Source: Project Gutenberg #70566/#70577/#74237 Source URL: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70566 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70577 ; https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74237 Translator: William Archer, Eleanor Marx-Aveling, Edmund Gosse (1906) Public domain basis: Public-domain Heinemann collected Ibsen translations published before 1931. Coverage: A Doll's House and Ghosts from vol. 7; An Enemy of the People from vol. 8; Hedda Gabler from vol. 10. # Project Gutenberg #70566 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Transcriber’s Note: This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. In the printed original, emphasis is indicated by gesperrt (spaced) text, but is here also delimited as the italic. The few footnotes have been collected at the end of the section or act in which they are referenced. Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any other textual issues encountered during its preparation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSEN VOLUME VII A DOLL’S HOUSE GHOSTS THE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSEN _Copyright Edition. Complete in 11 Volumes._ _Crown 8vo, price 4s. each._ =ENTIRELY REVISED AND EDITED BY= =WILLIAM ARCHER= Vol. I. Lady Inger, The Feast at Solhoug, Love’s Comedy Vol. II. The Vikings, The Pretenders Vol. III. Brand Vol. IV. Peer Gynt Vol. V. Emperor and Galilean (2 parts) Vol. VI. The League of Youth, Pillars of Society Vol. VII. A Doll’s House, Ghosts Vol. VIII. An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck Vol. IX. Rosmersholm, The Lady from the Sea Vol. X. Hedda Gabler, The Master Builder Vol. XI. Little Eyolf, John Gabriel Borkman, When We Dead Awaken LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. 21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C. THE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSEN COPYRIGHT EDITION ------------------------------------------------------------------------ VOLUME VII A DOLL’S HOUSE GHOSTS WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY WILLIAM ARCHER ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: title page] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN 1909 _Collected Edition first printed 1906_ _Second Impression 1909_ _Copyright 1906 by William Heinemann_ CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION TO “A DOLL’S HOUSE” vii INTRODUCTION TO “GHOSTS” xvii “A DOLL’S HOUSE” 1 _Translated by_ WILLIAM ARCHER “GHOSTS” 157 _Translated by_ WILLIAM ARCHER A DOLL’S HOUSE. INTRODUCTION. On June 27, 1879, Ibsen wrote from Rome to Marcus Grönvold: “It is now rather hot in Rome, so in about a week we are going to Amalfi, which, being close to the sea, is cooler, and offers opportunity for bathing. I intend to complete there a new dramatic work on which I am now engaged.” From Amalfi, on September 20, he wrote to John Paulsen: “A new dramatic work, which I have just completed, has occupied so much of my time during these last months that I have had absolutely none to spare for answering letters.” This “new dramatic work” was _Et Dukkehjem_, which was published in Copenhagen, December 4, 1879. Dr. George Brandes has given some account of the episode in real life which suggested to Ibsen the plot of this play; but the real Nora, it appears, committed forgery, not to save her husband’s life, but to redecorate her house. The impulse received from this incident must have been trifling. It is much more to the purpose to remember that the character and situation of Nora had been clearly foreshadowed, ten years earlier, in the figure of Selma in _The League of Youth_. It is with _A Doll’s House_ that Ibsen enters upon his kingdom as a world-poet. He had done greater work in the past, and he was to do greater work in the future; but this was the play which was destined to carry his name beyond the limits of Scandinavia, and even of Germany, to the remotest regions of civilisation. Here the Fates were not altogether kind to him. The fact that for many years he was known to thousands of people solely as the author of _A Doll’s House_, and its successor, _Ghosts_, was largely responsible for the extravagant misconceptions of his genius and character which prevailed during the last decade of the nineteenth century, and are not yet entirely extinct. In these plays he seemed to be delivering a direct assault on marriage, from the standpoint of feminine individualism; wherefore he was taken to be a preacher and pamphleteer rather than a poet. In these plays, and in these only, he made physical disease a considerable factor in the action; whence it was concluded that he had a morbid predilection for “nauseous” subjects. In these plays he laid special and perhaps disproportionate stress on the influence of heredity; whence he was believed to be possessed by a monomania on the point. In these plays, finally, he was trying to act the essentially uncongenial part of the prosaic realist. The effort broke down at many points, and the poet reasserted himself; but these flaws in the prosaic texture were regarded as mere bewildering errors and eccentricities. In short, he was introduced to the world at large through two plays which showed his power, indeed, almost in perfection, but left the higher and subtler qualities of his genius for the most part unrepresented. Hence the grotesquely distorted vision of him which for so long haunted the minds even of intelligent people. Hence, for example, the amazing opinion, given forth as a truism by more than one critic of great ability, that the author of _Peer Gynt_ was devoid of humour. Within a little more than a fortnight of its publication _A Doll’s House_ was presented at the Royal Theatre, Copenhagen, where Fru Hennings, as Nora, made the great success of her career. The play was soon being acted, as well as read, all over Scandinavia. Nora’s startling “declaration of independence” afforded such an inexhaustible theme for heated discussion, that at last it had to be formally barred at social gatherings, just as, in Paris twenty years later, the Dreyfus Case was proclaimed a prohibited topic. The popularity of _Pillars of Society_ in Germany had paved the way for its successor, which spread far and wide over the German stage in the spring of 1880, and has ever since held its place in the repertory of the leading theatres. As his works were at that time wholly unprotected in Germany, Ibsen could not prevent managers from altering the end of the play to suit their taste and fancy. He was thus driven, under protest, to write an alternative ending, in which, at the last moment, the thought of her children restrained Nora from leaving home. He preferred, as he said, “to commit the outrage himself, rather than leave his work to the tender mercies of adapters.” The patched-up ending soon dropped out of use and out of memory. Ibsen’s own account of the matter will be found in his _Correspondence_, Letter 142. It took ten years for the play to pass beyond the limits of Scandinavia and Germany. Madame Modjeska, it is true, presented a version of it in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1883, but it attracted no attention. In the following year Messrs. Henry Arthur Jones and Henry Herman produced at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre, London, a play entitled _Breaking a Butterfly_, which was described as being “founded on Ibsen’s _Norah_” but bore only a remote resemblance to the original. In this production Mr. Beerbohm Tree took the part of Dunkley, a melodramatic villain who filled the place of Krogstad. In 1885, again, an adventurous amateur club gave a quaint performance of Miss Lord’s translation of the play at a hall in Argyle Street, London. Not until June 7, 1889, was a _A Doll’s House_ competently, and even brilliantly, presented to the English public, by Mr. Charles Charrington and Miss Janet Achurch, at the Novelty Theatre, London, afterwards re-named the Great Queen Street Theatre. It was this production that really made Ibsen known to the English-speaking peoples. In other words, it marked his second great stride towards world-wide, as distinct from merely national, renown—if we reckon as the first stride the success of _Pillars of Society_ in Germany. Mr. and Mrs. Charrington took _A Doll’s House_ with them on a long Australian tour; Miss Beatrice Cameron (Mrs. Richard Mansfield) was encouraged by the success of the London production to present the play in New York, whence it soon spread to other American cities; while in London itself it was frequently revived and vehemently discussed. The Ibsen controversy, indeed, did not break out in its full virulence until 1891, when _Ghosts_ and _Hedda Gabler_ were produced in London; but from the date of the Novelty production onwards, Ibsen was generally recognised as a potent factor in the intellectual and artistic life of the day. A French adaptation of _Et Dukkehjem_ was produced in Brussels in March 1889, but attracted little attention. Not until 1894 was the play introduced to the Parisian public, at the Gymnase, with Madame Réjane as Nora. This actress has since played the part frequently, not only in Paris but in London and in America. In Italian the play was first produced in 1889, and soon passed into the repertory of Eleonora Duse, who appeared as Nora in London in 1893. Few heroines in modern drama have been played by so many actresses of the first rank. To those already enumerated must be added Hedwig Niemann-Raabe and Agnes Sorma in Germany, and Minnie Maddern-Fiske in America; and, even so, the list is far from complete. There is probably no country in the world, possessing a theatre on the European model, in which _A Doll’s House_ has not been more or less frequently acted. Undoubtedly the great attraction of the part of Nora to the average actress was the tarantella scene. This was a theatrical effect, of an obvious, unmistakable kind. It might have been—though I am not aware that it ever actually was—made the subject of a picture-poster. But this, as it seems to me, was Ibsen’s last concession to the ideal of technique which he had acquired, in the old Bergen days, from his French masters. I have elsewhere[1] analysed _A Doll’s House_ at some length, from the technical point of view, suggesting that it marks a distinct, and one might almost say a sudden, revolution in the poet’s understanding of the methods and aims of his art. There is pretty good reason to suppose, as it seems to me, that he altered the plan of the play while it was actually in process of composition. He seems originally to have schemed a “happy ending,” like that of _The League of Youth_ or _Pillars of Society_. No doubt it is convenient, even for the purposes of the play as it stands, that all fear of hostile action on Krogstad’s part should be dissipated before Nora and Helmer settle down to their final explanation; but is the convenience sufficiently great to account for the invention, to that end alone, of Mrs. Linden’s relation to, and influence over, Krogstad? I very much question it. I think the “happy ending” which is actually reached when Krogstad returns the forged document was, in Ibsen’s original conception, intended to be equivalent to the stopping of the _Indian Girl_, and the return of Olaf, in _Pillars of Society_—that is to say, it was to be the end of the drama properly so called, and the rest was to be a more or less conventional winding-up, a confession of faults on both sides, accompanied by mutual congratulations on the blowing-over of the threatened storm. This is the end which, as we see, every one expected: the end which adapters, in Germany, England, and elsewhere, insisted on giving to the play. There was just a shade of excuse for these gentlemen, inasmuch as the poet himself seemed to have elaborately prepared the way for them; and I suggest that the fact of his having done so shows that the play, in embryo, passed through the phase of technical development represented by _Pillars of Society_—the phase to which its amenders would have forced it to return. Ibsen, on the other hand, when he proceeded from planning in outline to creation in detail, found his characters outgrow his plot. When the action, in the theatrical sense, was over, they were only on the threshold of the essential drama; and in that drama, compressed into the final scene of the play, Ibsen found his true power and his true mission. How impossible, in his subsequent work, would be such figures as Mrs. Linden, the confidant, and Krogstad, the villain! They are not quite the ordinary confidant and villain, for Ibsen is always Ibsen, and his power of vitalisation is extraordinary. Yet we clearly feel them to belong to a different order of art from that of his later plays. How impossible, too, in the poet’s after years, would have been the little tricks of ironic coincidence and picturesque contrast which abound in _A Doll’s House_! The festal atmosphere of the whole play, the Christmas-tree, the tarantella, the masquerade ball, with its distant sounds of music—all the shimmer and tinsel of the background against which Nora’s soul-torture and Rank’s despair are thrown into relief belong to the system of external, artificial antithesis beloved by romantic playwrights from Lope de Vega onward, and carried to its limit by Victor Hugo. The same artificiality is apparent in minor details. “Oh, what a wonderful thing it is to live to be happy!” cries Nora, and instantly “The hall-door bell rings” and Krogstad’s shadow falls across the threshold. So, too, for his second entrance, an elaborate effect of contrast is arranged, between Nora’s gleeful romp with her children and the sinister figure which stands unannounced in their midst. It would be too much to call these things absolutely unnatural, but the very precision of the coincidence is eloquent of pre-arrangement. At any rate, they belong to an order of effects which in future Ibsen sedulously eschews. The one apparent exception to this rule which I can remember occurs in _The Master Builder_, where Solness’s remark, “Presently the younger generation will come knocking at my door,” gives the cue for Hilda’s knock and entrance. But here an interesting distinction is to be noted. Throughout _The Master Builder_ the poet subtly indicates the operation of mysterious, unseen agencies—the “helpers and servers” of whom Solness speaks, as well as the Power with which he held converse at the crisis in his life—guiding, or at any rate tampering with, the destinies of the characters. This being so, it is evident that the effect of pre-arrangement produced by Hilda’s appearing exactly on the given cue was deliberately aimed at. Like so many other details in the play, it might be a mere coincidence, or it might be a result of inscrutable design—we were purposely left in doubt. But the suggestion of pre-arrangement which helped to create the atmosphere of the _The Master Builder_ was wholly out of place in _A Doll’s House_. In the later play it was a subtle stroke of art; in the earlier it was the effect of imperfectly dissembled artifice. My conjecture of an actual modification of Ibsen’s design during the progress of the play may possibly be mistaken. There can be no doubt, on the other hand, that Ibsen’s full originality first reveals itself in the latter half of the third act. This is proved by the very protests, nay, the actual rebellion, which the last scene called forth. Up to that point he had been doing, approximately, what theatrical orthodoxy demanded of him. But when Nora, having put off her masquerade dress, returned to make up her account with Helmer, and with marriage as Helmer understood it, the poet flew in the face of orthodoxy, and its professors cried out in bewilderment and wrath. But it was just at this point that, in practice, the real grip and thrill of the drama were found to come in. The tarantella scene never, in my experience—and I have seen five or six great actresses in the part—produced an effect in any degree commensurate with the effort involved. But when Nora and Helmer faced each other, one on each side of the table, and set to work to ravel out the skein of their illusions, then one felt oneself face to face with a new thing in drama—an order of experience, at once intellectual and emotional, not hitherto attained in the theatre. This every one felt, I think, who