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Microsoft Office 2013 Bible 4th Edition Lisa A. Bucki
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Lisa A. Bucki, John Walkenbach, Michael Alexander, Dick
Kusleika, Faithe Wempen
ISBN(s): 9781457151613, 1457151618
Edition: 4
File Details: PDF, 64.15 MB
Year: 2013
Language: english
ffirs.indd ii 31-05-2013 12:59:35
Microsoft
®
Office 2013
Bible
Office 2013
BIBLE
Lisa A. Bucki
John Walkenbach
Faithe Wempen
Michael Alexander
Dick Kusleika
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respective owners. John Wiley & Sons, Inc. is not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book.
John Walkenbach is a bestselling Excel author and has published more than 50 spread-
sheet books. He lives amid the saguaros, javelinas, rattlesnakes, bobcats, and gila monsters
in Southern Arizona — but the critters are mostly scared away by his clayhammer banjo
playing. For more information, Google him.
Faithe Wempen, MA, is an A+ Certified hardware guru, Microsoft Office Specialist Master
Instructor, and software consultant with over 120 computer books to her credit. She has
taught Microsoft Office applications, including PowerPoint, to over a quarter of a million
online students for corporate clients, including Hewlett Packard, CNET, Sony, Gateway, and
eMachines. When she is not writing, she teaches Microsoft Office classes in the Computer
Technology department at Indiana University-Purdue University at Indianapolis (IUPUI),
does private computer training and support consulting, and owns and operates Sycamore
Knoll Bed and Breakfast in Noblesville, Indiana (www.sycamoreknoll.com).
Dick Kusleika has been awarded as a Microsoft MVP for 12 consecutive years and has been
working with Microsoft Office for more than 20. Dick develops Access- and Excel-based
solutions for his clients and has conducted training seminars on Office products
in the United States and Australia. Dick also writes a popular Excel-related blog at
www.dailydoseofexcel.com.
Thanks also to Adaobi Obi Tulton, Senior Project Editor. Adaobi, it’s time to promote you
from superhero to Goddess. Thank you for helping a mere mortal through a massive project
like this.
The authors who contributed chapters from their individual Bible books provided the
granite from which this edifice was built. Thanks to these folks for their excellence and
expertise:
xiii
xiv
Part III: Making the Numbers Work with Excel 2013 399
Chapter 12: Using Excel Worksheets and Workbooks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 401
Identifying What Excel Is Good For .....................................................................401
Seeing What’s New in Excel 2013 .........................................................................402
Understanding Workbooks and Worksheets ..........................................................403
Moving around a Worksheet ................................................................................406
Introducing Excel’s Ribbon Tabs ..........................................................................408
Creating Your First Excel Workbook ..................................................................... 411
Summary........................................................................................................... 417
xv
xvi
xvii
Managing Slides.................................................................................................709
Using Content Placeholders .................................................................................714
Creating Text Boxes Manually .............................................................................715
Working with Text Boxes ....................................................................................718
Summary...........................................................................................................723
Chapter 22: Working with Layouts, Themes, and Masters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 725
Understanding Layouts and Themes ....................................................................726
Changing a Slide’s Layout ...................................................................................729
Applying a Theme ..............................................................................................731
Managing Themes ..............................................................................................735
Changing Colors, Fonts, and Effects .....................................................................738
Changing the Background ...................................................................................748
Working with Placeholders..................................................................................753
Customizing and Creating Layouts.......................................................................758
Managing Slide Masters ......................................................................................762
Summary...........................................................................................................765
Chapter 23: Working with Tables and Charts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 767
Creating a New Table ..........................................................................................768
Moving around in a Table ...................................................................................771
Selecting Rows, Columns, and Cells .....................................................................772
Editing a Table’s Structure ..................................................................................773
