Schering, who at that time was in close correspondence with Strindberg, says that the figure of Swanwhite had been drawn with direct reference to Miss Bosse, who had first attracted the attention of Strindberg by her spirited interpretation of Biskra in "Simoom." And Schering adds that it was Strindberg's bride who had a little previously introduced him to the work of Maeterlinck, thereby furnishing one more of the factors determining the play.
Concerning the influence exerted upon him by the Belgian playwright-philosopher, Strindberg himself wrote in a pamphlet named "Open Letters to the Intimate Theatre" (Stockholm, 1909):
"I had long had in mind skimming the cream of our most beautiful folk-ballads in order to turn them into a picture for the stage. Then Maeterlinck came across my path, and under the influence of his puppet-plays, which are not meant for the regular stage, I wrote my Swedish scenic spectacle, 'Swanwhite.' It is impossible either to steal or to borrow from Maeterlinck. It is even difficult to become his pupil, for there are no free passes that give entrance to his world of beauty. But one may be urged by his example into searching one's own dross-heaps for gold—and it is in that sense I acknowledge my debt to the master.
"Pushed ahead by the impression made on me by Maeterlinck, and borrowing his divining-rod for my purposes, I turned to such sources [i.e., of Swedish folk-lore] as the works of Geijer, Afzelius, and Dybeck. There I found a superabundance of princes and princesses. The stepmother theme I had discovered on my own hook as a constant—it figures in twenty-six different Swedish folk-tales. In the same place I found the resurrection theme, as, for instance, it appears in the story of Queen Dagmar. Then I poured it all into my separator, together with the Maids, the Green Gardener and the Young King, and in a short while the cream began to flow—and for that reason the story is my own. But it has also been made so by the fact that I have lived through that tale in my own fancy—a Spring in time of Winter!"
Swedish critics have been unanimous in their praise of this play. John Landquist, who has since become Strindberg's literary executor, spoke of it once as "perhaps the most beautiful and most genuine fairy tale for old or young ever written in the Swedish language." Tor Hedberg has marvelled at the charm with which Swanwhite herself has been endowed—"half child, half maid; knowing nothing, yet guessing all; playing with love as a while ago she was playing with her dolls." On the stage, too—in Germany as well as in Sweden—little Swanwhite has celebrated great triumphs. Whether that figure, and the play surrounding it, will also triumph in English-speaking countries, remains still to be seen. But if, contrary to my hopes, it should fail to do so, I want, in advance, to shift the blame from the shoulders of the author to my own. In hardly any other work by Strindberg do form and style count for so much. The play is, in its original shape, as poetical in form as in spirit—even to the extent of being strongly rhythmical in its prose, and containing many of the inversions which are so characteristic of Swedish verse.
It is not impossible to transfer these qualities into English, but my efforts to do so have had to be influenced by certain differences in the very grain of the two languages involved. Like all other languages, each possesses a natural basic rhythm. This rhythm varies frequently and easily in Swedish, so that you may pass from iambic to trochaic metre without giving offence to the ear—or to that subtle rhythmical susceptibility that seems to be inherent in our very pulses. But the rhythm dearest and most natural to the genius of the Swedish language seems to be the falling pulse-beat manifested in the true trochee. The swing and motion of English, on the other hand, is almost exclusively, commandingly iambic. And it was not until I made the iambic rising movement prevail in my translation, that I felt myself approaching the impression made on me by the original. But for that very reason—because the genius of the new medium has forced me into making the movement of my style more monotonous—it is to be feared that the rhythmical quality of that movement may seem overemphasised. Should such a criticism be advanced, I can only answer: I have tried several ways, and this is the only one that will work.
"Simoom" seems to have been written in 1888, in close connection with "Creditors" and "Pariah." And, like these, it shows the unmistakable influence of Edgar Allan Poe, with whose works Strindberg had become acquainted a short while before. The play was first printed in one of the three thin volumes of varied contents put out by Strindberg in 1890 and 1891 under the common title of "Pieces Printed and Unprinted." But, strange to say, it was not put on the stage (except in a few private performances) until 1902, although, from a purely theatrical viewpoint, Strindberg—master of stagecraft though he was—had rarely produced a more effective piece of work.
"Debit and Credit" belongs to the same general period as the previous play, but has in it more of Nietzsche than of Poe. Its central figure is also a sort of superman, but as such he is not taken too seriously by his creator. The play has humour, but it is of a grim kind—one seems to be hearing the gritting of teeth through the laughter. Like "Simoom," however, it should be highly effective on the stage. It was first published in 1893, with three other one-act plays, the volume being named "Dramatic Pieces."
"Advent" was published in 1899, together with "There Are Crimes and Crimes," under the common title of "In a Higher Court." Its name refers, of course, to the ecclesiastical designation of the four weeks preceding Christmas. The subtitle, literally rendered, would be "A Mystery." But as this term has a much wider application in Swedish than in English, I have deemed it better to observe the distinction which the latter language makes between mysteries, miracle-plays, and moralities.
The play belongs to what Strindberg called his "Inferno period," during which he struggled in a state of semi-madness to rid himself of the neurasthenic depression which he regarded as a punishment brought about by his previous attitude of materialistic scepticism. It is full of Swedenborgian symbolism, which, perhaps, finds its most characteristic expression in the two scenes laid in "The Waiting Room." The name selected by Strindberg for the region where dwell the "lost" souls of men is not a mere euphemism. It signifies his conception of that place as a station on the road to redemption or annihilation.