was in any way accessible to that order of experience. For my own part, I shall never forget how surprised I was on first seeing the play, to find this scene, in its naked simplicity, far more exciting and moving than all the artfully-arranged situations of the earlier acts. To the same effect, from another point of view, we have the testimony of Fru Hennings, the first actress who ever played the part of Nora. In an interview published soon after Ibsen’s death, she spoke of the delight it was to her, in her youth, to embody the Nora of the first and second acts, the “lark,” the “squirrel,” the irresponsible, butterfly Nora. “When I now play the part,” she went on, “the first acts leave me indifferent. Not until the third act am I really interested—but then, intensely.” To call the first and second acts positively uninteresting would of course be a gross exaggeration. What one really means is that their workmanship is still a little derivative and immature, and that not until the third act does the poet reveal the full originality and individuality of his genius. GHOSTS. INTRODUCTION. The winter of 1879-80 Ibsen spent in Munich, and the greater part of the summer of 1880 at Berchtesgaden. November 1880 saw him back in Rome, and he passed the summer of 1881 at Sorrento. There, fourteen years earlier, he had written the last acts of _Peer Gynt_; there he now wrote, or at any rate completed, _Gengangere_. It was published in December 1881, after he had returned to Rome. On December 22 he wrote to Ludwig Passarge, one of his German translators, “My new play has now appeared, and has occasioned a terrible uproar in the Scandinavian press; every day I receive letters and newspaper articles decrying or praising it.... I consider it utterly impossible that any German theatre will accept the play at present. I hardly believe that they will dare to play it in the Scandinavian countries for some time to come.” How rightly he judged we shall see anon. In the newspapers there was far more obloquy than praise. Two men, however, stood by him from the first: Björnson, from whom he had been practically estranged ever since _The League of Youth_, and George Brandes. The latter published an article in which he declared (I quote from memory) that the play might or might not be Ibsen’s greatest work, but that it was certainly his noblest deed. It was, doubtless, in acknowledgment of this article that Ibsen wrote to Brandes on January 3, 1882: “Yesterday I had the great pleasure of receiving your brilliantly clear and so warmly appreciative review of _Ghosts_.... All who read your article must, it seems to me, have their eyes opened to what I meant by my new book—assuming, that is, that they have any _wish_ to see. For I cannot get rid of the impression that a very large number of the false interpretations which have appeared in the newspapers are the work of people who know better. In Norway, however, I am willing to believe that the stultification has in most cases been unintentional; and the reason is not far to seek. In that country a great many of the critics are theologians, more or less disguised; and these gentlemen are, as a rule, quite unable to write rationally about creative literature. That enfeeblement of judgment which, at least in the case of the average man, is an inevitable consequence of prolonged occupation with theological studies, betrays itself more especially in the judging of human character, human actions, and human motives. Practical business judgment, on the other hand, does not suffer so much from studies of this order. Therefore the reverend gentlemen are very often excellent members of local boards; but they are unquestionably our worst critics.” This passage is interesting as showing clearly the point of view from which Ibsen conceived the character of Manders. In the next paragraph of the same letter he discusses the attitude of “the so-called Liberal press”; but as the paragraph contains the germ of _An Enemy of the People_, it may most fittingly be quoted in the introduction to that play. Three days later (January 6) Ibsen wrote to Schandorph, the Danish novelist: “I was quite prepared for the hubbub. If certain of our Scandinavian reviewers have no talent for anything else, they have an unquestionable talent for thoroughly misunderstanding and misinterpreting those authors whose books they undertake to judge.... They endeavour to make me responsible for the opinions which certain of the personages of my drama express. And yet there is not in the whole book a single opinion, a single utterance, which can be laid to the account of the author. I took good care to avoid this. The very method, the order of technique which imposes its form upon the play, forbids the author to appear in the speeches of his characters. My object was to make the reader feel that he was going through a piece of real experience; and nothing could more effectually prevent such an impression than the intrusion of the author’s private opinions into the dialogue. Do they imagine at home that I am so inexpert in the theory of drama as not to know this? Of course I know it, and act accordingly. In no other play that I have written is the author so external to the action, so entirely absent from it, as in this last one.” “They say,” he continued, “that the book preaches Nihilism. Not at all. It is not concerned to preach anything whatsoever. It merely points to the ferment of Nihilism going on under the surface, at home as elsewhere. A Pastor Manders will always goad one or other Mrs. Alving to revolt. And just because she is a woman, she will, when once she has begun, go to the utmost extremes.” Towards the end of January Ibsen wrote from Rome to Olaf Skavlan: “These last weeks have brought me a wealth of experiences, lessons, and discoveries. I, of course, foresaw that my new play would call forth a howl from the camp of the stagnationists; and for this I care no more than for the barking of a pack of chained dogs. But the pusillanimity which I have observed among the so-called Liberals has given me cause for reflection. The very day after my play was published the _Dagblad_ rushed out a hurriedly-written article, evidently designed to purge itself of all suspicion of complicity in my work. This was entirely unnecessary. I myself am responsible for what I write, I and no one else. I cannot possibly embarrass any party, for to no party do I belong. I stand like a solitary franc-tireur at the outposts, and fight for my own hand. The only man in Norway who has stood up freely, frankly, and courageously for me is Björnson. It is just like him. He has in truth a great, kingly soul, and I shall never forget his action in this matter.” One more quotation completes the history of these stirring January days, as written by Ibsen himself. It occurs in a letter to a Danish journalist, Otto Borchsenius. “It may well be,” the poet writes, “that the play is in several respects rather daring. But it seemed to me that the time had come for moving some boundary-posts. And this was an undertaking for which a man of the older generation, like myself, was better fitted than the many younger authors who might desire to do something of the kind. I was prepared for a storm; but such storms one must not shrink from encountering. That would be cowardice.” It happened that, just in these days, the present writer had frequent opportunities of conversing with Ibsen, and of hearing from his own lips almost all the views expressed in the above extracts. He was especially emphatic, I remember, in protesting against the notion that the opinions expressed by Mrs. Alving or Oswald were to be attributed to himself. He insisted, on the contrary, that Mrs. Alving’s views were merely typical of the moral chaos inevitably produced by re-action from the narrow conventionalism represented by Manders. With one consent, the leading theatres of the three Scandinavian capitals declined to have anything to do with the play. It was more than eighteen months old before it found its way to the stage at all. In August 1883 it was acted for the first time at Helsingborg, Sweden, by a travelling company under the direction of an eminent Swedish actor, August Lindberg, who himself played Oswald. He took it on tour round the principal cities of Scandinavia, playing it, among the rest, at a minor theatre in Christiania. It happened that the boards of the Christiania Theatre were at the same time occupied by a French farce; and public demonstrations of protest were made against the managerial policy which gave _Tête de Linotte_ the preference over _Gengangere_. Gradually the prejudice against the play broke down. Already in the autumn of 1883 it was produced at the Royal (Dramatiska) Theatre in Stockholm. When the new National Theatre was opened in Christiania in 1899, _Gengangere_ found an early place in its repertory; and even the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen has since opened its doors to the tragedy. Not until April 1886 was _Gespenster_ acted in Germany, and then only at a private performance, at the Stadttheater, Augsburg, the poet himself being present. In the following winter it was acted at the famous Court Theatre at Meiningen, again in the presence of the poet. The first (private) performance in Berlin took place on January 9, 1887, at the Residenz Theater; and when the Freie Bühne, founded on the model of the Paris Théâtre Libre, began its operations two years later (September 29, 1889), _Gespenster_ was the first play that it produced. The Freie Bühne gave the initial impulse to the whole modern movement which has given Germany a new dramatic literature; and the leaders of the movement, whether authors or critics, were one and all ardent disciples of Ibsen, who regarded _Gespenster_ as his typical masterpiece. In Germany, then, the play certainly did, in Ibsen’s own words, “move some boundary-posts.” The Prussian censorship, presently withdrew its veto, and on November 27, 1894, the two leading literary theatres of Berlin, the Deutsches Theater and the Lessing Theater, gave simultaneous performances of the tragedy. Everywhere in Germany and Austria it is now freely performed; but it is naturally one of the least popular of Ibsen’s plays. It was with _Les Revenants_ that Ibsen made his first appearance on the French stage. The play was produced by the Théâtre Libre (at the Théâtre des Menus-Plaisirs) on May 29, 1890. Here, again, it became the watchword of the new school of authors and critics, and aroused a good deal of opposition among the old school. But the most hostile French criticisms were moderation itself compared with the torrents of abuse which were poured upon _Ghosts_ by the journalists of London when, on March 13, 1891, the Independent Theatre, under the direction of Mr. J. T. Grein, gave a private performance of the play at the Royalty Theatre, Soho. I have elsewhere[2] placed upon record some of the amazing feats of vituperation achieved of the critics, and will not here recall them. It is sufficient to say that if the play had been a tenth part as nauseous as the epithets hurled at it and its author, the Censor’s veto would have been amply justified. That veto is still (1906) in force. England enjoys the proud distinction of being the one country in the world where _Ghosts_ may not be publicly acted. In the United States, the first performance of the play in English took place at the Berkeley Lyceum, New York City, on January 5, 1894. The production was described by Mr. W. D. Howells as “a great theatrical event—the very greatest I have ever known.” Other leading men of letters were equally impressed by it. Five years later, a second production took place at the Carnegie Lyceum; and an adventurous manager has even taken the play on tour in the United States. The Italian version of the tragedy, _Gli Spettri_, has ever since 1892 taken a prominent place in the repertory of the great actors Zaccone and Novelli, who have acted it, not only throughout Italy, but in Austria, Germany, Russia, Spain, and South America. In an interview, published immediately after Ibsen’s death, Björnstjerne Björnson, questioned as to what he held to be his brother-poet’s greatest work, replied, without a moment’s hesitation, _Gengangere_. This dictum can scarcely, I think, be accepted without some qualification. Even confining our attention to the modern plays, and leaving out of comparison _The Pretenders_, _Brand_, and _Peer Gynt_, we can scarcely call _Ghosts_ Ibsen’s richest or most human play, and certainly not his profoundest or most poetical. If some omnipotent Censorship decreed the annihilation of all his works save one, few people, I imagine, would vote that that one should be _Ghosts_. Even if half a dozen works were to be saved from the wreck, I doubt whether I, for my part, would include _Ghosts_ in the list. It is, in my judgment, a little bare, hard, austere. It is the first work in which Ibsen applies his new technical method—evolved, as I have suggested, during the composition of _A Doll’s House_—and he applies it with something of fanaticism. He is under the sway of a prosaic ideal—confessed in the phrase, “My object was to make the reader feel that he was going through a piece of real experience”—and he is putting some constraint upon the poet within him. The action moves a little stiffly, and all in one rhythm. It lacks variety and suppleness. Moreover, the play affords some slight excuse for the criticism which persists in regarding Ibsen as a preacher rather than as a creator—an author who cares more for ideas and doctrines than for human beings. Though Mrs. Alving, Engstrand and Regina are rounded and breathing characters, it cannot be denied that Manders strikes one as a clerical type rather than an individual, while even Oswald might not quite unfairly be described as simply and solely his father’s son, an object-lesson in heredity. We cannot be said to know him, individually and intimately, as we know Helmer or Stockmann, Hialmar Ekdal or Gregers Werle. Then, again, there are one or two curious flaws in the play. The question whether Oswald’s “case” is one which actually presents itself in the medical books seems to me of very trifling moment. It is typically true, even if it be not true in detail. The suddenness of the catastrophe may possibly be exaggerated, its premonitions and even its essential nature may be misdescribed. On the other hand, I conceive it probable that the poet had documents to found upon, which may be unknown to his critics. I have never taken any pains to satisfy myself upon the point, which seems to me quite immaterial. There is not the slightest doubt that the life-history of a Captain Alving may, and often does, entail upon posterity consequences quite as tragic as those which ensue in Oswald’s case, and far more wide-spreading. That being so, the artistic justification of the poets presentment of the case is certainly not dependent on its absolute scientific accuracy. The flaws above alluded to are of another nature. One of them is the prominence given to the fact that the Asylum is uninsured. No doubt there is some symbolical purport in the circumstance; but I cannot think that it is either sufficiently clear or sufficiently important to justify the emphasis thrown upon it at the end of the second act. Another dubious point is Oswald’s argument in the first act as to the expensiveness of marriage as compared with free union. Since the parties to free union, as he describes it, accept all the responsibilities of marriage, and only pretermit the ceremony, the difference of expense, one would suppose, must be neither more nor less than the actual marriage fee. I have never seen this remark of Oswald’s adequately explained, either as a matter of economic fact, or as a trait of character. Another blemish, of somewhat greater moment, is the inconceivable facility with which, in the third act, Manders suffers himself to be victimised by Engstrand. All these little things, taken together, detract, as it seems to me, from the artistic completeness of the play, and impair its claim to rank as the poet’s masterpiece. Even in prose drama, his greatest and most consummate achievements were yet to come. Must we, then, wholly dissent from Björnson’s judgment? I think not. In a historical, if not in an æsthetic, sense, _Ghosts_ may well rank as Ibsen’s greatest work. It was the play which first gave the full measure of his technical and spiritual originality and daring. It has done far more than any other of his plays to “move boundary-posts.” It has advanced the frontiers of dramatic art and implanted new ideals, both technical and intellectual, in the minds of a whole generation of playwrights. It ranks with _Hernani_ and _La Dame aux Camélias_ among the epoch-making plays of the nineteenth century, while in point of essential originality it towers above them. We cannot, I think, get nearer to the truth than George Brandes did in the above-quoted phrase from his first notice of the play, describing it as not, perhaps, the poet’s greatest work, but certainly his noblest deed. In another essay, Brandes has pointed to it, with equal justice, as marking Ibsen’s final breach with his early—one might almost say his hereditary—romanticism. He here becomes, at last, “the most modern of the moderns.” “This, I am convinced,” says the Danish critic, “is his imperishable glory, and will give lasting life to his works.” W. A. A DOLL’S HOUSE CHARACTERS. TORVALD HELMER. NORA, _his wife_. DOCTOR RANK. MRS. LINDEN.