Applying Table Styles .........................................................................................776
Formatting Table Cells ........................................................................................778
Understanding Charts ........................................................................................789
Starting a New Chart ..........................................................................................790
Working with Chart Data ....................................................................................794
Chart Types and Chart Layout Presets ..................................................................798
Working with Chart Elements ..............................................................................799
Controlling the Axes ..........................................................................................811
Formatting a Chart ............................................................................................817
Rotating a 3-D Chart ..........................................................................................826
Summary...........................................................................................................828
Chapter 24: Using SmartArt Diagrams, Clip Art, and Pictures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 829
Understanding SmartArt Types and Their Uses .....................................................829
Inserting a SmartArt Graphic ..............................................................................835
Editing SmartArt Text ........................................................................................836
Modifying SmartArt Structure ............................................................................837
Modifying a Hierarchy Graphic Structure .............................................................841
Formatting a SmartArt Graphic ...........................................................................844
Saving a SmartArt Graphic as a Picture................................................................849
Choosing Appropriate Artwork ............................................................................850
Inserting Clip Art ..............................................................................................850
xviii
IV
What remained of her? A book of a thousand pages, of which, in ten
years, nearly ten thousand copies were sold, which André Theuriet
provided with an introductory poem written in his best style, and to
which Maurice Barrès dedicated an altar built by himself and
sanctified a rather mistaken Marie Bashkirtseff cult. There was also
“A Meeting” in the Luxembourg, which, according to Marie
Bashkirtseff’s own report, Bastien Lepage criticised as follows: “He
says that it is comparatively easy to do choses canailles, peasants,
street urchins, and especially caricatures; but to paint beautiful
things, and to paint them with character,—there is the difficulty.”
In order to complete the sketch of this girl, in which I have tried
especially to accentuate the typical element, I should like to let her
speak for herself, with her characteristic expressions, her impulsive
views and peculiar temperament.
At the age of thirteen, she writes:—
“My blood boils, I am quite pale, then suddenly the blood rises to my
head, my cheeks burn, my heart beats, and I cannot remain quiet
anywhere; the tears burn within me, I force them back, and that only
makes me more miserable; all this undermines my health, ruins my
character, makes me irritable and impatient. One can always see it in
a person’s face, whether they take life quietly. As for me, I am always
excited. When they deprive me of my time for learning, they rob me
for the whole of my life. When I am sixteen or seventeen, my mind
will be occupied with other thoughts; now is the time to learn.”
And afterwards, with a depth of understanding worthy of Nietzsche:
—
“All that I say is not original, for I have no originality. I live only
outside myself. To walk or to stand still, to have or not to have, it is
all the same to me. My sorrows, my joys, my troubles do not exist....”
And again:—
“I want to live faster, faster, fast.... I am afraid it is true that this
longing to live with the speed of steam foretells a short life....”
“Would you believe it? To my mind everything is good and beautiful,
even tears, even pain. I like to cry, I like to be in despair, I like to be
sad. I like life, in spite of all. I want to live. I long for happiness, and
yet I am happy when I am sad. My body cries and shrieks; but
something in me, which is above me, enjoys it all.”
Then this simile, drawn with wonderful delicacy:—
“At every little sorrow my heart shrinks into itself, not for my own
sake, but out of pity—I do not know whether anybody will understand
what I mean—every sorrow is like a drop of ink that falls into a glass
of water; it cannot be obliterated, it unites itself with its predecessors
and makes the clear water gray and dirty. You may add as much
water as you like, but nothing will make it clear again. My heart
shrinks into itself, because every sorrow leaves a stain on my life,
and on my soul, and I watch the stains increasing in number on the
white dress which I ought to have kept clean.”
At the age of fourteen she wrote these prophetic words:—
“Oh! how impatient I am. My time will come; I believe it, yet
something tells me that it will never come, that I shall spend the
whole of my life waiting, always waiting. Waiting ... waiting!”
When she was sixteen, at the time of the incident with the cardinal’s
nephew:—
“If I am as pretty as I think, why is it that no one loves me? People
look at me! They fall in love! But they do not love me! And I do so
want to be loved.”
