The psychological
antitheses of her character, her softness and loving surrender, and her
treachery and cruelty--he left out of account.
Without troubling himself greatly about her guilt, which, though with
many palliating circumstances, he admitted, he undertook to exemplify in
her the beauty and exaltation of noble suffering. His Mary (which has
always been a favorite with tragic actresses) is in my opinion as devoid
of that insinuating, sense-compelling charm which alone can account for
this extraordinary woman's career as is the heroine of Bjoernson's play.
In fact Bjoernson's Mary lies half-way between the amorous young tigress
of Swinburne and the statuesque martyr of Schiller. She is less
intricately feminine than the former, and more so than the latter. But
she is yet a long way removed from her historical original, who must
have been a strong and full-blooded character, with just that touch of
mystery which nature always wears to whomsoever gazes deeply upon her.
That subtile intercoiling of antagonistic traits, which in a man could
never coexist, is to be found in many historic women of the
Renaissance--exquisite, dangerous creatures, half-doves, half-serpents,
half-Clytemnestra, half-Venus, whose full-throbbing passion now made
them soft and tender, over-brimming with loveliness, now fierce and
imperious, their outraged pride revelling in vengeance and blood.
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