[3] NILS KROGSTAD. THE HELMERS’ THREE CHILDREN. ANNA,[4] _their nurse_. A MAID-SERVANT (ELLEN). A PORTER. _The action passes in Helmer’s house (a flat) in Christiania._ ----- Footnote 1: _Fortnightly Review_, July 1906. Footnote 2: See “The Mausoleum of Ibsen,” _Fortnightly Review_, August 1893. See also Mr. Bernard Shaw’s _Quintessence of Ibsenism_, p. 89, and my introduction to _Ghosts_ in the single-volume edition (Walter Scott). Footnote 3: In the original “Fru Linde.” Footnote 4: In the original “Anne-Marie.” A DOLL’S HOUSE. -------------- ACT FIRST. _A room, comfortably and tastefully, but not expensively, furnished. In the back, on the right, a door leads to the hall; on the left another door leads to HELMER’S study. Between the two doors a pianoforte. In the middle of the left wall a door, and nearer the front a window. Near the window a round table with arm-chairs and a small sofa. In the right wall, somewhat to the back, a door, and against the same wall, further forward, a porcelain stove; in front of it a couple of arm-chairs and a rocking-chair. Between the stove and the side-door a small table. Engravings on the walls. A what-not with china and bric-à-brac. A small bookcase filled with handsomely bound books. Carpet. A fire in the stove. It is a winter day._ _A bell rings in the hall outside. Presently the outer door of the flat is heard to open. Then NORA enters, humming gaily. She is in outdoor dress, and carries several parcels, which she lays on the right-hand table. She leaves the door into the hall open, and a PORTER is seen outside, carrying a Christmas-tree and a basket, which he gives to the MAID-SERVANT who has opened the door._ NORA. Hide the Christmas-tree carefully, Ellen; the children must on no account see it before this evening, when it’s lighted up. [_To the_ PORTER, _taking out her purse._] How much? PORTER. Fifty öre.[5] NORA. There is a crown. No, keep the change. [_The_ PORTER _thanks her and goes._ NORA _shuts the door. She continues smiling in quiet glee as she takes off her outdoor things. Taking from her pocket a bag of macaroons, she eats one or two. Then she goes on tip-toe to her husband’s door and listens._ NORA. Yes; he is at home. [_She begins humming again, crossing to the table on the right._ HELMER. [_In his room._] Is that my lark twittering there? NORA. [_Busy opening some of her parcels._] Yes, it is. HELMER. Is it the squirrel frisking around? NORA. Yes! HELMER. When did the squirrel get home? NORA. Just this minute. [_Hides the bag of macaroons in her pocket and wipes her mouth._] Come here, Torvald, and see what I’ve been buying. HELMER. Don’t interrupt me. [_A little later he opens the door and looks in, pen in hand._] Buying, did you say? What! All that? Has my little spendthrift been making the money fly again? NORA. Why, Torvald, surely we can afford to launch out a little now. It’s the first Christmas we haven’t had to pinch. HELMER. Come come; we can’t afford to squander money. NORA. Oh yes, Torvald, do let us squander a little, now—just the least little bit! You know you’ll soon be earning heaps of money. HELMER. Yes, from New Year’s Day. But there’s a whole quarter before my first salary is due. NORA. Never mind; we can borrow in the meantime. HELMER. Nora! [_He goes up to her and takes her playfully by the ear._] Still my little featherbrain! Supposing I borrowed a thousand crowns to-day, and you made ducks and drakes of them during Christmas week, and then on New Year’s Eve a tile blew off the roof and knocked my brains out—— NORA. [_Laying her hand on his mouth._] Hush! How can you talk so horridly? HELMER. But supposing it were to happen—what then? NORA. If anything so dreadful happened, it would be all the same to me whether I was in debt or not. HELMER. But what about the creditors? NORA. They! Who cares for _them_? They’re only strangers. HELMER. Nora, Nora! What a _woman_ you are! But seriously, Nora, you know my principles on these points. No debts! No borrowing! Home life ceases to be free and beautiful as soon as it is founded on borrowing and debt. We two have held out bravely till now, and we are not going to give in at the last. NORA. [_Going to the fireplace._] Very well—as you please, Torvald. HELMER. [_Following her._] Come come; my little lark mustn’t droop her wings like that. What? Is my squirrel in the sulks? [_Takes out his purse._] Nora, what do you think I have here? NORA. [_Turning round quickly._] Money! HELMER. There! [_Gives her some notes._] Of course I know all sorts of things are wanted at Christmas. NORA. [_Counting._] Ten, twenty, thirty, forty. Oh, thank you, thank you, Torvald! This will go a long way. HELMER. I should hope so. NORA. Yes, indeed; a long way! But come here, and let me show you all I’ve been buying. And so cheap! Look, here’s a new suit for Ivar, and a little sword. Here are a horse and a trumpet for Bob. And here are a doll and a cradle for Emmy. They’re only common; but they’re good enough for her to pull to pieces. And dress-stuffs and kerchiefs for the servants. I ought to have got something better for old Anna. HELMER. And what’s in that other parcel? NORA. [_Crying out._] No, Torvald, you’re not to see that until this evening! HELMER. Oh! Ah! But now tell me, you little spendthrift, have you thought of anything for yourself? NORA. For myself! Oh, I don’t want anything. HELMER. Nonsense! Just tell me something sensible you would like to have. NORA. No, really I don’t know of anything——Well, listen, Torvald—— HELMER. Well? NORA. [_Playing with his coat-buttons, without looking him in the face._] If you really want to give me something, you might, you know—you might—— HELMER. Well? Out with it! NORA. [_Quickly._] You might give me money, Torvald. Only just what you think you can spare; then I can buy something with it later on. HELMER. But, Nora—— NORA. Oh, please do, dear Torvald, please do! I should hang the money in lovely gilt paper on the Christmas-tree. Wouldn’t that be fun? HELMER. What do they call the birds that are always making the money fly? NORA. Yes, I know—spendthrifts,[6] of course. But please do as I ask you, Torvald. Then I shall have time to think what I want most. Isn’t that very sensible, now? HELMER. [_Smiling._] Certainly; that is to say, if you really kept the money I gave you, and really spent it on something for yourself. But it all goes in housekeeping, and for all manner of useless things, and then I have to pay up again. NORA. But, Torvald—— HELMER. Can you deny it, Nora dear? [_He puts his arm round her._] It’s a sweet little lark, but it gets through a lot of money. No one would believe how much it costs a man to keep such a little bird as you. NORA. For shame! How can you say so? Why, I save as much as ever I can. HELMER. [_Laughing._] Very true—as much as you can—but that’s precisely nothing. NORA. [_Hums and smiles with covert glee._] H’m! If you only knew, Torvald, what expenses we larks and squirrels have. HELMER. You’re a strange little being! Just like your father—always on the look-out for all the money you can lay your hands on; but the moment you have it, it seems to slip through your fingers; you never know what becomes of it. Well, one must take you as you are. It’s in the blood. Yes, Nora, that sort of thing is hereditary. NORA. I wish I had inherited many of papa’s qualities. HELMER. And I don’t wish you anything but just what you are—my own, sweet little song-bird. But I say—it strikes me you look so—so—what shall I call it?—so suspicious to-day—— NORA. Do I? HELMER. You do, indeed. Look me full in the face. NORA. [_Looking at him._] Well? HELMER. [_Threatening with his finger._] Hasn’t the little sweet-tooth been playing pranks to-day? NORA. No; how can you think such a thing! HELMER. Didn’t she just look in at the confectioner’s? NORA. No, Torvald; really—— HELMER. Not to sip a little jelly? NORA. No; certainly not. HELMER. Hasn’t she even nibbled a macaroon or two? NORA. No, Torvald, indeed, indeed! HELMER. Well, well, well; of course I’m only joking. NORA. [_Goes to the table on the right._] I shouldn’t think of doing what you disapprove of. HELMER. No, I’m sure of that; and, besides, you’ve given me your word——[_Going towards her._] Well, keep your little Christmas secrets to yourself, Nora darling. The Christmas-tree will bring them all to light, I daresay. NORA. Have you remembered to invite Doctor Rank? HELMER. No. But it’s not necessary; he’ll come as a matter of course. Besides, I shall ask him when he looks in to-day. I’ve ordered some capital wine. Nora, you can’t think how I look forward to this evening. NORA. And I too. How the children will enjoy themselves, Torvald! HELMER. Ah, it’s glorious to feel that one has an assured position and ample means. Isn’t it delightful to think of? NORA. Oh, it’s wonderful! HELMER. Do you remember last Christmas? For three whole weeks beforehand you shut yourself up every evening till long past midnight to make flowers for the Christmas-tree, and all sorts of other marvels that were to have astonished us. I was never so bored in my life. NORA. I didn’t bore myself at all. HELMER. [_Smiling._] But it came to little enough in the end, Nora. NORA. Oh, are you going to tease me about that again? How could I help the cat getting in and pulling it all to pieces? HELMER. To be sure you couldn’t, my poor little Nora. You did your best to give us all pleasure, and that’s the main point. But, all the same, it’s a good thing the hard times are over. NORA. Oh, isn’t it wonderful? HELMER. Now I needn’t sit here boring myself all alone; and you needn’t tire your blessed eyes and your delicate little fingers—— NORA. [_Clapping her hands._] No, I needn’t, need I, Torvald? Oh, how wonderful it is to think of! [_Takes his arm._] And now I’ll tell you how I think we ought to manage, Torvald. As soon as Christmas is over—-[_The hall-door bell rings._] Oh, there’s a ring! [_Arranging the room._] That’s somebody come to call. How tiresome! HELMER. I’m “not at home” to callers; remember that. ELLEN. [_In the doorway._] A lady to see you, ma’am. NORA. Show her in. ELLEN. [_To_ HELMER.] And the doctor has just come, sir. HELMER. Has he gone into my study? ELLEN. Yes, sir. [HELMER _goes into his study._ ELLEN _ushers in_ MRS. LINDEN, _in travelling costume, and goes out, closing the door._ MRS. LINDEN. [_Embarrassed and hesitating._] How do you do, Nora? NORA. [_Doubtfully._] How do you do? MRS. LINDEN. I see you don’t recognise me. NORA. No, I don’t think—oh yes!—I believe——[_Suddenly brightening._] What, Christina! Is it really you? MRS. LINDEN. Yes; really I! NORA. Christina! And to think I didn’t know you! But how could I——[_More softly._] How changed you are, Christina! MRS. LINDEN. Yes, no doubt. In nine or ten years—— NORA. Is it really so long since we met? Yes, so it is. Oh, the last eight years have been a happy time, I can tell you. And now you have come to town? All that long journey in mid-winter! How brave of you! MRS. LINDEN. I arrived by this morning’s steamer. NORA. To have a merry Christmas, of course. Oh, how delightful! Yes, we _will_ have a merry Christmas. Do take your things off. Aren’t you frozen? [_Helping her._] There; now we’ll sit cosily by the fire. No, you take the arm-chair; I shall sit in this rocking-chair. [_Seizes her hands._] Yes, now I can see the dear old face again. It was only at the first glance——But you’re a little paler, Christina—and perhaps a little thinner. MRS. LINDEN. And much, much older, Nora. NORA. Yes, perhaps a little older—not much—ever so little. [_She suddenly checks herself; seriously._] Oh, what a thoughtless wretch I am! Here I sit chattering on, and——Dear, dear Christina, can you forgive me! MRS. LINDEN. What do you mean, Nora? NORA. [_Softly._] Poor Christina! I forgot: you are a widow. MRS. LINDEN. Yes; my husband died three years ago. NORA. I know, I know; I saw it in the papers. Oh, believe me, Christina, I did mean to write to you; but I kept putting it off, and something always came in the way. MRS. LINDEN. I can quite understand that, Nora dear. NORA. No, Christina; it was horrid of me. Oh, you poor darling! how much you must have gone through!—And he left you nothing? MRS. LINDEN. Nothing. NORA. And no children? MRS. LINDEN. None. NORA. Nothing, nothing at all? MRS. LINDEN. Not even a sorrow or a longing to dwell upon. NORA. [_Looking at her incredulously._] My dear Christina, how is that possible? MRS. LINDEN. [_Smiling sadly and stroking her hair._] Oh, it happens so sometimes, Nora. NORA. So utterly alone! How dreadful that must be! I have three of the loveliest children. I can’t show them to you just now; they’re out with their nurse. But now you must tell me everything. MRS. LINDEN. No, no; I want you to tell me—— NORA. No, you must begin; I won’t be egotistical to-day. To-day I’ll think only of you. Oh! but I must tell you one thing—perhaps you’ve heard of our great stroke of fortune? MRS. LINDEN. No. What is it? NORA. Only think! my husband has been made manager of the Joint Stock Bank. MRS. LINDEN. Your husband! Oh, how fortunate! NORA. Yes; isn’t it? A lawyer’s position is so uncertain, you see, especially when he won’t touch any business that’s the least bit—shady, as of course Torvald never would; and there I quite agree with him. Oh! you can imagine how glad we are. He is to enter on his new position at the New Year, and then he’ll have a large salary, and percentages. In future we shall be able to live quite differently—just as we please, in fact. Oh, Christina, I feel so lighthearted and happy! It’s delightful to have lots of money, and no need to worry about things, isn’t it? MRS. LINDEN. Yes; at any rate it must be delightful to have what you need. NORA. No, not only what you need, but heaps of money—_heaps_! MRS. LINDEN. [_Smiling._] Nora, Nora, haven’t you learnt reason yet? In our schooldays you were a shocking little spendthrift. NORA. [_Quietly smiling._] Yes; that’s what Torvald says I am still. [_Holding up her forefinger._] But “Nora, Nora” is not so silly as you all think. Oh! I haven’t had the chance to be much of a spendthrift. We have both had to work. MRS. LINDEN. You too? NORA. Yes, light fancy work: crochet, and embroidery, and things of that sort; [_Carelessly_] and other work too. You know, of course, that Torvald left the Government service when we were married. He had little chance of promotion, and of course he required to make more money. But in the first year after our marriage he overworked himself terribly. He had to undertake all sorts of extra work, you know, and to slave early and late. He couldn’t stand it, and fell dangerously ill. Then the doctors declared he must go to the South. MRS. LINDEN. You spent a whole year in Italy, didn’t you? NORA. Yes, we did. It wasn’t easy to manage, I can tell you. It was just after Ivar’s birth. But of course we had to go. Oh, it was a wonderful, delicious journey! And it saved Torvald’s life. But it cost a frightful lot of money, Christina. MRS. LINDEN. So I should think. NORA. Twelve hundred dollars! Four thousand eight hundred crowns![7] Isn’t that a lot of money? MRS. LINDEN. How lucky you had the money to spend! NORA. We got it from father, you must know. MRS. LINDEN. Ah, I see. He died just about that time, didn’t he? NORA. Yes, Christina, just then. And only think! I couldn’t go and nurse him! I was expecting little Ivar’s birth daily; and then I had my poor sick Torvald to attend to. Dear, kind old father! I never saw him again, Christina. Oh! that’s the hardest thing I have had to bear since my marriage. MRS. LINDEN. I know how fond you were of him. But then you went to Italy? NORA. Yes; you see, we had the money, and the doctors said we must lose no time. We started a month later. MRS. LINDEN. And your husband came back completely cured. NORA. Sound as a bell. MRS. LINDEN. But—the doctor? NORA. What do you mean? MRS. LINDEN. I thought as I came in your servant announced the doctor—— NORA. Oh, yes; Doctor Rank. But he doesn’t come professionally. He is our best friend, and never lets a day pass without looking in. No, Torvald hasn’t had an hour’s illness since that time. And the children are so healthy and well, and so am I. [_Jumps up and claps her hands._] Oh, Christina, Christina, what a wonderful thing it is to live and to be happy!