At seventeen, the first entry in her journal for that year:—
“When shall I get to know what this love is of which we hear so
much?”
Later on:—
“Very much disgusted with myself. I hate all that I do, say, and write.
I despise myself, because not a single one of my expectations has
been fulfilled. I have deceived myself.
“I am stupid, I have no tact, and I never had any. I thought I was
intellectual, but I have no taste. I thought I was brave; I am a coward.
I believed I had talent, but I do not know how I have proved it.”
At the age of eighteen:—
“My body like that of an antique goddess, my hips rather too
Spanish, my breast small, perfectly formed, my feet, my hands, my
child-like head. À quoi bon? When no one loves me.
“There is one thing that is really beautiful, antique: that is a woman’s
self-effacement in the presence of the man she loves; it must be the
greatest, most self-satisfying delight that a superior woman can feel.”
In 1882, at the beginning of her illness:—
“So I am consumptive, and have been so for the last two or three
years. It is not yet bad enough to die of it.... Let them give me ten
years longer, and in these ten years, fame or love, and I shall die
contented, at the age of thirty.”
The following year:—
“No, I never was in love, and I never shall be any more; a man would
have to be very great to please me now, I require so much....
“And simply to fall in love with a handsome boy,—no, it would not
answer. Love could no longer wholly occupy me now; it would be a
matter of secondary importance, a decoration to the building, an
agreeable superfluity. The idea of a picture or a statue keeps me
awake for nights together, which the thought of a handsome man
has never done.”
In another place:—
“Whom shall I ask? Who will be truthful? Who will be just?”
“You, my only friend, you at least will be truthful, for you love me.
Yes, I love myself, myself only.”
Two weeks before her death, after a visit from Bastien Lepage:—
“I was dressed entirely in lace and plush, all white, but different kinds
of white; Bastien Lepage opened his eyes wide with joy.
“‘If only I could paint!’ he said.
“‘And I!’
“Obliged to give it up,—the picture for this year!”
Her portrait represents the face of a typical beauty of Little Russia;
the firm, dark eyebrows, arched over eyes that are far apart, give the
face an expression that is peculiarly honest and straightforward. The
eyes gaze fixedly and dreamily into the distance; the nose is short,
with nostrils slightly distended, the mouth soft and determined, with
the upper lip passionately compressed. The face is round as a
child’s, and the neck short and powerful, on a squarely built, fully
developed body.
VI
The Woman’s Rights Woman
I
The latter half of our century is comparatively poor in remarkable
women. Nowadays, when women are more exacting than they used
to be, they are of less importance than of old. We have rows of
women artists, women scientists, and authoresses; the countries of
Europe are overrun with them, but they are all mediocrities; and in
the upper classes, although there are plenty of eccentric ladies, they
are abnormities, not individuals. The secret of a woman’s power has
always lain in what she is, rather than in what she does, and that is
where the women of to-day appear to be strangely lacking. They do
all kinds of things, they study and write books without number, they
collect money for various objects, they pass examinations and take
degrees, they hold meetings and give lectures, they start societies,
and there never was a time when women lived a more public life
than at present. Yet, with all that, they are of less public importance
than they used to be. Where are the women whose drawing-rooms
were filled with the greatest thinkers and most distinguished men of
their day? They do not exist. Where are the women with delicate
tact, who took part in the affairs of the nation? They are a myth.
