The evolution of the theatrical art is so dependent on external realities which are not amenable to change that it can seem meaningless to come forward with any wish or assumptions concerning the direction its development might take. Without reflection the theatre has invariably regarded all well-meant theorizing as only that, and although one really cannot reproach it on this account, it does have on its conscience not a little ungratefulness for genuinely vital and sympathetic interest shown it.

Still, at a time when the art of the theatre itself seems not to have any guiding principle, but rather many conflicting ones, and when tradition is mingled with occasional experiments whose lasting value appears doubtful, when the whole outlook appears confusing to such a great degree, it is, of course, understandable if an author who works with drama or wishes to do so, tries to orient himself a bit, tries to decide what would seem to be essential for the theatre both now and generally; and thereafter attempts to take a stand in regard to the different trends.

On an afternoon in November 1951, reporters left their offices in the city and hurried out to Lidingö, a quiet residential suburb on an island several miles from Stockholm, in search of the writer's residence. There was no listing in the telephone directory, and there had never been very much reason to venture that way before. Pär Lagerkvist had long been recognized as one of the foremost writers in Scandinavia and was not unknown elsewhere in Europe, but for years he had consistently refused to see the press or make any public statement about himself or his work. “To answer questions about what I eat and drink … is ridiculous, I think, and to say something in a few minutes about a more important subject is nonsense,” he had said.

Generally regarded as the finest dramatist Sweden has produced since Strindberg, Hjalmar Bergman is a conspicuous example of the writer who is obsessed by a single motive. In his case the motive was the fear of father, and his entire dramatic production may be viewed as little more than variations on this theme. However, in tracing this theme through the plays of Bergman, I am less interested in showing the development of a personality than in revealing the struggles of an artist as he seeks a form in which he can not only express his personal feelings but get a wide audience to share those feelings openly with him.

Born in 1883, Bergman was a sickly, weak, fat, and extremely sensitive child, the butt of his playmates’ jokes. His father was a stern, successful, small-town businessman who completely dominated the thought and activities of young Hjalmar.

Strindberg's never-abandoned plans for having an “experimental theatre” at his disposal were at the point of fulfillment early in 1907 when, after a long pause, he again began to write plays. During the previous autumn he had become acquainted with the young director August Falck, and they had agreed to found a theatre. It was in anticipation of its opening that Strindberg, during the first half of 1907 wrote the four chamber plays which more than any other of his works have established his reputation as a revolutionary spirit in the art of the drama.

In the beginning this was not his purpose. The name chamber play had been taken from Reinhardt's Kammerspielhaus about which he had read articles in German periodicals, later found, with passages marked, in his library. His basic idea was to create an intimate theatre for which he imagined a repertoire in a subdued naturalistic style.