—Oh, but it’s really too horrid of me! Here am I talking about nothing but my own concerns. [_Seats herself upon a footstool close to CHRISTINA, and lays her arms on her friend’s lap._] Oh, don’t be angry with me! Now tell me, is it really true that you didn’t love your husband? What made you marry him, then? MRS. LINDEN. My mother was still alive, you see, bedridden and helpless; and then I had my two younger brothers to think of. I didn’t think it would be right for me to refuse him. NORA. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been. I suppose he was rich then? MRS. LINDEN. Very well off, I believe. But his business was uncertain. It fell to pieces at his death, and there was nothing left. NORA. And then——? MRS. LINDEN. Then I had to fight my way by keeping a shop, a little school, anything I could turn my hand to. The last three years have been one long struggle for me. But now it is over, Nora. My poor mother no longer needs me; she is at rest. And the boys are in business, and can look after themselves. NORA. How free your life must feel! MRS. LINDEN. No, Nora; only inexpressibly empty. No one to live for! [_Stands up restlessly._] That’s why I could not bear to stay any longer in that out-of-the way corner. Here it must be easier to find something to take one up—to occupy one’s thoughts. If I could only get some settled employment—some office work. NORA. But, Christina, that’s such drudgery, and you look worn out already. It would be ever so much better for you to go to some watering-place and rest. MRS. LINDEN. [_Going to the window._] I have no father to give me the money, Nora. NORA. [_Rising._] Oh, don’t be vexed with me. MRS. LINDEN. [_Going to her._] My dear Nora, don’t you be vexed with me. The worst of a position like mine is that it makes one so bitter. You have no one to work for, yet you have to be always on the strain. You must live; and so you become selfish. When I heard of the happy change in your fortunes—can you believe it?—I was glad for my own sake more than for yours. NORA. How do you mean? Ah, I see! You think Torvald can perhaps do something for you. MRS. LINDEN. Yes; I thought so. NORA. And so he shall, Christina. Just you leave it all to me. I shall lead up to it beautifully!—I shall think of some delightful plan to put him in a good humour! Oh, I should so love to help you. MRS. LINDEN. How good of you, Nora, to stand by me so warmly! Doubly good in you, who know so little of the troubles and burdens of life. NORA. I? I know so little of——? MRS. LINDEN. [_Smiling._] Oh, well—a little fancy-work, and so forth.—You’re a child, Nora. NORA. [_Tosses her head and paces the room._] Oh, come, you mustn’t be so patronising! MRS. LINDEN. No? NORA. You’re like the rest. You all think I’m fit for nothing really serious—— MRS. LINDEN. Well, well—— NORA. You think I’ve had no troubles in this weary world. MRS. LINDEN. My dear Nora, you’ve just told me all your troubles. NORA. Pooh—those trifles! [_Softly._] I haven’t told you the great thing. MRS. LINDEN. The great thing? What do you mean? NORA. I know you look down upon me, Christina; but you have no right to. You are proud of having worked so hard and so long for your mother. MRS. LINDEN. I am sure I don’t look down upon any one; but it’s true I am both proud and glad when I remember that I was able to keep my mother’s last days free from care. NORA. And you’re proud to think of what you have done for your brothers, too. MRS. LINDEN. Have I not the right to be? NORA. Yes indeed. But now let me tell you, Christina—I, too, have something to be proud and glad of. MRS. LINDEN. I don’t doubt it. But what do you mean? NORA. Hush! Not so loud. Only think, if Torvald were to hear! He mustn’t—not for worlds! No one must know about it, Christina—no one but you. MRS. LINDEN. Why, what can it be? NORA. Come over here. [_Draws her down beside her on the sofa._] Yes, Christina—I, too, have something to be proud and glad of. I saved Torvald’s life. MRS. LINDEN. Saved his life? How? NORA. I told you about our going to Italy. Torvald would have died but for that. MRS. LINDEN. Well—and your father gave you the money. NORA. [_Smiling._] Yes, so Torvald and every one believes; but—— MRS. LINDEN. But——? NORA. Papa didn’t give us one penny. It was _I_ that found the money. MRS. LINDEN. You? All that money? NORA. Twelve hundred dollars. Four thousand eight hundred crowns. What do you say to that? MRS. LINDEN. My dear Nora, how did you manage it? Did you win it in the lottery? NORA. [_Contemptuously_] In the lottery? Pooh! Any one could have done _that_! MRS. LINDEN. Then wherever did you get it from? NORA. [_Hums and smiles mysteriously._] H’m; tra-la-la-la! MRS. LINDEN. Of course you couldn’t borrow it. NORA. No? Why not? MRS. LINDEN. Why, a wife can’t borrow without her husband’s consent. NORA. [_Tossing her head._] Oh! when the wife has some idea of business, and knows how to set about things—— MRS. LINDEN. But, Nora, I don’t understand—— NORA. Well, you needn’t. I never said I borrowed the money. There are many ways I may have got it. [_Throws herself back on the sofa._] I may have got it from some admirer. When one is so—attractive as I am—— MRS. LINDEN. You’re too silly, Nora. NORA. Now I’m sure you’re dying of curiosity, Christina—— MRS. LINDEN. Listen to me, Nora dear: haven’t you been a little rash? NORA. [_Sitting upright again._] Is it rash to save one’s husband’s life? MRS. LINDEN. I think it was rash of you, without his knowledge—— NORA. But it would have been fatal for him to know! Can’t you understand that? He wasn’t even to suspect how ill he was. The doctors came to me privately and told me his life was in danger—that nothing could save him but a winter in the South. Do you think I didn’t try diplomacy first? I told him how I longed to have a trip abroad, like other young wives; I wept and prayed; I said he ought to think of my condition, and not to thwart me; and then I hinted that he could borrow the money. But then, Christina, he got almost angry. He said I was frivolous, and that it was his duty as a husband not to yield to my whims and fancies—so he called them. Very well, thought I, but saved you must be; and then I found the way to do it. MRS. LINDEN. And did your husband never learn from your father that the money was not from him? NORA. No; never. Papa died at that very time. I meant to have told him all about it, and begged him to say nothing. But he was so ill—unhappily, it wasn’t necessary. MRS. LINDEN. And you have never confessed to your husband? NORA. Good heavens! What can you be thinking of? _Tell him_, when he has such a loathing of debt! And besides—how painful and humiliating it would be for Torvald, with his manly self-respect, to know that he owed anything to me! It would utterly upset the relation between us; our beautiful, happy home would never again be what it is. MRS. LINDEN. Will you never tell him? NORA. [_Thoughtfully, half-smiling._] Yes, some time perhaps—many, many years hence, when I’m—not so pretty. You mustn’t laugh at me! Of course I mean when Torvald is not so much in love with me as he is now; when it doesn’t amuse him any longer to see me dancing about, and dressing up and acting. Then it might be well to have something in reserve. [_Breaking off._] Nonsense! nonsense! That time will never come. Now, what do you say to my grand secret, Christina? Am I fit for nothing now? You may believe it has cost me a lot of anxiety. It has been no joke to meet my engagements punctually. You must know, Christina, that in business there are things called instalments, and quarterly interest, that are terribly hard to provide for. So I’ve had to pinch a little here and there, wherever I could. I couldn’t save much out of the housekeeping, for of course Torvald had to live well. And I couldn’t let the children go about badly dressed; all I got for them, I spent on them, the blessed darlings! MRS. LINDEN. Poor Nora! So it had to come out of your own pocket-money. NORA. Yes, of course. After all, the whole thing was my doing. When Torvald gave me money for clothes, and so on, I never spent more than half of it; I always bought the simplest and cheapest things. It’s a mercy that everything suits me so well—Torvald never had any suspicions. But it was often very hard, Christina dear. For it’s nice to be beautifully dressed—now, isn’t it? MRS. LINDEN. Indeed it is. NORA. Well, and besides that, I made money in other ways. Last winter I was so lucky—I got a heap of copying to do. I shut myself up every evening and wrote far into the night. Oh, sometimes I was so tired, so tired. And yet it was splendid to work in that way and earn money. I almost felt as if I was a man. MRS. LINDEN. Then how much have you been able to pay off? NORA. Well, I can’t precisely say. It’s difficult to keep that sort of business clear. I only know that I’ve paid everything I could scrape together. Sometimes I really didn’t know where to turn. [_Smiles._] Then I used to sit here and pretend that a rich old gentleman was in love with me—— MRS. LINDEN. What! What gentleman? NORA. Oh, nobody!—that he was dead now, and that when his will was opened, there stood in large letters: “Pay over at once everything of which I die possessed to that charming person, Mrs. Nora Helmer.” MRS. LINDEN. But, my dear Nora—what gentleman do you mean? NORA. Oh dear, can’t you understand? There wasn’t any old gentleman: it was only what I used to dream and dream when I was at my wits’ end for money. But it doesn’t matter now—the tiresome old creature may stay where he is for me. I care nothing for him or his will; for now my troubles are over. [_Springing up._] Oh, Christina, how glorious it is to think of! Free from all anxiety! Free, quite free. To be able to play and romp about with the children; to have things tasteful and pretty in the house, exactly as Torvald likes it! And then the spring will soon be here, with the great blue sky. Perhaps then we shall have a little holiday. Perhaps I shall see the sea again. Oh, what a wonderful thing it is to live and to be happy! [_The hall-door bell rings._ MRS. LINDEN. [_Rising._] There’s a ring. Perhaps I had better go. NORA. No; do stay. No one will come here. It’s sure to be some one for Torvald. ELLEN. [_In the doorway._] If you please, ma’am, there’s a gentleman to speak to Mr. Helmer. NORA. Who is the gentleman? KROGSTAD. [_In the doorway._] It is I, Mrs. Helmer. [MRS. LINDEN _starts and turns away to the window._ NORA. [_Goes a step towards him, anxiously, speaking low._] You? What is it? What do you want with my husband? KROGSTAD. Bank business—in a way. I hold a small post in the Joint Stock Bank, and your husband is to be our new chief, I hear. NORA. Then it is——? KROGSTAD. Only tiresome business, Mrs. Helmer; nothing more. NORA. Then will you please go to his study. [KROGSTAD _goes. She bows indifferently while she closes the door into the hall. Then she goes to the stove and looks to the fire._ MRS. LINDEN. Nora—who was that man? NORA. A Mr. Krogstad—a lawyer. MRS. LINDEN. Then it was really he? NORA. Do you know him? MRS. LINDEN. I used to know him—many years ago. He was in a lawyer’s office in our town. NORA. Yes, so he was. MRS. LINDEN. How he has changed! NORA. I believe his marriage was unhappy. MRS. LINDEN. And he is a widower now? NORA. With a lot of children. There! Now it will burn up. [_She closes the stove, and pushes the rocking-chair a little aside._ MRS. LINDEN. His business is not of the most creditable, they say? NORA. Isn’t it? I daresay not. I don’t know. But don’t let us think of business—it’s so tiresome. _DR. RANK comes out of HELMER’S room._ RANK. [_Still in the doorway._] No, no; I’m in your way. I shall go and have a chat with your wife. [_Shuts the door and sees_ MRS. LINDEN.] Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m in the way here too. NORA. No, not in the least. [_Introduces them._] Doctor Rank—Mrs. Linden. RANK. Oh, indeed; I’ve often heard Mrs. Linden’s name; I think I passed you on the stairs as I came up. MRS. LINDEN. Yes; I go so very slowly. Stairs try me so much. RANK. Ah—you are not very strong? MRS. LINDEN. Only overworked. RANK. Nothing more? Then no doubt you’ve come to town to find rest in a round of dissipation? MRS. LINDEN. I have come to look for employment. RANK. Is that an approved remedy for overwork? MRS. LINDEN. One must live, Doctor Rank. RANK. Yes, that seems to be the general opinion. NORA. Come, Doctor Rank—you want to live yourself. RANK. To be sure I do. However wretched I may be, I want to drag on as long as possible. All my patients, too, have the same mania. And it’s the same with people whose complaint is moral. At this very moment Helmer is talking to just such a moral incurable—— MRS. LINDEN. [_Softly._] Ah! NORA. Whom do you mean? RANK. Oh, a fellow named Krogstad, a man you know nothing about—corrupt to the very core of his character. But even he began by announcing, as a matter of vast importance, that he must live. NORA. Indeed? And what did he want with Torvald? RANK. I haven’t an idea; I only gathered that it was some bank business. NORA. I didn’t know that Krog—that this Mr. Krogstad had anything to do with the Bank? RANK. Yes. He has got some sort of place there. [_To_ MRS. LINDEN.] I don’t know whether, in your part of the country, you have people who go grubbing and sniffing around in search of moral rottenness—and then, when they have found a “case,” don’t rest till they have got their man into some good position, where they can keep a watch upon him. Men with a clean bill of health they leave out in the cold. MRS. LINDEN. Well, I suppose the—delicate characters require most care. RANK. [_Shrugs his shoulders._] There we have it! It’s that notion that makes society a hospital. [NORA, _deep in her own thoughts, breaks into half-stifled laughter and claps her hands._ RANK. Why do you laugh at that? Have you any idea what “society” is? NORA. What do I care for your tiresome society? I was laughing at something else—something excessively amusing. Tell me, Doctor Rank, are all the employees at the Bank dependent on Torvald now? RANK. Is that what strikes you as excessively amusing? NORA. [_Smiles and hums._] Never mind, never mind! [_Walks about the room._] Yes, it is funny to think that we—that Torvald has such power over so many people. [_Takes the bag from her pocket._] Doctor Rank, will you have a macaroon? RANK. What!—macaroons! I thought they were contraband here. NORA. Yes; but Christina brought me these. Mrs. Linden. What! I——? NORA. Oh, well! Don’t be frightened. You couldn’t possibly know that Torvald had forbidden them. The fact is, he’s afraid of me spoiling my teeth. But, oh bother, just for once!—That’s for you, Doctor Rank! [_Puts a macaroon into his mouth._] And you too, Christina. And I’ll have one while we’re about it—only a tiny one, or at most two. [_Walks about again._] Oh dear, I am happy! There’s only one thing in the world I really want. RANK. Well; what’s that? NORA. There’s something I should so like to say—in Torvald’s hearing. RANK. Then why don’t you say it? NORA. Because I daren’t, it’s so ugly. MRS. LINDEN. Ugly? RANK. In that case you’d better not. But to us you might——What is it you would so like to say in Helmer’s hearing? NORA. I should so love to say “Damn it all!”