Where are the women whose influence was acknowledged to be
greater than the counsel of ministers? Where are the women whose
love is immortalized in the works of the greatest poets? Where are
the women whose passionate devotion was life and joy to man,
bearing him on wings of gladness towards the unknown, and leading
him back to the beautiful life on earth? They have been, but where
are they now? The more that woman seeks to exert her influence by
main force, the less her influence as an individual; the more she
imbues this century with her spirit, the fewer her conquests as
woman. Her influence on the literature of the eighties has shown
itself in an intense, ingrained hatred. It is she who has inspired man
to write his hymn of hatred to woman,—Tolstoi in the “Kreutzer
Sonata,” Strindberg in a whole collection of dramas, Huysman in “En
Ménage,” while many a lesser star is sceptical of love; and in the
writings of the younger authors, where this scepticism is not so
apparent, we find that they understand nothing at all about women. It
is a peculiar sign of the times that, in spite of the many restrictions of
former days, men and women never have stood wider apart than at
present, and have never understood one another more badly than
now. The honest, unselfish sympathy, the true, I should like to say
organical union, which is still to be observed in the married life of old
people, seems to have vanished. Each goes his or her own way;
there may be a nervous search for each other and a short finding,
but it is soon followed by a speedy losing. Is it the men who are to
blame? The men of former days were doubtless very different, but in
their relations to women they were scarcely more sociable than at
present.
Or is it the women who are at fault? For some time past I have
watched life in its many phases, and I have come to the conclusion
that it is the woman who either develops the man’s character or ruins
it. His mother, and the woman to whom he unites himself, leave an
everlasting mark upon the impressionable side of his nature.
In most cases the final question is not, What is the man like? but,
What kind of a woman is she? And I think that the answer is as
follows: A woman’s actions are more reasonable than they used to
be, and her love is also more reasonable. The consequence is a
lessening of the passion that is hers to give, which again results in a
corresponding coolness on the part of the man. The modern system
of educating girls by teaching them numerous languages, besides
many other branches of knowledge, encourages a superficial
development of the understanding, and renders women more
exacting, without making them more attractive; and while the
average level of intelligence among women is raised, and the self-
conceit of the many largely increased, the few who are original
characters will in all probability disappear beneath the pressure of
their own sex, and in consequence of the apathy which governs the
mutual relations of both sexes.
The age in which we live has produced another class of women in
their stead, who, since they represent the strongest majority, must be
reckoned as the type. It is natural that they should have neither the
influence nor the fascination of the older generation, and they are not
as happy. They are neither happy themselves, nor do they make
others happy; the reason is that they are less womanly than the
others were. From their midst the modern authoresses have gone
forth, women who in days to come will be named in connection with
the progress of culture; and I think that Anne Charlotte Edgren-
Leffler, Duchess of Cajanello, will long be remembered as the most
characteristic representative of the type.
II
She was the supporter of a movement that originated with her, and
ceased when she died. She was known in countries far beyond her
native Sweden; her books were read and discussed all over
Germany, and her stories were published in the Deutsche
Rundschau. She had a clearer brain than most women writers; she
could look reality in the face without being afraid, and indeed she
was not one who was easily frightened. She was very independent,
and understood the literary side of her calling as well as its practical
side, and her struggles were by no means confined to her writings.
She threw aside the old method of seeking to gain her ends by
means of womanly charm; she wanted to convince as a woman of
intellect. She condemned the old method which used to be
considered the special right of women, and fought for the new right,
i.e., recognition as a human being. All her arguments were clear and
temperate; she was not emotional. The minds from which she
fashioned her own were Spencer and Stuart Mill. Nature had
endowed her with a proud, straightforward character, and she was
entirely free from that affected sentimentality which renders the
writings of most women unendurable.
In the course of ten years she became celebrated throughout
Europe, and she died suddenly about six months after the birth of
her first child. Sonia Kovalevsky, the other and greater European
celebrity, who was Professor of Mathematics, and her most intimate
friend, also died suddenly, as did several others,—Victoria
Benediktson (Ernst Ahlgren), her fellow-countrywoman, and for many
years her rival; Adda Ravnkilde, a young Danish writer, who wrote
several books under her influence; and a young Finnish authoress
named Thedenius. The last three died by their own hands; Sonia
Kovalevsky and Fru Edgren-Leffler died after a short illness.
