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44 Strindberg
dared to torture them, to hold up his searching
mirror to their sore spots, that they could not
forgive.
Especially is this true of woman. For cen
turies she has been lulled into a trance by the songs
of the troubadours who paid homage to her good
ness, her sweetness, her selflessness and, above all,
her noble motherhood. And though she is begin
ning to appreciate that all this incense has be
fogged her mind and paralyzed her soul, she hates
to give up the tribute laid at her feet by senti
mental moonshiners of the past.
To be sure, it is rude to turn on the full search
light upon a painted face. But how is one to
know what is back of the paint and artifice? Au
gust Strindberg hated artifice with all the passion
of his being; hence his severe criticism of woman.
Perhaps it was his tragedy to see her as she really
is, and not as she appears in her trance. To love
with open eyes is, indeed, a tragedy, and Strind
berg loved woman. All his life long he yearned
for her love, as mother, as wife, as companion.
But his longing for, and his need of her, were the
crucible of Strindberg, as they have been the cruci
ble of every man, even of the mightiest spirit.
Why it is so is best expressed in the words of
the old nurse, Margret, in "The Father":
"
Because all you men, great and small, are wom
an s children, every man of you."
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