[8] RANK. Are you out of your mind? MRS. LINDEN. Good gracious, Nora——! RANK Say it—there he is! NORA. [_Hides the macaroons._] Hush—sh—sh _HELMER comes out of his room, hat in hand, with his overcoat on his arm._ NORA. [_Going to him._] Well, Torvald dear, have you got rid of him? HELMER. Yes; he has just gone. NORA. Let me introduce you—this is Christina, who has come to town—— HELMER. Christina? Pardon me, I don’t know—— NORA. Mrs. Linden, Torvald dear—Christina Linden. HELMER. [_To_ MRS. LINDEN.] Indeed! A school-friend of my wife’s, no doubt? MRS. LINDEN. Yes; we knew each other as girls. NORA. And only think! she has taken this long journey on purpose to speak to you. HELMER. To speak to me! MRS. LINDEN. Well, not quite—— NORA. You see, Christina is tremendously clever at office-work, and she’s so anxious to work under a first-rate man of business in order to learn still more—— HELMER. [_To_ MRS. LINDEN.] Very sensible indeed. NORA. And when she heard you were appointed manager—it was telegraphed, you know—she started off at once, and——Torvald, dear, for my sake, you must do something for Christina. Now can’t you? HELMER. It’s not impossible. I presume Mrs. Linden is a widow? MRS. LINDEN. Yes. HELMER. And you have already had some experience of business? MRS. LINDEN. A good deal. HELMER. Well, then, it’s very likely I may be able to find a place for you. NORA. [_Clapping her hands._] There now! There now! HELMER. You have come at a fortunate moment, Mrs. Linden. MRS. LINDEN. Oh, how can I thank you——? HELMER. [_Smiling._] There is no occasion. [_Puts on his overcoat._] But for the present you must excuse me—— RANK. Wait; I am going with you. [_Fetches his fur coat from the hall and warms it at the fire._ NORA. Don’t be long, Torvald dear. HELMER. Only an hour; not more. NORA. Are you going too, Christina? MRS. LINDEN. [_Putting on her walking things._] Yes; I must set about looking for lodgings. HELMER. Then perhaps we can go together? NORA. [_Helping her._] What a pity we haven’t a spare room for you; but it’s impossible—— MRS. LINDEN. I shouldn’t think of troubling you. Good-bye, dear Nora, and thank you for all your kindness. NORA. Good-bye for the present. Of course you’ll come back this evening. And you, too, Doctor Rank. What! If you’re well enough? Of course you’ll be well enough. Only wrap up warmly. [_They go out, talking, into the hall. Outside on the stairs are heard children’s voices._] There they are! There they are! [_She runs to the outer door and opens it. The nurse ANNA, enters the hall with the children._] Come in! Come in! [_Stoops down and kisses the children._] Oh, my sweet darlings! Do you see them, Christina? Aren’t they lovely? RANK. Don’t let us stand here chattering in the draught. HELMER. Come, Mrs. Linden; only mothers can stand such a temperature. [DR. RANK, HELMER, _and_ MRS. LINDEN _go down the stairs;_ ANNA _enters the room with the children;_ NORA _also, shutting the door._ NORA. How fresh and bright you look! And what red cheeks you’ve got! Like apples and roses. [_The children chatter to her during what follows._] Have you had great fun? That’s splendid! Oh, really! You’ve been giving Emmy and Bob a ride on your sledge!—both at once, only think! Why, you’re quite a man, Ivar. Oh, give her to me a little, Anna. My sweet little dolly! [_Takes the smallest from the nurse and dances with her._] Yes, yes; mother will dance with Bob too. What! Did you have a game of snowballs? Oh, I wish I’d been there. No; leave them, Anna; I’ll take their things off. Oh, yes, let me do it; it’s such fun. Go to the nursery; you look frozen. You’ll find some hot coffee on the stove. [_The_ NURSE _goes into the room on the left._ NORA _takes off the children’s things and throws them down anywhere, while the children talk all together._ Really! A big dog ran after you? But he didn’t bite you? No; dogs don’t bite dear little dolly children. Don’t peep into those parcels, Ivar. What is it? Wouldn’t you like to know? Take care—it’ll bite! What? Shall we have a game? What shall we play at? Hide-and-seek? Yes, let’s play hide-and-seek. Bob shall hide first. Am I to? Yes, let me hide first. [_She and the children play, with laughter and shouting, in the room and the adjacent one to the right. At last_ NORA _hides under the table; the children come rushing in, look for her, but cannot find her, hear her half-choked laughter, rush to the table, lift up the cover and see her. Loud shouts. She creeps out, as though to frighten them. Fresh shouts. Meanwhile there has been a knock at the door leading into the hall. No one has heard it. Now the door is half opened and_ KROGSTAD _appears. He waits a little; the game is renewed._ KROGSTAD. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Helmer—— NORA. [_With a suppressed cry, turns round and half jumps up._] Ah! What do you want? KROGSTAD. Excuse me; the outer door was ajar—somebody must have forgotten to shut it—— NORA. [_Standing up._] My husband is not at home, Mr. Krogstad. KROGSTAD. I know it. NORA. Then what do you want here? KROGSTAD. To say a few words to you. NORA. To me? [_To the children, softly._] Go in to Anna. What? No, the strange man won’t hurt mamma. When he’s gone we’ll go on playing. [_She leads the children into the left-hand room, and shuts the door behind them. Uneasy, in suspense._] It is to me you wish to speak? KROGSTAD. Yes, to you. NORA. To-day? But it’s not the first yet—— KROGSTAD. No, to-day is Christmas Eve. It will depend upon yourself whether you have a merry Christmas. NORA. What do you want? I’m not ready to-day—— KROGSTAD. Never mind that just now. I have come about another matter. You have a minute to spare? NORA. Oh, yes, I suppose so; although—— KROGSTAD. Good. I was sitting in the restaurant opposite, and I saw your husband go down the street—— NORA. Well? KROGSTAD. ——with a lady NORA. What then? KROGSTAD. May I ask if the lady was a Mrs. Linden? NORA. Yes. KROGSTAD. Who has just come to town? NORA. Yes. To-day. KROGSTAD. I believe she is an intimate friend of yours? NORA. Certainly. But I don’t understand—— KROGSTAD. I used to know her too. NORA. I know you did. KROGSTAD. Ah! You know all about it. I thought as much. Now, frankly, is Mrs. Linden to have a place in the Bank? NORA. How dare you catechise me in this way, Mr. Krogstad—you, a subordinate of my husband’s? But since you ask, you shall know. Yes, Mrs. Linden is to be employed. And it is I who recommended her, Mr. Krogstad. Now you know. KROGSTAD. Then my guess was right. NORA. [_Walking up and down._] You see one has a wee bit of influence, after all. It doesn’t follow because one’s only a woman——When people are in a subordinate position, Mr. Krogstad, they ought really to be careful how they offend anybody who—h’m—— KROGSTAD. ——who has influence? NORA. Exactly. KROGSTAD. [_Taking another tone._] Mrs. Helmer, will you have the kindness to employ your influence on my behalf? NORA. What? How do you mean? KROGSTAD. Will you be so good as to see that I retain my subordinate position in the Bank? NORA. What do you mean? Who wants to take it from you? KROGSTAD. Oh, you needn’t pretend ignorance. I can very well understand that it cannot be pleasant for your friend to meet me; and I can also understand now for whose sake I am to be hounded out. NORA. But I assure you—— KROGSTAD. Come come now, once for all: there is time yet, and I advise you to use your influence to prevent it. NORA. But, Mr. Krogstad, I have no influence—absolutely none. KROGSTAD. None? I thought you said a moment ago—— NORA. Of course not in that sense. I! How can you imagine that I should have any such influence over my husband? KROGSTAD. Oh, I know your husband from our college days. I don’t think he is any more inflexible than other husbands. NORA. If you talk disrespectfully of my husband, I must request you to leave the house. KROGSTAD. You are bold, madam. NORA. I am afraid of you no longer. When New Year’s Day is over, I shall soon be out of the whole business. KROGSTAD. [_Controlling himself._] Listen to me, Mrs. Helmer. If need be, I shall fight as though for my life to keep my little place in the Bank. NORA. Yes, so it seems. KROGSTAD. It’s not only for the salary: that is what I care least about. It’s something else——Well, I had better make a clean breast of it. Of course you know, like every one else, that some years ago I—got into trouble. NORA. I think I’ve heard something of the sort. KROGSTAD. The matter never came into court; but from that moment all paths were barred to me. Then I took up the business you know about. I had to turn my hand to something; and I don’t think I’ve been one of the worst. But now I must get clear of it all. My sons are growing up; for their sake I must try to recover my character as well as I can. This place in the Bank was the first step; and now your husband wants to kick me off the ladder, back into the mire. NORA. But I assure you, Mr. Krogstad, I haven’t the least power to help you. KROGSTAD. That is because you have not the will; but I can compel you. NORA. You won’t tell my husband that I owe you money? KROGSTAD. H’m; suppose I were to? NORA. It would be shameful of you. [_With tears in her voice._] The secret that is my joy and my pride—that he should learn it in such an ugly, coarse way—and from you. It would involve me in all sorts of unpleasantness—— KROGSTAD. Only unpleasantness. NORA. [_Hotly._] But just do it. It’s you that will come off worst, for then my husband will see what a bad man you are, and then you certainly won’t keep your place. KROGSTAD. I asked whether it was only domestic unpleasantness you feared? NORA. If my husband gets to know about it, he will of course pay you off at once, and then we shall have nothing more to do with you. KROGSTAD. [_Coming a pace nearer._] Listen, Mrs. Helmer: either your memory is defective, or you don’t know much about business. I must make the position a little clearer to you. NORA. How so? KROGSTAD. When your husband was ill, you came to me to borrow twelve hundred dollars. NORA. I knew of nobody else. KROGSTAD. I promised to find you the money—— NORA. And you did find it. KROGSTAD. I promised to find you the money, on certain conditions. You were so much taken up at the time about your husband’s illness, and so eager to have the wherewithal for your journey, that you probably did not give much thought to the details. Allow me to remind you of them. I promised to find you the amount in exchange for a note of hand, which I drew up. NORA. Yes, and I signed it. KROGSTAD. Quite right. But then I added a few lines, making your father security for the debt. Your father was to sign this. NORA. Was to——? He did sign it! KROGSTAD. I had left the date blank. That is to say, your father was himself to date his signature. Do you recollect that? NORA. Yes, I believe—— KROGSTAD. Then I gave you the paper to send to your father, by post. Is not that so? NORA. Yes. KROGSTAD. And of course you did so at once; for within five or six days you brought me back the document with your father’s signature; and I handed you the money. NORA. Well? Have I not made my payments punctually? KROGSTAD. Fairly—yes. But to return to the point: You were in great trouble at the time, Mrs. Helmer. NORA. I was indeed! KROGSTAD. Your father was very ill, I believe? NORA. He was on his death-bed. KROGSTAD. And died soon after? NORA. Yes. KROGSTAD. Tell me, Mrs. Helmer: do you happen to recollect the day of his death? The day of the month, I mean? NORA. Father died on the 29th of September. KROGSTAD. Quite correct. I have made inquiries. And here comes in the remarkable point—[_Produces a paper_] which I cannot explain. NORA. What remarkable point? I don’t know—— KROGSTAD. The remarkable point, madam, that your father signed this paper three days after his death! NORA. What! I don’t understand—— KROGSTAD. Your father died on the 29th of September. But look here: he has dated his signature October 2nd! Is not that remarkable, Mrs. Helmer? [NORA _is silent._] Can you explain it? [NORA _continues silent._] It is noteworthy, too, that the words “October 2nd” and the year are not in your father’s handwriting, but in one which I believe I know. Well, this may be explained; your father may have forgotten to date his signature, and somebody may have added the date at random, before the fact of your father’s death was known. There is nothing wrong in that. Everything depends on the signature. Of course it is genuine, Mrs. Helmer? It was really your father himself who wrote his name here? NORA. [_After a short silence, throws her head back and looks defiantly at him._] No, it was not. _I_ wrote father’s name. KROGSTAD. Ah!—Are you aware, madam, that that is a dangerous admission? NORA. How so? You will soon get your money. KROGSTAD. May I ask you one more question? Why did you not send the paper to your father? NORA. It was impossible. Father was ill. If I had asked him for his signature, I should have had to tell him why I wanted the money; but he was so ill I really could not tell him that my husband’s life was in danger. It was impossible. KROGSTAD. Then it would have been better to have given up your tour. NORA. No, I couldn’t do that; my husband’s life depended on that journey. I couldn’t give it up. KROGSTAD. And did it never occur to you that you were playing me false? NORA. That was nothing to me. I didn’t care in the least about you. I couldn’t endure you for all the cruel difficulties you made, although you knew how ill my husband was. KROGSTAD. Mrs. Helmer, you evidently do not realise what you have been guilty of. But I can assure you it was nothing more and nothing worse that made me an outcast from society. NORA. You! You want me to believe that you did a brave thing to save your wife’s life? KROGSTAD. The law takes no account of motives. NORA. Then it must be a very bad law. KROGSTAD. Bad or not, if I produce this document in court, you will be condemned according to law. NORA. I don’t believe that. Do you mean to tell me that a daughter has no right to spare her dying father trouble and anxiety?—that a wife has no right to save her husband’s life? I don’t know much about the law, but I’m sure you’ll find, somewhere or another, that that is allowed. And you don’t know that—you, a lawyer! You must be a bad one, Mr. Krogstad. KROGSTAD. Possibly. But business—such business as ours—I do understand. You believe that? Very well; now do as you please. But this I may tell you, that if I am flung into the gutter a second time, you shall keep me company. [_Bows and goes out through hall._ NORA. [_Stands a while thinking, then tosses her head._] Oh nonsense! He wants to frighten me. I’m not so foolish as that. [_Begins folding the children’s_ _clothes. Pauses._] But——? No, it’s impossible! Why, I did it for love! CHILDREN. [_At the door, left._] Mamma, the strange man has gone now. NORA. Yes, yes, I know. But don’t tell any one about the strange man. Do you hear? Not even papa! CHILDREN. No, mamma; and now will you play with us again? NORA. No, no; not now. CHILDREN. Oh, do, mamma; you know you promised. NORA. Yes, but I can’t just now. Run to the nursery; I have so much to do. Run along, run along, and be good, my darlings! [_She pushes them gently into the inner room, and closes the door behind them. Sits on the sofa, embroiders a few stitches, but soon pauses._] No! [_Throws down the work, rises, goes to the hall door and calls out._] Ellen, bring in the Christmas-tree! [_Goes to table, left, and opens the drawer; again pauses._] No, it’s quite impossible! ELLEN. [_With Christmas-tree._] Where shall I stand it, ma’am? NORA. There, in the middle of the room. ELLEN. Shall I bring in anything else? NORA. No, thank you, I have all I want. [ELLEN, _having put down the tree, goes out._ NORA. [_Busy dressing the tree._] There must be a candle here—and flowers there.