Fru Leffler was the eldest,—she lived to be forty-three; the others
died younger,—the last two very much younger. But they all made
the same attempt, and they all failed. They wanted to stand alone,
they demanded their independence, they tried to carry into practice
their views with regard to man.
George Sand made the same attempt, and she succeeded. But then
her independence took a very different form from theirs. She
followed the traditions of her family, and set no barriers to love; she
drank of the great well of life until she had well-nigh exhausted it.
She was quite a child of the old régime in her manner of life. The
efforts made by these other women, at the close of the nineteenth
century, took the form of wishing to dispense with man altogether. It
is this feature of Teutonic chastity, bounding on asceticism, that was
the tragic moment in the lives of all these short-lived women.
It is a strange piece of contemporary history of which I am about to
write. It is this that is the cause of the despondent mood peculiar to
the last decade of our century; it is this that acts as a weight upon
our social life, that makes our leisure wearisome, our joys cold. It is
this decay in woman’s affection that is the greatest evil of the age.
One of the tendencies of the time is the craving for equality, which
seeks to develop woman’s judgment by increasing her scientific
knowledge. It might have answered from the woman’s point of view,
so far, at least, as the man was concerned, for it does not much
matter to a woman whom she loves, as long as she loves some one.
But women have become so sensible nowadays that they refuse to
love without a decisive guarantee, and this calculating spirit has
already become to them a second nature to so great an extent that
they can no longer love, without first taking all kinds of precautionary
measures to insure their future peace and comfortable maintenance,
to say nothing of the unqualified regard which they expect from their
husbands.
All things are possible from a state of mind such as we have
described, except love, and love cannot flourish upon it. If there is a
thing for which woman is especially created,—that is, unless she
happens to be different from other women,—it is love. A woman’s life
begins and ends in man. It is he who makes a woman of her. It is he
who creates in her a new kind of self-respect by making her a
mother; it is he who gives her the children whom she loves, and to
him she owes their affection. The more highly a woman’s mind and
body are developed, the less is she able to dispense with man, who
is the source of her great happiness or great sorrow, but who, in
either case, is the only meaning of her life. For without him she is
nothing.
The woman of to-day is quite willing to enjoy the happiness which
man brings, but when the reverse is the case, she refuses to submit.
She thinks that, with a little precaution, she can bring the whole of
life within the compass of a mathematical calculation. But before she
has finished her sum, and proved it to see if it is correct, happiness
and sorrow have flown past her, leaving her desolate and forsaken,
—hardened for want of love, miserable in spite of a cleverly
calculated marriage, and imbittered in the midst of joyless ease and
sorrow unaccounted for.
Such was the fate of these five short-lived authoresses, although
they might not have described it as I have done. Anne Charlotte
Edgren-Leffler was chief among the Scandinavian women’s rights
women who have made for themselves a name in literature. Her
opinions were scattered abroad among thousands of women in
Germany and in the North, and as she died without being able to dig
up the seed which she had sown, she will always be considered as a
type of the fin de siècle woman, and will remain one of its historical
characters.
I write this sketch in the belief that it will not be very unlike the one
she would have written of herself, had she lived long enough to do
so.
III
Anne Charlotte Leffler was born at Stockholm, and, like all her
townsfolk, she was tall, strong, and somewhat angular. She was by
nature cold and critical, and in this respect she did not differ from the
women of North Sweden. The daughter of a college rector, she had
received a thoroughly good education, and was probably far better
educated than the majority of women, as she grew up in the
companionship of two brothers, who were afterwards professors.
