies decide to throw themselves upon the mercy of Kolbein the Young. Brand's wife follows them, disguised in male attire. She knows that Helga thirsts for his life, but also that she has sworn to spare him if any one were found willing to give his life instead.
Act V.—Brand and his little troop file into the warrior-filled hall of Kolbein. In vain they seek conciliation at any price with the chieftain, who is enraged by the slaying of his friend Thorolf, and infuriated beyond measure by the speeches of his implacable wife. Even Jorun's offering her life for Brand's does not soften his heart; when, finally, the prisoner-bishop's threat of excommunication subdues Kolbein with the fear of the hereafter. Compensation is duly imposed upon the allies, and peace once more rules in the harried land.
The subject of the above drama was suggested by two or three rather meagre pages of the 'Islendingasaga' of Sturla Thordsson (ed. Vigfússon, ch. 146). To my notion, the poet has succeeded admirably in reproducing the cool coloring, the ironic-pessimistic attitude, that uncompromisingly masculine sentiment we know so well in their refreshing acerbity from the best sagas. Not the least meritorious thing in the play, by the way, is the very slight insistence on Thorolf's relations to Helga, notwithstanding its temptation to the author of a social drama betraying strong influence of Ibsen; for the saga—it is to be borne in mind—is the literature of revenge and ambition as ruling motives, love having an incomparably smaller sphere allotted to it. Too much weight laid on that relation would have been ruinous to the total conception of the play.
In conformity to that conception are also the terse, pithy language which allows us to surmise the unlimited possibilities hidden in the saga literature, and the equally succinct manner of character drawing.
The most interesting figure in the drama is Brand, a Hamletic character without a Hamlet's zest of retaliation—noble, generous, and beloved; yet ever a loser, because never resolutely willing the means to an end. As Thorolf avers scornfully, 'Brand lacks both the forethought before battle, and that fire in battle which wins the victory,' The reign of lawlessness and bloodshed appalls him, to be sure; but he cannot see that his own irresolution is one of the causes. 'He is sick in his soul.' But 'peace'!—cries Broddi—'whenever was peace gotten in feuds, excepting the battle be won or—lost.' And yet, by the irony of fate, both his birth and his noble gifts make men look to Brand as Kolbein's natural successor. The tigerish Kolbein himself is equaled in ruthless pursuit of his own ends, but not in good fortune, by Broddi. As foils to these larger characters stand out the mean, vengeful Einar, the brutal Alf, the insolent but brave Thorolf. In Jorun we fancy we see the living strength of Christian virtue and devotion opposed to the heathen fierceness and self-seeking of Helga. Between the two parties the bishop, whose motives and intentions are, however, not brought out with sufficient clearness. Like the proverbial fifth wheel of a wagon he seems out of place and embarrassing, whenever he appears—a predicament, to be sure, which he shares with the Church itself in those times, whenever not guided by a born ruler.
Both in poetic value and technically—excepting for the staginess of the three meetings in the cave—the second act is the most successful of the drama. It is, in fact, a little masterpiece. The action is impetuous, strong, and telling. The dramatic germs potentially present in the situation are developed here with a fine consistency. Thorolf's death is made the central fact on which hinges the whole action of the play, while by Brand's fatal vacillations and the insults offered to Helga by his henchmen important tributary impulses are given toward the following development. Unfortunately, the third act, dramatically considered, is concerned chiefly with details. It suffers, even more than the first act, from a certain prolixity which is not wholly made good by its theatrically effective ending. However bright and skillfully wrought in the incident of the fraudulent miracle, it might well be spared, with a view for the whole. And the same is true of a considerable part of the dialogue.
There is small doubt that the fifth act offered the greatest difficulties to be overcome, because here the poet is face to face with the essentially epic nature of his subject matter and was certainly put to it to overcome this handicap. This is the state of affairs: The enraged chieftain is prevented by his implacable wife from yielding. The allies do all in their power to obtain peace. If Old Norse conceptions are adhered to there is a deadlock. Now, nothing prevents the epic art of the saga from telling, at this juncture, that forth stepped Bishop Botolf and with threat of excommunication brought about a satisfactory conclusion. It is different in the drama. In it the intervention of the bishop as deus ex machina is a quasi-external element, because not sufficiently motivated in the preceding development. It remains an incident.
For all that the title is justifiable. Conceding that this sudden 'good' ending looks like a concession and certainly is a constructive weakness, yet in the inwardness of the subject it is excellently motivated by the typically mediæval attitude of Kolbein to salvation and the Church as its sole bestower. Notwithstanding the ambiguity of its victory, the Crozier has won. Another power than the moribund gods and the overstrained Teutonic conceptions of morality—the Law of the Sword—has conquered, even if by the help of conceptions almost as crude. And this well indicates the normal course of Christianity, which has at all times made its way more by weight of power and influence than by conviction and conversion.
Finally a word on the subject of the drama. Our readers are beginning to become so accustomed to the spiced dishes of Continental Problem drama,—reaction against which has set in there long ago,—that fears may well be entertained that the rude simple fare of the Historic Drama will be rejected with scorn. This would indeed be regrettable, as tending to show that we are still far from a sober catholicity of taste, and still in the leading-strings of the Old World, not yet having obtained that independence and maturity of judgment which consists in being wise enough to gather nourishment suitable to one's needs from whatever be offered to us, even it be not labeled with the ism of the hour.