—That horrible man! Nonsense, nonsense! there’s nothing to be afraid of. The Christmas-tree shall be beautiful. I’ll do everything to please you, Torvald; I’ll sing and dance, and—— _Enter HELMER by the hall door, with a bundle of documents._ NORA. Oh! You’re back already? HELMER. Yes. Has anybody been here? NORA. Here? No. HELMER. That’s odd. I saw Krogstad come out of the house. NORA. Did you? Oh, yes, by-the-bye, he was here for a minute. HELMER. Nora, I can see by your manner that he has been begging you to put in a good word for him. NORA. Yes. HELMER. And you were to do it as if of your own accord? You were to say nothing to me of his having been here. Didn’t he suggest that too? NORA. Yes, Torvald; but—— HELMER. Nora, Nora! And you could condescend to that! To speak to such a man, to make him a promise! And then to tell me an untruth about it! NORA. An untruth! HELMER. Didn’t you say that nobody had been here? [_Threatens with his finger._] My little bird must never do that again! A song-bird must sing clear and true; no false notes. [_Puts his arm round her._] That’s so, isn’t it? Yes, I was sure of it. [_Lets her go._] And now we’ll say no more about it. [_Sits down before the fire._] Oh, how cosy and quiet it is here! [_Glances into his documents._ NORA. [_Busy with the tree, after a short silence._] Torvald! HELMER. Yes. NORA. I’m looking forward so much to the Stenborgs’ fancy ball the day after to-morrow. HELMER. And I’m on tenterhooks to see what surprise you have in store for me. NORA. Oh, it’s too tiresome! HELMER. What is? NORA. I can’t think of anything good. Everything seems so foolish and meaningless. HELMER. Has little Nora made that discovery? NORA. [_Behind his chair, with her arms on the back._] Are you very busy, Torvald? HELMER. Well—— NORA. What papers are those? HELMER. Bank business. NORA. Already! HELMER. I have got the retiring manager to let me make some necessary changes in the staff and the organization. I can do this during Christmas week. I want to have everything straight by the New Year. NORA. Then that’s why that poor Krogstad—— HELMER. H’m. NORA. [_Still leaning over the chair-back and slowly stroking his hair._] If you hadn’t been so very busy, I should have asked you a great, great favour, Torvald. HELMER. What can it be? Out with it. NORA. Nobody has such perfect taste as you; and I should so love to look well at the fancy ball. Torvald, dear, couldn’t you take me in hand, and settle what I’m to be, and arrange my costume for me? HELMER. Aha! So my wilful little woman is at a loss, and making signals of distress. NORA. Yes, please, Torvald. I can’t get on without your help. HELMER. Well, well, I’ll think it over, and we’ll soon hit upon something. NORA. Oh, how good that is of you! [_Goes to the tree again; pause._] How well the red flowers show.—Tell me, was it anything so very dreadful this Krogstad got into trouble about? HELMER. Forgery, that’s all. Don’t you know what that means? NORA. Mayn’t he have been driven to it by need? HELMER. Yes; or, like so many others, he may have done it in pure heedlessness. I am not so hard-hearted as to condemn a man absolutely for a single fault. NORA. No, surely not, Torvald! HELMER. Many a man can retrieve his character, if he owns his crime and takes the punishment. NORA. Punishment——? HELMER. But Krogstad didn’t do that. He evaded the law by means of tricks and subterfuges; and that is what has morally ruined him. NORA. Do you think that——? HELMER. Just think how a man with a thing of that sort on his conscience must be always lying and canting and shamming. Think of the mask he must wear even towards those who stand nearest him—towards his own wife and children. The effect on the children—that’s the most terrible part of it, Nora. NORA. Why? HELMER. Because in such an atmosphere of lies home life is poisoned and contaminated in every fibre. Every breath the children draw contains some germ of evil. NORA. [_Closer behind him._] Are you sure of that? HELMER. As a lawyer, my dear, I have seen it often enough. Nearly all cases of early corruption may be traced to lying mothers. NORA. Why—mothers? HELMER. It generally comes from the mother’s side; but of course the father’s influence may act in the same way. Every lawyer knows it too well. And here has this Krogstad been poisoning his own children for years past by a life of lies and hypocrisy—that is why I call him morally ruined. [_Holds out both hands to her._] So my sweet little Nora must promise not to plead his cause. Shake hands upon it. Come, come, what’s this? Give me your hand. That’s right. Then it’s a bargain. I assure you it would have been impossible for me to work with him. It gives me a positive sense of physical discomfort to come in contact with such people. [NORA _draws her hand away, and moves to the other side of the Christmas-tree._ NORA. How warm it is here. And I have so much to do. HELMER. [_Rises and gathers up his papers._] Yes, and I must try to get some of these papers looked through before dinner. And I shall think over your costume too. Perhaps I may even find something to hang in gilt paper on the Christmas-tree. [_Lays his hand on her head._] My precious little song-bird! [_He goes into his room and shuts the door._ NORA. [Softly, after a pause.] It can’t be. It’s impossible. It must be impossible! ANNA. [_At the door, left._] T NORA. No, no, no; don’t let them come to me! Keep them with you, Anna. ANNA. Very well, ma’am. [_Shuts the door._ NORA. [_Pale with terror._] Corrupt my children!—Poison my home! [_Short pause. She throws back her head._] It’s not true! It can never, never be true! ----- Footnote 5: About sixpence. There are 100 öre in a krone or crown, which is worth thirteenpence halfpenny. Footnote 6: “Spillefugl,” literally “playbird,” means a gambler. Footnote 7: The dollar (4_s._ 6_d._) was the old unit of currency in Norway. The crown was substituted for it shortly before the date of this play. Footnote 8: “Död og pine,” literally “death and torture”; but by usage a comparatively mild oath. ACT SECOND _The same room. In the corner, beside the piano, stands the Christmas-tree, stripped, and with the candles burnt out. NORA’S outdoor things lie on the sofa._ _NORA, alone, is walking about restlessly. At last she stops by the sofa, and takes up her cloak._ NORA. [_Dropping the cloak._] There’s somebody coming! [_Goes to the hall door and listens._] Nobody; of course nobody will come to-day, Christmas-day; nor to-morrow either. But perhaps——[_Opens the door and looks out._]—No, nothing in the letter-box; quite empty. [_Comes forward._] Stuff and nonsense! Of course he won’t really do anything. Such a thing couldn’t happen. It’s impossible! Why, I have three little children. _ANNA enters from the left, with a large cardboard box._ ANNA. I’ve found the box with the fancy dress at last. NORA. Thanks; put it down on the table. ANNA. [_Does so._] But I’m afraid it’s very much out of order. NORA. Oh, I wish I could tear it into a hundred thousand pieces! ANNA. Oh, no. It can easily be put to rights—just a little patience. NORA. I shall go and get Mrs. Linden to help me. ANNA. Going out again? In such weather as this! You’ll catch cold, ma’am, and be ill. NORA. Worse things might happen.—What are the children doing? ANNA. They’re playing with their Christmas presents, poor little dears; but—— NORA. Do they often ask for me? ANNA. You see they’ve been so used to having their mamma with them. NORA. Yes; but, Anna, I can’t have them so much with me in future. ANNA. Well, little children get used to anything. NORA. Do you think they do? Do you believe they would forget their mother if she went quite away? ANNA. Gracious me! Quite away? NORA. Tell me, Anna—I’ve so often wondered about it—how could you bring yourself to give your child up to strangers? ANNA. I had to when I came to nurse my little Miss Nora. NORA. But how could you make up your mind to it? ANNA. When I had the chance of such a good place? A poor girl who’s been in trouble must take what comes. That wicked man did nothing for me. NORA. But your daughter must have forgotten you. ANNA. Oh, no, ma’am, that she hasn’t. She wrote to me both when she was confirmed and when she was married. NORA. [_Embracing her._] Dear old Anna—you were a good mother to me when I was little. ANNA. My poor little Nora had no mother but me. NORA. And if my little ones had nobody else, I’m sure you would——Nonsense, nonsense! [_Opens the box._] Go in to the children. Now I must——You’ll see how lovely I shall be to-morrow. ANNA. I’m sure there will be no one at the ball so lovely as my Miss Nora. [_She goes into the room on the left._ NORA. [_Takes the costume out of the box, but soon throws it down again._] Oh, if I dared go out. If only nobody would come. If only nothing would happen here in the meantime. Rubbish; nobody is coming. Only not to think. What a delicious muff! Beautiful gloves, beautiful gloves! To forget—to forget! One, two, three, four, five, six——[_With a scream._] Ah, there they come. [_Goes towards the door, then stands irresolute._ _MRS. LINDEN enters from the hall, where she has taken off her things._ NORA. Oh, it’s you, Christina. There’s nobody else there? I’m so glad you have come. MRS. LINDEN. I hear you called at my lodgings. NORA. Yes, I was just passing. There’s something you _must_ help me with. Let us sit here on the sofa—so. To-morrow evening there’s to be a fancy ball at Consul Stenborg’s overhead, and Torvald wants me to appear as a Neapolitan fisher-girl, and dance the tarantella; I learned it at Capri. MRS. LINDEN. I see—quite a performance. NORA. Yes, Torvald wishes it. Look, this is the costume; Torvald had it made for me in Italy. But now it’s all so torn, I don’t know—— MRS. LINDEN. Oh, we shall soon set that to rights. It’s only the trimming that has come loose here and there. Have you a needle and thread? Ah, here’s the very thing. NORA. Oh, how kind of you. MRS. LINDEN. [_Sewing._] So you’re to be in costume to-morrow, Nora? I’ll tell you what—I shall come in for a moment to see you in all your glory. But I’ve quite forgotten to thank you for the pleasant evening yesterday. NORA. [_Rises and walks across the room._] Oh, yesterday, it didn’t seem so pleasant as usual.—You should have come to town a little sooner, Christina.—Torvald has certainly the art of making home bright and beautiful. MRS. LINDEN. You too, I should think, or you wouldn’t be your father’s daughter. But tell me—is Doctor Rank always so depressed as he was last evening? NORA. No, yesterday it was particularly noticeable. You see, he suffers from a dreadful illness. He has spinal consumption, poor fellow. They say his father was a horrible man, who kept mistresses and all sorts of things—so the son has been sickly from his childhood, you understand. MRS. LINDEN. [_Lets her sewing fall into her lap._] Why, my darling Nora, how do you come to know such things? NORA. [_Moving about the room._] Oh, when one has three children, one sometimes has visits from women who are half—half doctors—and they talk of one thing and another. MRS. LINDEN. [_Goes on sewing; a short pause._] Does Doctor Rank come here every day? NORA. Every day of his life. He has been Torvald’s most intimate friend from boyhood, and he’s a good friend of mine too. Doctor Rank is quite one of the family. MRS. LINDEN. But tell me—is he quite sincere? I mean, isn’t he rather given to flattering people? NORA. No, quite the contrary. Why should you think so? MRS. LINDEN. When you introduced us yesterday he said he had often heard my name; but I noticed afterwards that your husband had no notion who I was. How could Doctor Rank——? NORA. He was quite right, Christina. You see, Torvald loves me so indescribably, he wants to have me all to himself, as he says. When we were first married he was almost jealous if I even mentioned any of my old friends at home; so naturally I gave up doing it. But I often talk of the old times to Doctor Rank, for he likes to hear about them. MRS. LINDEN. Listen to me, Nora! You are still a child in many ways. I am older than you, and have had more experience. I’ll tell you something. You ought to get clear of all this with Dr. Rank. NORA. Get clear of what? MRS. LINDEN. The whole affair, I should say. You were talking yesterday of a rich admirer who was to find you money—— NORA. Yes, one who never existed, worse luck. What then? MRS. LINDEN. Has Doctor Rank money? NORA. Yes, he has. MRS. LINDEN. And nobody to provide for? NORA. Nobody. But——? MRS. LINDEN. And he comes here every day? NORA. Yes, I told you so. MRS. LINDEN. I should have thought he would have had better taste. NORA. I don’t understand you a bit. MRS. LINDEN. Don’t pretend, Nora. Do you suppose I can’t guess who lent you the twelve hundred dollars? NORA. Are you out of your senses? How can you think such a thing? A friend who comes here every day! Why, the position would be unbearable! MRS. LINDEN. Then it really is not he? NORA. No, I assure you. It never for a moment occurred to me——Besides, at that time he had nothing to lend; he came into his property afterwards. MRS. LINDEN. Well, I believe that was lucky for you, Nora dear. NORA. No, really, it would never have struck me to ask Dr. Rank——And yet, I’m certain that if I did—— MRS. LINDEN. But of course you never would. NORA. Of course not. It’s inconceivable that it should ever be necessary. But I’m quite sure that if I spoke to Doctor Rank—— MRS. LINDEN. Behind your husband’s back? NORA. I must get clear of the other thing; that’s behind his back too. I _must_ get clear of that. MRS. LINDEN. Yes, yes, I told you so yesterday; but—— NORA. [_Walking up and down._] A man can manage these things much better than a woman. MRS. LINDEN. One’s own husband, yes. NORA. Nonsense. [_Stands still._] When everything is paid, one gets back the paper. MRS. LINDEN. Of course. NORA. And can tear it into a hundred thousand pieces, and burn it up, the nasty, filthy thing! MRS. LINDEN. [_Looks at her fixedly, lays down her work, and rises slowly._] Nora, you are hiding something from me. NORA. Can you see it in my face? MRS. LINDEN. Something has happened since yesterday morning. Nora, what is it? NORA. [_Going towards her._] Christina——! [_Listens._] Hush! There’s Torvald coming home. Do you mind going into the nursery for the present? Torvald can’t bear to see dressmaking going on. Get Anna to help you. MRS. LINDEN. [_Gathers some of the things together._] Very well; but I shan’t go away until you have told me all about it. [_She goes out to the left, as_ HELMER _enters from the hall._ NORA. [_Runs to meet him._] Oh, how I’ve been longing for you to come, Torvald dear! HELMER. Was that the dressmaker——? NORA. No, Christina. She’s helping me with my costume. You’ll see how nice I shall look. HELMER. Yes, wasn’t that a happy thought of mine? NORA. Splendid! But isn’t it good of me, too, to have given in to you about the tarantella? HELMER. [_Takes her under the chin._] Good of you! To give in to your own husband? Well well, you little madcap, I know you don’t mean it. But I won’t disturb you. I daresay you want to be “trying on.” NORA. And you are going to work, I suppose? HELMER. Yes. [_Shows her a bundle of papers._] Look here. I’ve just come from the Bank—— [_Goes towards his room._ NORA. Torvald. HELMER. [_Stopping._] Yes? NORA. If your little squirrel were to beg you for something so prettily—— HELMER. Well? NORA. Would you do it? HELMER. I must know first what it is. NORA. The squirrel would skip about and play all sorts of tricks if you would only be nice and kind. HELMER. Come, then, out with it. NORA. Your lark would twitter from morning till night—— HELMER Oh, that she does in any case. NORA. I’ll be an elf and dance in the moonlight for you, Torvald. HELMER. Nora—you can’t mean what you were hinting at this morning? NORA. [_Coming nearer._] Yes, Torvald, I beg and implore you! HELMER. Have you really the courage to begin that again? NORA. Yes, yes; for my sake, you _must_ let Krogstad keep his place in the Bank. HELMER. My dear Nora, it’s his place I intend for Mrs. Linden. NORA. Yes, that’s so good of you. But instead of Krogstad, you could dismiss some other clerk. HELMER. Why, this is incredible obstinacy! Because you have thoughtlessly promised to put in a word for him, I am to——! NORA. It’s not that, Torvald. It’s for your own sake. This man writes for the most scurrilous newspapers; you said so yourself. He can do you no end of harm. I’m so terribly afraid of him—— HELMER. Ah, I understand; it’s old recollections that are frightening you. NORA. What do you mean? HELMER. Of course you’re thinking of your father. NORA. Yes—yes, of course. Only think of the shameful slanders wicked people used to write about father. I believe they would have got him dismissed if you hadn’t been sent to look into the thing, and been kind to him, and helped him. HELMER. My little Nora, between your father and me there is all the difference in the world. Your father was not altogether unimpeachable. I am; and I hope to remain so. NORA. Oh, no one knows what wicked men may hit upon. We could live so quietly and happily now, in our cosy, peaceful home, you and I and the children, Torvald! That’s why I beg and implore you—— HELMER. And it is just by pleading his cause that you make it impossible for me to keep him. It’s already known at the Bank that I intend to dismiss Krogstad. If it were now reported that the new manager let himself be turned round his wife’s little finger—— NORA. What then? HELMER. Oh, nothing, so long as a wilful woman can have her way——! I am to make myself a laughing-stock to the whole staff, and set people saying that I am open to all sorts of outside influence? Take my word for it, I should soon feel the consequences. And besides—there is one thing that makes Krogstad impossible for me to work with—— NORA. What thing? HELMER. I could perhaps have overlooked his moral failings at a pinch—— NORA. Yes, couldn’t you, Torvald? HELMER. And I hear he is good at his work. But the fact is, he was a college chum of mine—there was one of those rash friendships between us that one so often repents of later. I may as well confess it at once—he calls me by my Christian name;[9] and he is tactless enough to do it even when others are present. He delights in putting on airs of familiarity—Torvald here, Torvald there! I assure you it’s most painful to me. He would make my position at the Bank perfectly unendurable. NORA. Torvald, surely you’re not serious? HELMER. No? Why not? NORA. That’s such a petty reason. HELMER. What! Petty! Do you consider me petty! NORA. No, on the contrary, Torvald dear; and that’s just why—— HELMER. Never mind; you call my motives petty; then I must be petty too. Petty! Very well!