PicoBlog

In an introduction to a collection of writings by James Joyce on Henrik Ibsen, Dennis Phillips observes that "at the beginning and end of his career [Joyce] faced dismissal, disapproval, scorn, even ridicule. He must have taken a lesson and some comfort from Ibsen's having previously overcome similar difficulties while continuing to produce work which Joyce held in the highest regard." We live in an age when—as in any other—people assume that what is happening now has not happened before. Unique, unprecedented times for unique, unprecedented people. This assumption absolves us of the responsibility to engage in the arduous task of studying history. Everything is new and we are all fledglings; my opinion is as good as yours. Mine might even be better: I am offering it with greater ardor, I am declaring it more aggressively. Tell me that an opinion yelled down the hallway of a crowded building is not worthier of a response than one quietly uttered on a park bench to the bathing ducks creating ripples in a pond.

Public outrage is nothing new. It has perhaps changed shape; concentrating and taking on momentum in the corrugated pockets of social media. Sweeping resistance to artists, writers, scientists—to anyone with anything out of the ordinary to say, against anyone pointing beyond that which has comfortably settled in our psyches—continues to be predictable.

I want to focus here on one of Ibsen's plays, An Enemy of the People (1882), which touches on the problem of disseminating uncomfortable but important scientific truths. Ibsen wrote An Enemy of the People in response to criticism that he had received for his earlier play Ghosts (1881). Ghosts had foregrounded issues that nineteenth century Norwegian society could hardly appreciate—characters suffering from hereditary syphilis, a defense of free love, whether or not one ought to be free to choose euthanasia, and so on.

These issues remain laden with controversy today. Needless to say, the play sparked outrage among conservative audiences in Norway around the turn of the twentieth century. Ghosts is a great play—it is now widely considered to be among the best and most important of Ibsen's works. Little does time help the playwright, of course, in his struggle to see his works staged while living. For someone who was as much concerned with ideas as with aesthetics, Ibsen wanted to impress upon his audience the thoughts behind his plays as much as their more purely theatrical elements. This is what can sometimes make Ibsen rather crude as a playwright: neither his overarching ideas nor their execution tend to be subtle. Some of his plays are more delicate, like The Wild Duck (1884)—which, not coincidentally, is one of my favorites. An Enemy of the People, however, is a good example of a gloveless Ibsen raging against something that he was convinced needed to be raged against: that elusive phenomenon called the masses, the majority, society. 

Ibsen's view of the masses—of the public who had failed to understand his earlier work and failed to understand so much else—is stated early on in the play. Here is what might be taken as the play's (read: Ibsen's) battle cry:

"I am in revolt against the age-old lie that the majority is always right."

Then, a little later, a little more vehemently:

"The majority is never right. Never, I tell you! That's one of these lies in society that no free and intelligent man can help rebelling against. Who are the people that make up the biggest proportion of the population—the intelligent ones or the fools?"

A rhetorical question. Just to dig in a little more, and to clarify the stakes, Ibsen goes on:

"The most dangerous enemy of the truth and freedom amongst us is the compact majority."

And finally, just in case anyone might still doubt Ibsen's position:

"You see, the point is that the strongest man in the world is he who stands most alone."

An Enemy of the People can and should at least partly be read autobiographically, reflecting the situation and the state of mind of the artist at the time. The above quotations, taken out of the play’s context, might as well have been recorded by someone listening to Ibsen rail against the traditionalist, conformist, narrow-minded critics of Ghosts while furiously circling his bedroom. There are certainly reactionary elements that cannot be ignored. Nevertheless, as with any great art, to leave it at that would be to do the play—and Ibsen—an injustice; there is more to it than elevated personal indignation.

An Enemy of the People takes place in a small spa town in southern Norway and chronicles the struggle of a medical officer, Dr. Stockmann, who dares to speak up about an uncomfortable truth and is ultimately punished for it by his fellow townspeople. The tension of the play builds around the nature and revelation of this truth, which at first only takes the form of vague rumors. The word on the street is that Dr. Stockmann is getting ready to print a damning article about the town's spa baths. Given that the town largely relies on the spa baths for its income, it is in the town's best (read: reputational; read: economic) interest to hush up and play down any potential problems with the baths. We learn that a newspaper has apparently agreed to print Dr. Stockmann's article. The samples of the water that Dr. Stockmann had sent away to be tested have turned out to be contaminated, thus confirming his earlier suspicions. The article, if printed, would publicize all of the unwelcome details. You would think—and Dr. Stockmann initially seems to expect—that people will be happy to learn the truth about the baths. After all, no one wants to be sickened by taking a contaminated bath! One might say that Dr. Stockmann was about to save the town... 

