ever we may think about the theatrical propriety of the conductor
of the vikings, there is no question at all as to what it is they do and
mean. Ibsen has gained, and for good, that master quality of translucent
presentation without which all other stage gifts are shorn of their
value. When we have, however, praised the limpidity of _The Vikings at
Helgeland_, we have, in honesty, to make several reservations in our
criticism of the author's choice of a subject. It is valuable to compare
Ibsen's treatment of Icelandic family-saga with that of William Morris;
let us say, in _The Lovers of Gudrun_. That enchanting little epic deals
with an episode from one of the great Iceland narratives, and follows
it much more closely than Ibsen's does. But we are conscious of a less
painful effort and of a more human result. Morris does successfully
what Ibsen unsuccessfully aimed at doing: he translates the heroic and
half-fabulous action into terms that are human and credible.

It was, moreover, an error of judgment on the part of the Norwegian
playwright to make his tragedy a mosaic of effective bits borrowed
hither and thither from the Sagas. Scandinavian bibliography has toiled
to show his indebtedness to this tale and to that, and he has been
accused of concealing his plagiarisms. But to say this is to miss the
mark. A poet is at liberty to steal what he will, if only he builds his
thefts up into a living structure of his own. For this purpose, however,
it is practically found that, owing perhaps to the elastic consistency
of individual human nature, it is safest to stick to one story,
embroidering and developing it along its own essential lines.

There is great vigor, however, in many of the scenes in _The Vikings_.
The appearance of Hioerdis on the stage, in the opening act, marks,
perhaps, the first occasion on which Ibsen had put forth his full
strength as a playwright. This entrance of Hioerdis ought to be extremely
effective; in fact, we understand, it rarely is. The cause of this
disappointment can easily be discovered. It is the misfortune of The
Vikings that it is hardly to be acted by mortal men. Hioerdis herself is
superhuman; she has eaten the heart of a wolf, she claims direct descent
from a race of fighting giants. There is a grandeur about the conception
of her form and character, but it is a grandeur which might well daunt
a human actress. One can faintly imagine the part being played by Mrs.
Siddons, with such a