—Now we’ll put an end to this, once for all. [_Goes to the door into the hall and calls._] Ellen! NORA. What do you want? HELMER. [_Searching among his papers._] To settle the thing. [ELLEN _enters._] Here; take this letter; give it to a messenger. See that he takes it at once. The address is on it. Here’s the money. ELLEN. Very well, sir. [_Goes with the letter._ HELMER. [_Putting his papers together._] There, Madam Obstinacy. NORA. [_Breathless._] Torvald—what was in the letter? HELMER. Krogstad’s dismissal. NORA. Call it back again, Torvald! There’s still time. Oh, Torvald, call it back again! For my sake, for your own, for the children’s sake! Do you hear, Torvald? Do it! You don’t know what that letter may bring upon us all. HELMER. Too late. NORA. Yes, too late. HELMER. My dear Nora, I forgive your anxiety, though it’s anything but flattering to me. Why should you suppose that _I_ would be afraid of a wretched scribbler’s spite? But I forgive you all the same, for it’s a proof of your great love for me. [_Takes her in his arms._] That’s as it should be, my own dear Nora. Let what will happen—when it comes to the pinch, I shall have strength and courage enough. You shall see: my shoulders are broad enough to bear the whole burden. NORA. [_Terror-struck._] What do you mean by that? HELMER. The whole burden, I say—— NORA. [_With decision._] That you shall never, never do! HELMER. Very well; then we’ll share it, Nora, as man and wife. That is how it should be. [_Petting her._] Are you satisfied now? Come, come, come, don’t look like a scared dove. It’s all nothing—foolish fancies.—Now you ought to play the tarantella through and practise with the tambourine. I shall sit in my inner room and shut both doors, so that I shall hear nothing. You can make as much noise as you please. [_Turns round in doorway._] And when Rank comes, just tell him where I’m to be found. [_He nods to her, and goes with his papers into his room, closing the door._ NORA. [_Bewildered with terror, stands as though rooted to the ground, and whispers._] He would do it. Yes, he would do it. He would do it, in spite of all the world.—No, never that, never, never! Anything rather than that! Oh, for some way of escape! What shall I do——! [_Hall bell rings._] Doctor Rank——!—Anything, anything, rather than——! [NORA _draws her hands over her face, pulls herself together, goes to the door and opens it._ RANK _stands outside hanging up his fur coat. During what follows it begins to grow dark._ NORA. Good afternoon, Doctor Rank. I knew you by your ring. But you mustn’t go to Torvald now. I believe he’s busy. RANK. And you? [_Enters and closes the door._ NORA. Oh, you know very well, I have always time for you. RANK. Thank you. I shall avail myself of your kindness as long as I can. NORA. What do you mean? As long as you can? RANK. Yes. Does _that_ frighten you? NORA. I think it’s an odd expression. Do you expect anything to happen? RANK. Something I have long been prepared for; but I didn’t think it would come so soon. NORA. [_Catching at his arm._] What have you discovered? Doctor Rank, you must tell me! RANK. [_Sitting down by the stove._] I am running down hill. There’s no help for it. NORA. [_Draws a long breath of relief._] It’s _you_——? RANK. Who else should it be?—Why lie to one’s self? I am the most wretched of all my patients, Mrs. Helmer. In these last days I have been auditing my life-account—bankrupt! Perhaps before a month is over, I shall lie rotting in the churchyard. NORA. Oh! What an ugly way to talk. RANK. The thing itself is so confoundedly ugly, you see. But the worst of it is, so many other ugly things have to be gone through first. There is only one last investigation to be made, and when that is over I shall know pretty certainly when the break-up will begin. There’s one thing I want to say to you: Helmer’s delicate nature shrinks so from all that is horrible: I will not have him in my sick-room—— NORA. But, Doctor Rank—— RANK. I won’t have him, I say—not on any account! I shall lock my door against him.—As soon as I am quite certain of the worst, I shall send you my visiting-card with a black cross on it; and then you will know that the final horror has begun. NORA. Why, you’re perfectly unreasonable to-day; and I did so want you to be in a really good humour. RANK. With death staring me in the face?—And to suffer thus for another’s sin! Where’s the justice of it? And in one way or another you can trace in every family some such inexorable retribution—— NORA. [_Stopping her ears._] Nonsense, nonsense! Now cheer up! RANK. Well, after all, the whole thing’s only worth laughing at. My poor innocent spine must do penance for my father’s wild oats. NORA. [_At table, left._] I suppose he was too fond of asparagus and Strasbourg pâté, wasn’t he? RANK. Yes; and truffles. NORA. Yes, truffles, to be sure. And oysters, I believe? RANK. Yes, oysters; oysters, of course. NORA. And then all the port and champagne! It’s sad that all these good things should attack the spine. RANK. Especially when the luckless spine attacked never had any good of them. NORA. Ah, yes, that’s the worst of it. RANK. [_Looks at her searchingly._] H’m—— NORA. [_A moment later._] Why did you smile? RANK. No; it was you that laughed. NORA. No; it was you that smiled, Dr. Rank. RANK. [_Standing up._] I see you’re deeper than I thought. NORA. I’m in such a crazy mood to-day. RANK. So it seems. NORA. [_With her hands on his shoulders._] Dear, dear Doctor Rank, death shall not take you away from Torvald and me. RANK. Oh, you’ll easily get over the loss. The absent are soon forgotten. NORA. [_Looks at him anxiously._] Do you think so? RANK. People make fresh ties, and then—— NORA. Who make fresh ties? RANK. You and Helmer will, when I am gone. You yourself are taking time by the forelock, it seems to me. What was that Mrs. Linden doing here yesterday? NORA. Oh!—you’re surely not jealous of poor Christina? RANK. Yes, I am. She will be my successor in this house. When I am out of the way, this woman will perhaps—— NORA. Hush! Not so loud! She’s in there. RANK. To-day as well? You see! NORA. Only to put my costume in order—dear me, how unreasonable you are! [_Sits on sofa._] Now do be good, Doctor Rank! To-morrow you shall see how beautifully I shall dance; and then you may fancy that I’m doing it all to please you—and of course Torvald as well. [_Takes various things out of box._] Doctor Rank, sit down here, and I’ll show you something. RANK. [_Sitting._] What is it? NORA. Look here! Look! RANK. Silk stockings. NORA. Flesh-coloured. Aren’t they lovely? It’s so dark here now; but to-morrow——No, no, no; you must only look at the feet. Oh, well, I suppose you may look at the rest too. RANK. H’m—— NORA. What are you looking so critical about? Do you think they won’t fit me? RANK. I can’t possibly give any competent opinion on that point. NORA. [_Looking at him a moment._] For shame! [_Hits him lightly on the ear with the stockings._] Take that. [_Rolls them up again._ RANK. And what other wonders am I to see? NORA. You sha’n’t see anything more; for you don’t behave nicely. [_She hums a little and searches among the things._ RANK. [_After a short silence._] When I sit here gossiping with you, I can’t imagine—I simply cannot conceive—what would have become of me if I had never entered this house. NORA. [_Smiling._] Yes, I think you do feel at home with us. RANK. [_More softly—looking straight before him._] And now to have to leave it all—— NORA. Nonsense. You sha’n’t leave us. RANK. [_In the same tone._] And not to be able to leave behind the slightest token of gratitude; scarcely even a passing regret—nothing but an empty place, that can be filled by the first comer. NORA. And if I were to ask you for——? No—— RANK. For what? NORA. For a great proof of your friendship. RANK. Yes—yes? NORA. I mean—for a very, very great service—— RANK. Would you really, for once, make me so happy? NORA. Oh, you don’t know what it is. RANK. Then tell me. NORA. No, I really can’t, Doctor Rank. It’s far, far too much—not only a service, but help and advice besides—— RANK. So much the better. I can’t think what you can mean. But go on. Don’t you trust me? NORA. As I trust no one else. I know you are my best and truest friend. So I will tell you. Well then, Doctor Rank, there is something you must help me to prevent. You know how deeply, how wonderfully Torvald loves me; he wouldn’t hesitate a moment to give his very life for my sake. RANK. [_Bending towards her._] Nora—do you think he is the only one who——? NORA. [_With a slight start._] Who——? RANK. Who would gladly give his life for you? NORA. [_Sadly._] Oh! RANK. I have sworn that you shall know it before I—go. I shall never find a better opportunity.—Yes, Nora, now I have told you; and now you know that you can trust me as you can no one else. NORA. [_Standing up; simply and calmly._] Let me pass, please. RANK. [_Makes way for her, but remains sitting._] Nora—— NORA. [_In the doorway._] Ellen, bring the lamp. [_Crosses to the stove._] Oh dear, Doctor Rank, that was too bad of you. RANK. [_Rising._] That I have loved you as deeply as—any one else? Was that too bad of me? NORA. No, but that you should have told me so. It was so unnecessary—— RANK. What do you mean? Did you know——? [ELLEN _enters with the lamp; sets it on the table and goes out again._ RANK. Nora—Mrs. Helmer—I ask you, did you know? NORA. Oh, how can I tell what I knew or didn’t know? I really can’t say——How could you be so clumsy, Doctor Rank? It was all so nice! RANK. Well, at any rate, you know now that I am at your service, body and soul. And now, go on. NORA. [_Looking at him._] Go on—now? RANK. I beg you to tell me what you want. NORA. I can tell you nothing now. RANK. Yes, yes! You mustn’t punish me in that way. Let me do for you whatever a man can. NORA. You can do nothing for me now.—Besides, I really want no help. You shall see it was only my fancy. Yes, it must be so. Of course! [_Sits in the rocking-chair, looks at him and smiles._] You are a nice person, Doctor Rank! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, now that the lamp is on the table? RANK. No; not exactly. But perhaps I ought to go—for ever. NORA. No, indeed you mustn’t. Of course you must come and go as you’ve always done. You know very well that Torvald can’t do without you. RANK. Yes, but you? NORA. Oh, you know I always like to have you here. RANK. That is just what led me astray. You are a riddle to me. It has often seemed to me as if you liked being with me almost as much as being with Helmer. NORA. Yes; don’t you see? There are people one loves, and others one likes to talk to. RANK. Yes—there’s something in that. NORA. When I was a girl, of course I loved papa best. But it always delighted me to steal into the servants’ room. In the first place they never lectured me, and in the second it was such fun to hear them talk. RANK. Ah, I see; then it’s their place I have taken? NORA. [_Jumps up and hurries towards him._] Oh, my dear Doctor Rank, I don’t mean that. But you understand, with Torvald it’s the same as with papa—— _ELLEN enters from the hall._ ELLEN. Please, ma’am—— [_Whispers to_ NORA, _and gives her a card._] NORA. [_Glancing at card._] Ah! [_Puts it in her pocket._ RANK. Anything wrong? NORA. No, no, not in the least. It’s only—it’s my new costume—— RANK. Your costume. Why, it’s there. NORA. Oh, that one, yes. But this is another that—I have ordered it—Torvald mustn’t know—— RANK. Aha! So that’s the great secret. NORA. Yes, of course. Please go to him; he’s in the inner room. Do keep him while I—— RANK. Don’t be alarmed; he sha’n’t escape. [_Goes into_ HELMER’S _room._ NORA. [_To_ ELLEN.] Is he waiting in the kitchen? ELLEN. Yes, he came up the back stair—— NORA. Didn’t you tell him I was engaged? ELLEN. Yes, but it was no use. NORA. He won’t go away? ELLEN. No, ma’am, not until he has spoken to you. NORA. Then let him come in; but quietly. And, Ellen—say nothing about it; it’s a surprise for my husband. ELLEN. Oh, yes, ma’am, I understand. [_She goes out._ NORA. It is coming! The dreadful thing is coming, after all. No, no, no, it can never be; it shall not! [_She goes to_ HELMER’S _door and slips the bolt._ ELLEN _opens the hall door for_ KROGSTAD, _and shuts it after him. He wears a travelling-coat, high boots, and a fur cap._ NORA. [_Goes towards him._] Speak softly; my husband is at home. KROGSTAD. All right. That’s nothing to me. NORA. What do you want? KROGSTAD. A little information. NORA. Be quick, then. What is it? KROGSTAD. You know I have got my dismissal. NORA. I couldn’t prevent it, Mr. Krogstad. I fought for you to the last, but it was of no use. KROGSTAD. Does your husband care for you so little? He knows what I can bring upon you, and yet he dares—— NORA. How could you think I should tell him? KROGSTAD. Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t think it. It wasn’t like my friend Torvald Helmer to show so much courage—— NORA. Mr. Krogstad, be good enough to speak respectfully of my husband. KROGSTAD. Certainly, with all due respect. But since you are so anxious to keep the matter secret, I suppose you are a little clearer than yesterday as to what you have done. NORA. Clearer than you could ever make me. KROGSTAD. Yes, such a bad lawyer as I—— NORA. What is it you want? KROGSTAD. Only to see how you are getting on, Mrs. Helmer. I’ve been thinking about you all day. Even a mere money-lender, a gutter-journalist, a—in short, a creature like me—has a little bit of what people call feeling. NORA. Then show it; think of my little children. KROGSTAD. Did you and your husband think of mine? But enough of that. I only wanted to tell you that you needn’t take this matter too seriously. I shall not lodge any information, for the present. NORA. No, surely not. I knew you wouldn’t. KROGSTAD. The whole thing can be settled quite amicably. Nobody need know. It can remain among us three. NORA. My husband must never know. KROGSTAD. How can you prevent it? Can you pay off the balance? NORA. No, not at once. KROGSTAD. Or have you any means of raising the money in the next few days? NORA. None—that I will make use of. KROGSTAD. And if you had, it would not help you now. If you offered me ever so much money down, you should not get back your I.O.U. NORA. Tell me what you want to do with it. KROGSTAD. I only want to keep it—to have it in my possession. No outsider shall hear anything of it. So, if you have any desperate scheme in your head—— NORA. What if I have? KROGSTAD. If you should think of leaving your husband and children—— NORA. What if I do? KROGSTAD. Or if you should think of—something worse—— NORA. How do you know that? KROGSTAD. Put all that out of your head. NORA. How did you know what I had in my mind? KROGSTAD. Most of us think of _that_ at first. I thought of it, too; but I hadn’t the courage—— NORA. [_Tonelessly._] Nor I. KROGSTAD. [_Relieved._] No, one hasn’t. You haven’t the courage either, have you? NORA. I haven’t, I haven’t. KROGSTAD. Besides, it would be very foolish.