Anonym anmelder i The Era

If John Gabriel Borkman is an example of Ibsens latest manner, and that manner is to be his last, folks will soon come to regard the production of one of his plays with indifference. Ghosts would have passed quietly out of the ken of the ordinary public had not certain passages in the play excited the horrified wrath of the decent-minded critics. In A Dolls House there was the hotly debateable question, «Ought Nora to have left her children?" and the indelicacy of her jokes about the stockings with Doctor Rank. Even in Little Eyolf there was the scandal of a man and his wife on the stage wrangling as to what we may euphemistically term «conjugal rights." All these things «boomed" Ibsen exceedingly. Before Little Eyolf there was The Master Builder. Here we had the absolute incomprehensibility of many passages appearing to the ordinary mind as drivelling foolishness; and the poor ladys distress about her dolls. More opportunity for argument. In connection with a play in which one set of critics can see nothing but folly and beastliness, and another only poetry and psychology, there is certain to be plenty of fun for a time. But what fun is to be got out of a piece like John Gabriel Borkman, which was produced at the Strand Theatre last Monday afternoon? It is simply a heavy, gloomy, domestic drama, over-ladened with pretentiously serious dialogue, and concluding with an act of absolute absurdity.

When the curtain rises we find Mrs Borkman, an aged and icy matron, sitting by herself in her drawing-room. In the room above her husband, John Gabriel Borkman, is pacing to and fro. He was once connected with a bank, but certain financial operations of his brought him within reach of the arm of the law, and he was tried, convicted, and sent to prison for a term of years. On his release his wife would have nothing whatever to do with him, and the household was only kept together by Ella Rentheim, Mrs Borkmans twin-sister, on whose money the Borkmans have been living. Ella, in her youth, was in love with Borkman, but he sacrificed her to his ambition. His fellow swindler and confederate wanted to marry Ella, and made Borkmans withdrawal the price of certain assistance, of which the financial schemer was in urgent need. But the base bargain did not work out well. In spite of Borkmans abstention, Ella refused to wed the ally in question, and he, thinking that Borkman had influenced Ella, betrayed him to the authorities. Ella, a grey-haired woman, comes to visit the Borkmans with the intention of taking Erhart, their son, under her protection. But he has already found a refuge from the gloom of his parents dwelling in the society of one Mrs Wilton, a young grass-widow of easy virtue. Borkmans only visitor in his solitude is a little Government clerk named Foldal, an amiable weakling, who writes tragedies that no one will accept, and believes himself to be a poet and Borkman to be a misunderstood man. However, as Foldal will not go quite as far as Borkman wants in subservience, the latter tells him that he is no poet, and says he has no further use for him. In return, Foldal throws off the Borkman allegiance. So long as the ex-convict would express faith in his Foldals poems the little man was satisfied to return the compliment by believing in Borkmans innocence. But when the latter speaks his mind Foldal considers himself at liberty to do likewise. That, he says, is friendship. Ella has an interview with Borkman, in which she tells him that the worst crime he committed worse far than his financial offences was that of «killing the love-life in her." She intends, she says, to console herself she is suffering from an incurable disease by devoting herself to Erhart, whom she proposes to adopt. Mrs Borkman, appearing at the door with a candle, energetically expresses her determination to oppose this aim of Ellas.

But both competitors for the custody of the youth are doomed to disappointment. He has already made his arrangements, and has planned a tour on the Continent with Mrs Wilton, who considerately takes with them Foldals little daughter, Frida; so that when Erhart gets tired of her Mrs Wilton he may have something in reserve. This is hard lines for Mrs Borkman, whose redeeming feature seems to be her love for her son; but she is such a stony-hearted old Gorgon that little pity can be felt for her. The last act is simply mid-winter madness. Why Borkman, if he has wanted to take a walk in the evening in the course of the past few years has not done so before; why he, who has not in the earlier part of the play shown any signs of physical infirmity, should fall down dead on a garden seat are puzzles which we leave to root and branch Ibsenites to explain. Nor is the dramatic purport of the pathetic little incident of Foldals foot being run over by the sleigh in which Erhart and Mrs Wilton are commencing their trip to Italy easily evident. However it may strike others, this last act of John Gabriel Borkman simply appeared to us a tale told by a lunatic, full of words and phrases signifying nothing.

The action above described is padded out with long, tedious discussions and wordy arguments, Borkman justifying his financial swindles on the grounds that he is «built that way," and that his dishonesty was only a proof of strong individuality; Ella denouncing Borkman for having slain her love-life, and Erhart effusively proclaiming his youth and his right to «live." To Erhart we are indebted for one of the rare gleams of humour which irradiated the gloomy afternoon. When, referring to Mrs Wiltons husband, he cried «Yes, mother, he is dead to Fanny!" the house roared.

We have recently done justice to the good points of Ibsens works, to the vividness of some of his characterisation, to the power exercised by him at times of interesting us in the souls of his personages; but no associations shall prevent our describing John Gabriel Borkman as a dull, lifeless play. It does not move, it does not touch, it does not interest. Who can care deeply what becomes of this hard-hearted harridan, this inveterately conceited old swindler, this moribund twin-sister, this fatuous little «bounder" with his vapourings about his youth and his determination to live his own life? We may sympathise, perhaps, with poor little Foldal, though his theories about friendship are of the most pessimistic sort; but to speak bluntly Borkman, Mrs B., Ella Rentheim, and the rest are bores solemn, portentous, oppressive bores. It was with a sense of intense thankfulness that we saw the act-drop descend for the last time at the Strand Theatre on Monday afternoon, and knew that the gloomy, wearisome performance was over and done with.

Mr W. H. Vernon had a heavy task to perform in representing John Gabriel Borkman. He made him physically a fine, venerable old fellow, but even Mr Vernons excellent acting and careful delivery were powerless to render the part otherwise than tedious. Mr Martin Harvey employed a commendable amount of impulsive exuberance in his treatment of the rôle of Erhart Borkman, and played the rebellious youth with praiseworthy energy and enthusiasm. Miss Elizabeth Robins, made up to look more dirty than delicate, played Ella Rentheim carefully and smoothly. Mrs Beerbohm Trees Mrs Wilton was excellent in its snaky smoothness and insidious fascination, and she looked very pretty in a cloak of ermine and a quaint cap trimmed with the same fur. Mr James Welch, judiciously subduing any tendency to exaggeration, enacted the little clerk, Foldal, quietly and cleverly. Miss Dora Barton sustained the small part of Frida Foldal neatly and unaffectedly; and Miss Marianne Caldwell gave a careful depiction of a lazy and impertinent servant. Some extraordinary scenery for the fourth act was painted by Mr Walter Bayes. John Gabriel Borkman is doomed to speedy extinction by its overpowering dulness. There is nothing to shock or startle, nothing to please the mystic or the super-subtle; only an oppressive, wearisome weight. It is safe in this case to leave the force of gravity to do its work.