Crossposted from European Tribune.

Sunday philosophical food for thought: I have translated an essay by Toril Moi, a Literature professor at Duke University, from the current edition of the weekly Morgenbladet. Those so inclined can skim the text, whose point is the succint existential question of the final paragraph.

Short note on the characters: Henrik Ibsen does not really need introduction. He is widely regarded as the creator of the modern drama and the second greatest playwright of all time; his masterworks like Ghosts, Rosmersholm, and The Wild Duck are constantly performed around the world in ever new interpretations. Once seen (or even read) they are never forgotten, and could easily affect your life.

Then there is… Paul Heyse. Whoever is this? Well, read on to find out.

In 1874 Georg Brandes [Danish progressive critic, tr. n.] was 32 years old and on his way to making a name for himself on the European cultural scene. Three years earlier he had already given the first in the long series of scandalous lectures collectively known as Major Streams in European Literature. In June 1874, Brandes visited Ibsen in Dresden, whence he continued on to Munich. In a letter to his mother he wrote disparagingly about Ibsen:

As I read this, I raised my eyebrows. Who on earth was this Heyse whom Brandes esteemed so much higher than Ibsen? My astonishment was unabated as I discovered that when Ibsen moved to Munich in the spring of 1875, he wrote Brandes of his “great keenness to make the acquiantance of Paul Heyse,” and asked Brandes to “put in a few good words” for him with Heyse. If this man was so impressive, how come I had never heard of him? A quick quiz among colleagues and friends revealed that I was far from the only one who didn’t know who he was. Curiosity drove me to do some research. What I found gave ample cause for reflection.

In 1875 Heyse, not Ibsen, was the grand celebrity. Paul Heyse (1830-1914) was actually Germany’s unrivaled literary lord. People would flock to Munich to meet with Heyse, who was often called Goethe’s successor.

Born in Berlin, Heyse grew up in a cultivated family with the nation’s foremost artists and intellectuals in its social circle. At the tender age of 24 he was summoned to be poet laureate at the court of Maximillian II, King of Bavaria. The assiduous Heyse never lacked inspiration: He wrote a total of 150 short stories, eight novels, more than sixty plays, and countless poems.

But Heyse was not just prolific; he was also handsome and charming, and in time, extremely rich. He was honest, principled, and loyal. He was magnetically attractive to women and a sympathetic and hospitable host to a whole network of famous male friends. His second wife was an 18 year old beauty from the high society of Munich. In 1873 he built a splendid Italianate villa with a big garden, in which Brandes was a frequent guest. Villa Heyse was the scene of a flourishing social life. One of Heyse’s many soirées was in honor of Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson [Norwegian author and liberal intellectual, tr. n.], and Ibsen was often there. No wonder that Brandes, in sheer entrancement, wrote that Heyse is “the chosen favorite of the gods, Fortuna’s own spoiled child.”

Not only was Heyse respected, he was also a bestselling author. In 1897, Hjalmar Johansen [Norwegian polar explorer, tr. n.] wrote Heyse to thank him for the great reading joys he had given the crew of the Fram as they were drifting about up there in the icy nothingness. In 1910, as he turned 80, Heyse was knighted. In December that year he received the Nobel Prize for Literature. Paul Heyse died in 1914. In 1920, he was forgotten.

Ibsen never won the Nobel Prize. He was not in the least magnetically attractive, neither to men nor to women. The older he got, the more asocial he became. In an 1875 letter to Brandes, Heyse reports that he has now finally met Ibsen, who appeared stiff, formal, private, and uneasy. Heyse himself was of course worldy-wise, relaxed, warm, and empathetic.

Last year I went to Munich. In the city’s finest book store I requested books by Paul Heyse. Noone had heard of him. At the house in Maximillianstrasse where Ibsen’s apartment used to be, there is a big memorial plate. There is none at Heyse’s villa, which I only found after a thorough quest. Most of the house had been converted to a lace factory. Within two meters of the windows on what was once the facade to the garden, there is now a wall. There is a Paul Heyse Street in Munich. The short street is located in a down-market district and ends, symbolically enough, in a black hole: a subway underneath the railroad.

The question I am now left with is this: Which life is preferable? Ibsen’s, or Heyse’s?

By Toril Moi 2005. Translation by Sirocco.