When she was nineteen years of age, she published her first work, a
little play, in two acts, called “The Actress.” The piece describes the
struggle between love and talent, and the scene is laid in the rather
narrow sphere of a small country town. The characters are decidedly
weak, but not more so than one would naturally expect from the pen
of an inexperienced girl of the upper class. There was nothing to
show that it was the work of a beginner. Her faculty for observation is
extraordinarily keen, her descriptions of character are terse, striking,
and appropriate, and the construction of the piece is clever. It shows
a thoughtful mind, and there is none of the clumsy handling
noticeable in young writers; the conflict is carefully thought out, and
described with mathematical clearness. But however ornate an
author’s style, however remarkable her intellect, these qualities do
not form the most important part of her talent as a woman and an
authoress. In considering the first book of a writer who afterwards
became celebrated throughout Europe, the question of primary
importance is this: How much character is revealed in this book?
Or, to put the question with greater precision, since it concerns a
woman: How much character is there that the author was not able to
suppress?
The sky seems colored with the deep glow of dawn; it is the great
expectancy of love. Here we have the writing of a young girl who
knows nothing about love except the one thing,—that it is a woman’s
whole existence. She has never experienced it, but her active mind
has already grasped some of its difficulties; and one great difficulty,
which must not be overlooked, is the bourgeois desire to maintain a
sure footing. An actress is going to marry into a respectable middle-
class family. Nobody in this section of society can think of love
otherwise than clad in a white apron and armed with a matronly
bunch of keys. Love here means the commonplace. The actress is
accustomed to a worse but wider sphere; love for her means to
become a great actress, to attain perfection in her art, but to her
intended it means that she should love him and keep house.
The problem does not often present itself like this in real life, and if it
did the result would in all probability be very different; in the
imagination of a well-bred girl of eighteen, like Anne Charlotte Leffler,
it was the only conclusion possible. And as he will not consent to her
wishes, and she refuses to give way to his; as he has no desire to
marry an actress, and she no intention of becoming a housewife,
they separate with mutual promises of eternal platonic love.
The end is comic, but it is meant to be taken seriously. No matter
how it begins, the ordinary woman’s book always ends with platonic
love; and it is very characteristic of Anne Charlotte Leffler that her
first play should have a platonic and not a tragic ending.
The tragic element, which generally assumes supernatural
proportions in the imagination of the young, did not appeal to her;
her life was placed in comfortable, bourgeois surroundings, and she
was perfectly contented with it.
We find the same want of imagination in all the Swedish
authoresses, from Fru Lenngren, Frederica Bremer, and Fru Flygare-
Carlén onwards.
A few years later Anne Charlotte Leffler wrote a three-act play, called
“The Elf,” of which the two first acts afford the best possible key to
her own psychology. It was acted for the first time in 1881, but it was
probably written soon after her marriage, in 1872, with Edgren, who
was at that time in the service of the government.
IV
Fru Edgren was one of those proud, straightforward women who
would never dream of allowing any one to commiserate them. She
made no attempt to suit her actions to please the world; her sole
ambition was to show herself as she really was. When she wished to
do a thing, she did it as quickly as possible, and without any one’s
help. She wrote under the influence of her personal impressions, her
personal judgment, and her personal opinions; whatever she might
attain to in the future, she was determined to have no one but herself
to thank for it. But she was a woman. Though usually possessed of a
clear judgment, she did not sufficiently realize what it means for a
woman to enter upon a literary career by herself. She succeeded in
her literary career; but in doing so she sacrificed the best part of her
life, and was obliged to suppress her best and truest aspirations,
thereby destroying a large amount of real artistic talent.
There are few things that afford me more genuine pleasure than the
books of modern authors. I enjoy them less on account of what they
tell me than for that which they have been unable to conceal. When
they write their books, they write the history of their inner life. You
open a book and you read twenty lines, and in the tone and
character of those twenty lines you seem to feel the beating of the
writer’s pulse. In the same way as a fine musical ear can distinguish
a single false note in an orchestra, a fine psychological instinct can
discern the true from the false, and can tell where the author
describes his own feelings and where he is only pretending—can
discern his true character from among the multitude of conscious
and unconscious masks, and can say: This is good metal, and that a
worthless composition, wherewith he makes a dupe of himself and of
others.
