The Birmingham age-herald., 1909-04-09
THE REAL RISEN
By ITERATION MAXWELL.

All this seems incredible; it is the fact, and in the fact you have a memory of the real Ibsen. Few great men are admirable off their pedestals; Ibsen was less so per haps than any of his contemporaries.
 From his earliest childhood pr. Ibsen's life was an unhappy one and although success came to him abundantly in his latter days it came too late to change or sweeten him. He no longer had the capacity for enjoying the fame and the wealth which were his at the end. He was compelled to fall back upon himself for the greatest qualification of his de- sires His whims and fads circled wholly around himself, and the circle was mar row one As a lad in the unattractive town of Skien, his native place, Ibsen's life was sunless and poverty-pinched. Till he was past middle age he gained neither countenance nor encouragement in his own land indeed, he was deemed man of no ability at all. His work was de- rided, and over each new day hung the pail of bitterest diversity. Nor was his domestic life in an after day happy one. At the time of his death he was, as Nor wegian wealth is estimated, very rich man. He was worth s2OO,000, and that is a princey fortune in Norway. Tbsen did not know what to do with all his money, so he hoarded it; he never could be in- duced to invest penny of 1t. He trust ed no one even in the most trifing finan- cal transactions.
 In the face of his cloudy past it was not, therefore surprising that Henrik Ib- sen grew more and more misanthroplc and faA in so little that was genuinely joyous in his life, there was nothing left but the crea- ture comforts and the superficial adula- tion of few foreigners. Fame-even in literature-is surely not founded on the nasty scrutiny of ones person by a handful of Cooks tourists; but that sort of thing actually brought complacence to the mind of Henrik Ibsen.
 Knowing that the moment he left his house in Christiania he would become the center of interest along the streets, he was always careful to dress for the occasion. It would add another wrinkle to his brow to discover a button missing from his coat or blur on the beaver of his tall silk hat. His clothes were made of broadcloth of fine texture; his tailor was the best in Christiania He always wore tile of metallic smoothness. His boots were of patent leather Toilet articles he carried about with him always and everywhere. and frequently he brought them into requisition in the most public places. While on exhibition in the hotel garden In full view of a cosmopolitan throng It was no uncommon act for him to take from his pocket a comb or brush and caress- inelv stroke his famous white whiskers, or lift to a greater height his equally fa- mo1s white pompadour locks, which stood straight up In the air like miniature Mount Blanc. He had a trick of brushing his hat with the sleeve of his coat Now and then he paused, looking long and earnestly into the opening of his head piece. He presented at such time the picture of a leonine sage of the Sagas deep in the maze of some vast problem of the cosmos. It was all mistake; 1t was Ibsen, critically viewing Iosen. There was a mirror fastened in the bottom of his hat, and he was looking after the twist of his cravat
 But when Ibsen, the author, had formu- lated the scheme for new drama, and had determined to weld and mould 1t into form, then occurred his metamorphoss from flop to workman-a workman obliv- ious of the whole wide world, It's peoples and it's passions. The butterfly drew back into it's chrysalis; the feasting crowds at the Grand hotel could no longer fease their eyes on Henrik Ibsen, nor watch
 
 CONTINUED ON PAGE S.)