Dr. Stockmann's expectations (and perhaps our own) turn out to be painfully misguided. People refuse to believe that the baths are actually contaminated; political squabbles ensue, vested interests are exposed, and Dr. Stockmann slowly but steadily begins losing friends and erstwhile supporters. He is warned that he is putting his family in jeopardy if he stands by the article's publication. The members of the newspaper office had their own reasons for wanting to print the piece—to expose the town's corruption, to bring down the ruling elite—but they soon begin to have doubts. Is it really worth it to damage the town's interests?

Dr. Stockmann, finally fed up with all the back-and-forth about printing or not printing the article, decides to abandon the press. He instead calls for a town meeting. Speaking to the public will be better anyway. This way, he will be able to share all of the crucial information directly and be done with it. No more relying on the fickle printers.

At the town meeting, instead of simply going ahead and presenting the information from his article, Dr. Stockmann first feels the need to go on a sustained rant about how important new ideas are being held back by authoritative stupidity, about how the majority is never right, and so on—along the lines quoted above. The audience, perhaps understandably, feels personally attacked and insulted, and declares Dr. Stockmann an enemy of the people (there we have our title). They storm off.

The next morning, we find ourselves in Dr. Stockmann's study, which has been attacked and shattered by the angry mob. His entire family suffers the consequences. No one wants anything to do with the Stockmanns, who are banned, fired, shunned, and whatnot from the town. The doctor’s wife is scared that people will go so far as to physically harm them and urges her husband to heed the advice of one of their last well-wishers to leave town. Dr. Stockmann will have none of it: he will be staying right where he is, the strongest person in town because he is all alone.  

Thus, basically, ends the play. Ibsen did not straightforwardly identify with his protagonist, Dr. Stockmann. He actually took an ambiguous, rather skeptical view of him, considering that he might have gone too far in his desire to get the truth out. Ibsen wrote to his publisher: "I am still uncertain as to whether I should call [An Enemy of the People] a comedy or a straight drama. It may have many traits of comedy, but it also is based on a serious idea." Perhaps the very nature of taking the truth absolutely seriously is comical. Certainly, in this day and age—in the so-called post-truth era—the idea that someone would give herself up entirely to The Truth appears funny. If there is no truth, one might as well give oneself up to any other kind of delusion. If we are all on boats without anchors, we might as well steer anywhere across the seas.

How to express unpopular ideas is an old problem for scientists as well as for artists and other thinkers, not least those who seek to transcend the bounds of conventional morality. Think of Nietzsche and the sort of overcoming that he advocated of the old moral-religious remnants of Christianity, which, although no longer truly believed in, were still being enacted by people. The nod to Nietzsche here is not arbitrary—there is much of the German philosopher in Ibsen's play and general outlook. A favorite line from Thus Spoke Zarathustra would not appear out of place in An Enemy of the People:

"The higher we soar, the smaller we appear to those who cannot fly."

You might imagine Dr. Stockmann thinking and grumbling this to himself in his damaged study. The greatest ideas are not immediately understood by everyone, precisely because they are great. It takes time for ideas to settle—how patient should one be, and how much suffering ought one be willing to endure? 

Ideas with moral content seem to become more easily and more deeply entrenched than other kinds in people's minds and lives. To change the shape of moral ideas—let alone to displace them—is one of the most difficult tasks that any individual can face. Yet, if one believes that others' moral beliefs are wrong, little can seem more important than to try to change them. The greatest spurs to action throughout history are morally motivated. How far ought one to go to educate others about what one has learned? I am inclined to think that sharing one's evidence, thoughts, reasons, art, and so on—and standing by it—is sufficient, or that it is at least the most that one human being can reasonably do. Dr. Stockmann uses no violence, which is as it should be. He does indirectly but knowingly bring violence upon his family, which is morally problematic. While he may personally be strong enough to receive the blunt force of the public's outrage, he cannot choose for his family to be subjected to it in the same way. This is probably why the strongest person—truly the strongest person—has to stand entirely alone. Whether such a life is worth living for the sake of posterity, I do not know.

Dr. Stockmann had his science, which was solid; he thought that he could spread knowledge based on that science, which turned out to be more complicated. In the end, he will be vindicated. The spa water will be contaminated, no matter what anyone believes. The spa water will harm the town's inhabitants, no matter whether or not they think it will. Will the people regret not having listened to the doctor?

Perhaps Ibsen said it best in Ghosts:

"It's not only what we have inherited from our father and mother that walks in us. It's all sorts of dead ideas, and lifeless old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they cling to us all the same, and we can't get rid of them."

In the end, Henrik Ibsen was vindicated, too. We still perform and read his plays. Where are his critics? Not in the light but in the shadows of history.

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