The woman who attempts to write without a man to shield her, to
throw a protecting arm around her, is an unfortunate, incongruous
being. That which sets her soul aglow—which calls loudly within her
—she dare not say. When a man wishes to be a great writer, he
defies conventionalism and compels it to become subservient to him;
but for a lonely woman, conventionalism is her sole support, not only
outwardly, but inwardly also. It forms a part of her womanly modesty;
it is the guide of her life, from which naught but love can free her;
that is why the more talented a woman is, the more absolutely love
must be her pilot.
Fru Edgren’s best play and her two most interesting stories are “The
Elf,” “Aurora Bunge,” and “Love and Womanhood.” None of her other
works can be said to equal these in depth of feeling, and none strike
a more melancholy note. There is an emotional, nervous life in them
which presents an attractive contrast to the cold irony of her other
works. She has put her whole being into these writings, with
something of her womanly power to charm; while in the others we
meet with the clear insight, the critical faculty, and the rare sarcasm
to which they owe their reputation.
Yet in these three works we notice how very much she is hedged in
on all sides by conventionalism. “The Elf,” “Love and Womanhood,”
and “Aurora Bunge” make us think of a large and beautiful bird that
cannot fly because its long, swift wings have been broken by a fall
from the nest.
The “elf” is the wife of the respected mayor of a small country town.
Her father was a Swedish artist, whose whole life was spent in
travelling, because every time that he came home he was driven
away by the narrow social life of Sweden. When he is lying on his
deathbed, he leaves his penniless child to the care of his younger
friend, the Mayor, who knows no better way of providing for her than
by making her his wife. He is universally considered the best son,
the best partner in business, and the best man—in the town. The elf
wanders about the woods, and becomes the subject of much gossip,
likewise of envy, among the smart ladies of the town.
One evening when they are giving a party, and she forgets to play
the part of hostess, their neighbor, a Baron, arrives with his sister.
Both, no longer young, free from illusions, liberal in thought and
speech, seem to carry with them a breath from a bigger world; their
mere presence serves to make the elf thoughtlessly happy, and from
henceforward she sits daily to the Baron for a picture representing
Undine when the knight carries her through the wood, and her soul
awakes within her. The elf’s soul—i.e., love—is also awakened. She
feels herself drawn towards this man, who has sufficient fire to
awaken her womanhood with a kiss. She does not wish, she does
not think, but she would not like to be separated from him; he lives in
an atmosphere that suits her, and in which she thrives. She is still a
child; but the child would like to wake. It is true that her conscience
reproaches her with regard to the Mayor, but here the circumstances
are related as though she were not quite married,—that is a mistake
which nearly all Teutonic authoresses make.
The Baron tells her the story of Undine. The knight finds her at the
moment when the brook stretches forth his long white arm to draw
her back, but he does not let her go; he takes her in his arms and
carries her away, and she looks up at him with a half anxious
expression—there is something new in this expression. She is no
longer Undine. She loves. She has a soul.
In this drama, Anne Charlotte Edgren-Leffler, the future leader of the
woman’s rights movement, makes the confession that a woman’s
soul is—love. She is the only Swedish woman writer who would have
owned as much.
The Baron is a decadent. Fru Edgren took this type from real life
long before the decadence made its appearance in literature. He had
enjoyed all sensations with delight and inner emotion, until the
woman in the elf opens her eyes in the first moment of half
consciousness, and when that happens she becomes indifferent to
him. His passion cools. It is true that his actions still tend in the same
direction, but he is able to gaze at his thoughts critically. He is not
the knight who lifts Undine out of the cold water. He leaves her lying
in the brook.
Among the experiences by means of which “independent” women,
with a “vocation,” awake to womanhood, this is probably the most
common. It is very difficult to define their feelings when they realize a
change in the man who first aroused their affections; but I think that I
am not far wrong in saying that it is something akin to loathing. The
more sensitive the woman, and the more innocent she is, the longer
the loathing will last. However cold her outward behavior may
appear, the feeling is still there.
