Mikael, written by a very prominent Danish writer, is a fascinating forgotten classic. Once a runaway success, it was made into a famous silent movie by the master Carl T.Dreyer. Its reputation remains based on its gay subtext, and the fact is, Mikael is a subtle, arresting gay love story that never quite dares present itself as such – the story of the complicated bonds that link a lionized, older painter, and a young man who, today, I guess, would be described as a bisexual toy boy with an attitude. Both men have powerful egos, and both are artists. Their affair won’t end happily. But Mikael is much more than just a gay story. Set at the end of the XIX century, it mostly centers on Claude, the painter (modeled on Monet, or, according to some, the sculptor Rodin). Claude is the toast of the glittery Parisian elite, which Bang new very well, and the book is a wonderful (and to this day, quite modern and very realist) description of this world, where more or less decadent aristocrats, venal art dealers, and insecure artists mix uneasily and gossip gleefully about each other. It also intelligently explores the timeless struggle with fame, inspiration, and talent that consumes any artist. Parts of Bang’s novel reminded me at the same time of what writers as different as Colette or Maupassant have done, but the author also hints at Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray, especially when it comes to his fascination with beauty and aestheticism. Illicit love affairs are torrid, in Mikael, and Bang writes with a raw sensitivity about the pain, loneliness, and sadness that the betrayed one can feel – because there’s always someone who’s betrayed. Even if it’s never said that Claude and the beautiful Mikael have been intimate (probably something impossible to write about at the time), Claude’s inner conflicts, as the novel advances and as he loses control over the young man, are more and more akin to what an obsessive lover may experience. At the end, the cruelty of youth triumphs, and the abandoned old painter faces his own mortality in a crowd of people where the only one he craves for is absent. It’s one of the most quietly devastating and unsentimental ending written at the time. I did read this book in its lively French translation, published by Phébus.