d deserves to be cited, if
only as perhaps the very earliest instance in which the genius of
Ibsen was rewarded by the analysis of a great critic. Brandes wrote (in
1867):--

What is it that The Pretenders treats of? Looked at simply, it is an old
story. We all know the tale of Aladdin and Nureddin, the simple
legend in the Arabian Nights, and our great poet's [Oehlenschlaeger's]
incomparable poem. In _The Pretenders_ two figures again stand opposed
to one another as the superior and the inferior being, an Aladdin and
a Nureddin nature. It is towards this contrast that Ibsen has hitherto
unconsciously directed his endeavors, just as Nature feels her way in
her blind preliminary attempts to form her types. Hakon and Skule are
pretenders to the same throne, scions of royalty out of whom a king may
be made. But the first is the incarnation of fortune, victory, right and
confidence; the second--the principal figure in the play, masterly in
its truth and originality--is the brooder, a prey to inward struggle and
endless distrust, brave and ambitious, with perhaps every qualification
and claim to be king, but lacking the inexpressible, impalpable somewhat
that would give a value to all the rest--the wonderful Lamp. "I am a
king's arm," he says, "mayhap a king's brain as well; but Hakon is the
whole king." "You have wisdom and courage, and all noble gifts of the
mind," says Hakon to him; "you are born to stand nearest a king, but not
to be a king yourself."

To a poet the achievements of his greatest contemporaries in their
common art have all the importance of high deeds in statesmanship and
war. It is, therefore, by no means extravagant to see in the noble
emulation of the two dukes in _The Pretenders_ some reflection of
Ibsen's attitude to the youthful and brilliant Bjoernson. The
luminous self-reliance, the ardor and confidence and good fortune of
Bjoernson-Hakon could not but offer a violent contrast with the gloom and
hesitation, the sick revulsions of hope and final lack of conviction,
of Ibsen-Skule. It was Bjoernson's "belt of strength," as it was Hakon's,
that he had utter belief in himself, and with this his rival could not
yet girdle himself. "The luckiest man is the greatest man," says Bishop
Nicholas in the play, and Bjoernson seemed in these melancholy years as
lucky as Ibsen was unlucky. But the Bishop's views were not wide enough,
and the end was not yet.

CHAPTER IV

THE SATIRES (1857-67)

Temperament