There is nothing that a woman resents more keenly than when a
man plays with her affections, and neglects her afterwards. The
more inexperienced the woman, the more unmanly this behavior
seems. If she is a true woman, her disappointment will be all the
greater; she will feel it not only with regard to this single individual,
but it will cast a shadow over all men.
The last act reveals the author’s perplexity. From an æsthetic point
of view the ending is cold, and to a certain extent indifferently
executed; but judged from a psychological point of view, it is
thoroughly Swedish. Considered as the writing of a young lady in the
year 1880, it must be confessed that the dialogue is tolerably strong,
even piquante; but in order to please the highly respected public, it is
necessary for the play to end well.
Suddenly they one and all—in this land of pietism and sudden
conversion—beat their breasts and confess their sins. The Mayor
examines himself, and repents that he was selfish enough to marry
the elf; his mother repents because she cared more for her son than
her daughter-in-law; the elf repents because she almost allowed
herself to be betrayed into falling in love; and the Baron’s sister, who,
throughout the piece, has always held aloft the banner of love and
liberty, repents in a general way, without any particular reason being
given. Thus everything returns to its former condition, and Undine
remains in the duck-pond.
With this satisfying termination, “The Elf” survived a large number of
performances.
The question which suggests itself to my mind is: Whether the author
intended the piece to end in this manner? Or was the original ending
less conventional, and was Fru Edgren obliged to alter it in order that
the play might be acted? What else could she do? A lonely woman
like her dared not sin against the public morals. It were better to sin
against anything else, only not against the public morals; for in that
case they would have condemned her to silence, and her career
would have been at an end. The keynote of the piece was the
yearning to escape from the long Swedish winters and the gossip by
the fireside, out into the fresh air, into the light and warmth of the
South.
V
Ten years afterwards Fru Edgren returned to the same problem in
“Love and Womanhood,” and this time she treated it with greater
delicacy and more depth of feeling.
The heroine is no longer the traditional elf, but the modern girl,—
nervous, sensitive, with a sharp intellect and still sharper tongue; she
is very critical, very reserved, full of secret aspirations, and very
warm-hearted; her heart is capable of becoming a world to the man
she loves, but it needs a man’s love to develop its power of loving.
She loves an elegant, self-satisfied Swedish lieutenant, who has
served as a volunteer in Algiers, and has written a book on military
science; he is just an ordinary smart young man, and he takes it for
granted that she will accept him the instant he proposes. But she
refuses him. He is indignant and hurt; he cannot understand it at all,
unless she loves some one else. But no, she does not love any one
else. Then what is the reason? She is sure that he does not care
enough for her; there is such an indescribable difference between
her love for him, or rather the love that she knows herself capable of
feeling, and the affection that he has to offer her, that she will not
have him on any account, and looks upon his proposal almost in the
light of an insult. He goes away, and returns, soon afterwards,
engaged to a little goose.
Fru Edgren develops an elaborate theory, to which she returns again
and again. According to her, it is only the commonplace little girls of
eighteen, innocence in a white pinafore, with whom men fall in love. I
myself do not think that there is much in it: a dozen men who are
nonentities fall in love with a dozen young women who are likewise
nonentities. On the other hand, we have that numerous type, which
includes the modern girl, full of soul, originality, and depth of
character, clever and modest, possessed of a keen divination with
regard to her own feelings and that of others, mingled with a chaste
pride that is founded upon the consciousness of her own importance,
—a pride that will not accept less than it gives. And these girls are
confined to the narrow circle to which all women are reduced, to two
or three possibilities in the whole course of their long youth,
possibilities which chance throws in their way, and which are
perhaps no possibilities at all to them. A few years pass by, and
these girls have become stern judges upon the rights of love, and
they have developed a bitter expression about the mouth, and a
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