But it is conceivable that any one
of them, under circumstances different from those in which we have
been living, might have developed into its severely logical
consequence--or, if you please, into a human being that would be
held abnormal if actually encountered.
This is exactly what Strindberg seems to have done time and again,
both in his middle and final periods, in his novels as well as in
his plays. In all of us a Tekla, an Adolph, a Gustav--or a Jean
and a Miss Julia--lie more or less dormant. And if we search our
souls unsparingly, I fear the result can only be an admission
that--had the needed set of circumstances been provided--we might
have come unpleasantly close to one of those Strindbergian
creatures which we are now inclined to reject as unhuman.
Here we have the secret of what I believe to be the great Swedish
dramatist's strongest hold on our interest. How could it otherwise
happen that so many critics, of such widely differing
temperaments, have recorded identical feelings as springing from a
study of his work: on one side an active resentment, a keen
unwillingness to be interested; on the other, an attraction that
would not be denied in spite of resolute resistance to it! For
Strindberg DOES hold us, even when we regret his power of doing
so.
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