—Just one domestic storm, and it’s all over. I have a letter in my pocket for your husband—— NORA. Telling him everything? KROGSTAD. Sparing you as much as possible. NORA. [_Quickly._] He must never read that letter. Tear it up. I will manage to get the money somehow—— KROGSTAD. Pardon me, Mrs. Helmer, but I believe I told you—— NORA. Oh, I’m not talking about the money I owe you. Tell me how much you demand from my husband—I will get it. KROGSTAD. I demand no money from your husband. NORA. What do you demand then? KROGSTAD. I will tell you. I want to regain my footing in the world. I want to rise; and your husband shall help me to do it. For the last eighteen months my record has been spotless; I have been in bitter need all the time; but I was content to fight my way up, step by step. Now, I’ve been thrust down again, and I will not be satisfied with merely being reinstated as a matter of grace. I want to rise, I tell you. I must get into the Bank again, in a higher position than before. Your husband shall create a place on purpose for me—— NORA. He will never do that! KROGSTAD. He will do it; I know him—he won’t dare to show fight! And when he and I are together there, you shall soon see! Before a year is out I shall be the manager’s right hand. It won’t be Torvald Helmer, but Nils Krogstad, that manages the Joint Stock Bank. NORA. That shall never be. KROGSTAD. Perhaps you will——? NORA. Now I have the courage for it. KROGSTAD. Oh, you don’t frighten me! A sensitive, petted creature like you—— NORA. You shall see, you shall see! KROGSTAD. Under the ice, perhaps? Down into the cold, black water? And next spring to come up again, ugly, hairless, unrecognisable—— NORA. You can’t terrify me. KROGSTAD. Nor you me. People don’t do that sort of thing, Mrs. Helmer. And, after all, what would be the use of it? I have your husband in my pocket, all the same. NORA. Afterwards? When I am no longer——? KROGSTAD. You forget, your reputation remains in my hands! [NORA _stands speechless and looks at him._] Well, now you are prepared. Do nothing foolish. As soon as Helmer has received my letter, I shall expect to hear from him. And remember that it is your husband himself who has forced me back again into such paths. That I will never forgive him. Good-bye, Mrs. Helmer. [_Goes out through the hall._ NORA _hurries to the door, opens it a little, and listens._ NORA. He’s going. He’s not putting the letter into the box. No, no, it would be impossible! [_Opens the door further and further._] What’s that. He’s standing still; not going down stairs. Has he changed his mind? Is he——? [_A letter falls into the box._ KROGSTAD’S _footsteps are heard gradually receding down the stair._ NORA _utters a suppressed shriek, and rushes forward towards the sofa-table; pause._] In the letter-box! [_Slips shrinkingly up to the hall door._] There it lies.—Torvald, Torvald—now we are lost! _MRS. LINDEN enters from the left with the costume._ MRS. LINDEN. There, I think it’s all right now. Shall we just try it on? NORA. [_Hoarsely and softly._] Christina, come here. MRS. LINDEN. [_Throws down the dress on the sofa._] What’s the matter? You look quite distracted. NORA. Come here. Do you see that letter? There, see—through the glass of the letter-box. MRS. LINDEN. Yes, yes, I see it. NORA. That letter is from Krogstad—— MRS. LINDEN. Nora—it was Krogstad who lent you the money? NORA. Yes; and now Torvald will know everything. MRS. LINDEN. Believe me, Nora, it’s the best thing for both of you. NORA. You don’t know all yet. I have forged a name—— MRS. LINDEN. Good heavens! NORA. Now, listen to me, Christina; you shall bear me witness—— MRS. LINDEN. How “witness”? What am I to——? NORA. If I should go out of my mind—it might easily happen—— MRS. LINDEN. Nora! NORA. Or if anything else should happen to me—so that I couldn’t be here——! MRS. LINDEN. Nora, Nora, you’re quite beside yourself! NORA. In case any one wanted to take it all upon himself—the whole blame—you understand—— MRS. LINDEN. Yes, yes; but how can you think——? NORA. You shall bear witness that it’s not true, Christina. I’m not out of my mind at all; I know quite well what I’m saying; and I tell you nobody else knew anything about it; I did the whole thing, I myself. Remember that. MRS. LINDEN. I shall remember. But I don’t understand what you mean—— NORA. Oh, how should you? It’s the miracle coming to pass. MRS. LINDEN. The miracle? NORA. Yes, the miracle. But it’s so terrible, Christina; it mustn’t happen for all the world. MRS. LINDEN. I shall go straight to Krogstad and talk to him. NORA. Don’t; he’ll do you some harm. MRS. LINDEN. Once he would have done anything for me. NORA. He? MRS. LINDEN. Where does he live? NORA. Oh, how can I tell——? Yes—— [_Feels in_ _her pocket._] Here’s his card. But the letter, the letter——! HELMER. [_Knocking outside._] Nora! NORA. [_Shrieks in terror._] Oh, what is it? What do you want? HELMER. Well, well, don’t be frightened. We’re not coming in; you’ve bolted the door. Are you trying on your dress? NORA. Yes, yes, I’m trying it on. It suits me so well, Torvald. MRS. LINDEN. [_Who has read the card._] Why, he lives close by here. NORA. Yes, but it’s no use now. We are lost. The letter is there in the box. MRS. LINDEN. And your husband has the key? NORA. Always. MRS. LINDEN Krogstad must demand his letter back, unread. He must find some pretext—— NORA. But this is the very time when Torvald generally—— MRS. LINDEN. Prevent him. Keep him occupied. I shall come back as quickly as I can. [_She goes out hastily by the hall door._ NORA. [_Opens_ HELMER’S _door and peeps in._] Torvald! HELMER. Well, may one come into one’s own room again at last? Come, Rank, we’ll have a look—— [_In the doorway._] But how’s this? NORA. What, Torvald dear? HELMER. Rank led me to expect a grand transformation. RANK. [_In the doorway._] So I understood. I suppose I was mistaken. NORA. No, no one shall see me in my glory till to-morrow evening. HELMER. Why, Nora dear, you look so tired. Have you been practising too hard? NORA. No, I haven’t practised at all yet. HELMER. But you’ll have to—— NORA. Oh yes, I must, I must! But, Torvald, I can’t get on at all without your help. I’ve forgotten everything. HELMER. Oh, we shall soon freshen it up again. NORA. Yes, do help me, Torvald. You must promise me——Oh, I’m so nervous about it. Before so many people——This evening you must give yourself up entirely to me. You mustn’t do a stroke of work; you mustn’t even touch a pen. Do promise, Torvald dear! HELMER. I promise. All this evening I shall be your slave. Little helpless thing——! But, by-the-bye, I must just—— [_Going to hall door._ NORA. What do you want there? HELMER. Only to see if there are any letters. NORA. No, no, don’t do that, Torvald. HELMER. Why not? NORA. Torvald, I beg you not to. There are none there. HELMER. Let me just see. [_Is going._ [NORA, _at the piano, plays the first bars of the tarantella._ HELMER. [_At the door, stops._] Aha! NORA. I can’t dance to-morrow if I don’t rehearse with you first. HELMER. [_Going to her._] Are you really so nervous, dear Nora? NORA. Yes, dreadfully! Let me rehearse at once. We have time before dinner. Oh, do sit down and play for me, Torvald dear; direct me and put me right, as you used to do. HELMER. With all the pleasure in life, since you wish it. [_Sits at piano._ [NORA _matches the tambourine out of the box, and hurriedly drapes herself in a long parti-coloured shawl; then, with a bound, stands in the middle of the floor._ NORA. Now play for me! Now I’ll dance! [HELMER _plays and_ NORA _dances._ RANK _stands at the piano behind_ HELMER _and looks on._ HELMER. [_Playing._] Slower! Slower! NORA. Can’t do it slower! HELMER. Not so violently, Nora. NORA. I must! I must! HELMER. [_Stops._] No, no, Nora—that will never do. NORA. [_Laughs and swings her tambourine._] Didn’t I tell you so! RANK. Let me play for her. HELMER. [_Rising._] Yes, do—then I can direct her better. [RANK _sits down to the piano and plays;_ NORA _dances more and more wildly._ HELMER _stands by the stove and addresses frequent corrections to her; she seems not to hear. Her hair breaks loose, and falls over her shoulders. She does not notice it, but goes on dancing._ MRS. LINDEN _enters and stands spellbound in the doorway._ MRS. LINDEN. Ah——! NORA. [_Dancing._] We’re having such fun here, Christina! HELMER. Why, Nora dear, you’re dancing as if it were a matter of life and death. NORA. So it is. HELMER. Rank, stop! This is the merest madness. Stop, I say! [RANK _stops playing, and_ NORA _comes to a sudden standstill._ HELMER. [_Going towards her._] I couldn’t have believed it. You’ve positively forgotten all I taught you. NORA. [_Throws the tambourine away._] You see for yourself. HELMER. You really do want teaching. NORA. Yes, you see how much I need it. You must practise with me up to the last moment. Will you promise me, Torvald? HELMER. Certainly, certainly. NORA. Neither to-day nor to morrow must you think of anything but me. You mustn’t open a single letter—mustn’t look at the letter-box. HELMER. Ah, you’re still afraid of that man—— NORA. Oh yes, yes, I am. HELMER. Nora, I can see it in your face—there’s a letter from him in the box. NORA. I don’t know, I believe so. But you’re not to read anything now; nothing ugly must come between us until all is over. RANK. [_Softly, to_ HELMER.] You mustn’t contradict her. HELMER. [_Putting his arm around her._] The child shall have her own way. But to-morrow night, when the dance is over—— NORA. Then you shall be free. ELLEN _appears in the doorway, right._ ELLEN. Dinner is on the table, ma’am. NORA. We’ll have some champagne, Ellen. ELLEN. Yes, ma’am. [_Goes out._ HELMER. Dear me! Quite a banquet. NORA. Yes, and we’ll keep it up till morning. [_Calling out._] And macaroons, Ellen—plenty—just this once. HELMER. [_Seizing her hand._] Come, come, don’t let us have this wild excitement! Be my own little lark again. NORA. Oh yes, I will. But now go into the dining-room; and you too, Doctor Rank. Christina, you must help me to do up my hair. RANK. [_Softly, as they go._] There’s nothing in the wind? Nothing—I mean——? HELMER. Oh no, nothing of the kind. It’s merely this babyish anxiety I was telling you about. [_They go out to the right._ NORA. Well? MRS. LINDEN. He’s gone out of town. NORA. I saw it in your face. MRS. LINDEN. He comes back to-morrow evening. I left a note for him. NORA. You shouldn’t have done that. Things must take their course. After all, there’s something glorious in waiting for the miracle. MRS. LINDEN. What is it you’re waiting for? NORA. Oh, you can’t understand. Go to them in the dining-room; I shall come in a moment. [MRS. LINDEN _goes into the dining-room._ NORA _stands for a moment as though collecting her thoughts; then looks at her watch._ NORA. Five. Seven hours till midnight. Then twenty-four hours till the next midnight. Then the tarantella will be over. Twenty-four and seven? Thirty-one hours to live. HELMER _appears at the door, right._ HELMER. What has become of my little lark? NORA. [_Runs to him with open arms._] Here she is! ----- Footnote 9: In the original, “We say ‘thou’ to each other.” ACT THIRD _The same room. The table, with the chairs around it, in the middle. A lighted lamp on the table. The door to the hall stands open. Dance music is heard from the floor above._ _MRS. LINDEN sits by the table and absently turns the pages of a book. She tries to read, but seems unable to fix her attention; she frequently listens and looks anxiously towards the hall door._ MRS. LINDEN. [_Looks at her watch._] Not here yet; and the time is nearly up. If only he hasn’t—— [_Listens again._] Ah, there he is. [_She goes into the hall and cautiously opens the outer door; soft footsteps are heard on the stairs; she whispers._] Come in; there is no one here. KROGSTAD. [_In the doorway!_] I found a note from you at my house. What does it mean? MRS. LINDEN. I must speak to you. KROGSTAD. Indeed? And in this house? MRS. LINDEN. I could not see you at my rooms. They have no separate entrance. Come in; we are quite alone. The servants are asleep, and the Helmers are at the ball upstairs. KROGSTAD. [_Coming into the room._] Ah! So the Helmers are dancing this evening? Really? MRS. LINDEN. Yes. Why not? KROGSTAD. Quite right. Why not? MRS. LINDEN. And now let us talk a little. KROGSTAD. Have we two anything to say to each other? MRS. LINDEN. A great deal. KROGSTAD. I should not have thought so. MRS. LINDEN. Because you have never really understood me. KROGSTAD. What was there to understand? The most natural thing in the world—a heartless woman throws a man over when a better match offers. MRS. LINDEN. Do you really think me so heartless? Do you think I broke with you lightly? KROGSTAD. Did you not? MRS. LINDEN. Do you really think so? KROGSTAD. If not, why did you write me that letter? MRS. LINDEN. Was it not best? Since I had to break with you, was it not right that I should try to put an end to all that you felt for me? KROGSTAD. [_Clenching his hands together._] So that was it? And all this—for the sake of money! MRS. LINDEN. You ought not to forget that I had a helpless mother and two little brothers. We could not wait for you, Nils, as your prospects then stood. KROGSTAD. Perhaps not; but you had no right to cast me off for the sake of others, whoever the others might be. MRS. LINDEN. I don’t know. I have often asked myself whether I had the right. KROGSTAD. [_More softly._] When I had lost you, I seemed to have no firm ground left under my feet. Look at me now. I am a shipwrecked man clinging to a spar. MRS. LINDEN. Rescue may be at hand. KROGSTAD. It _was_ at hand; but then you came and stood in the way. MRS. LINDEN. Without my knowledge, Nils. I did not know till to-day that it was you I was to replace in the Bank. KROGSTAD. Well, I take your word for it. But now that you do know, do you mean to give way? MRS. LINDEN. No, for that would not help you in the least. KROGSTAD. Oh, help, help——! I should do it whether or no. MRS. LINDEN. I have learnt prudence. Life and bitter necessity have schooled me. KROGSTAD. And life has taught me not to trust fine speeches. MRS. LINDEN. Then life has taught you a very sensible thing. But deeds you _will_ trust? KROGSTAD. What do you mean? MRS. LINDEN. You said you were a shipwrecked man, clinging to a spar. KROGSTAD. I have good reason to say so. MRS. LINDEN. I too am shipwrecked, and clinging to a spar. I have no one to mourn for, no one to care for. KROGSTAD. You made your own choice. MRS. LINDEN. No choice was left me. KROGSTAD. Well, what then? MRS. LINDEN. Nils, how if we two shipwrecked people could join hands? KROGSTAD. What! MRS. LINDEN. Two on a raft have a better chance than if each clings to a separate spar. KROGSTAD. Christina! MRS. LINDEN. What do you think brought me to town? KROGSTAD. Had you any thought of me? MRS. LINDEN. I must have work or I can’t bear to live. All my life, as long as I can remember, I have worked; work has been my one great joy. Now I stand quite alone in the world, aimless and forlorn. There is no happiness in working for one’s self. Nils, give me somebody and something to work for. KROGSTAD. I cannot believe in all this. It is simply a woman’s romantic craving for self-sacrifice. MRS. LINDEN. Have you ever found me romantic? KROGSTAD. Would you really——? Tell me: do you know all my past? MRS. LINDEN. Yes. KROGSTAD. And do you know what people say of me? MRS. LINDEN. Did you not say just now that with me you could have been another man? KROGSTAD. I am sure of it. MRS. LINDEN. Is it too late? KROGSTAD. Christina, do you know what you are doing? Yes, you do; I see it in your face. Have you the courage then——? MRS. LINDEN. I need some one to be a mother to, and your children need a mother. You need me, and I—I need you. Nils, I believe in your better self. With you I fear nothing. KROGSTAD. [_Seizing her hands._] Thank you—thank you, Christina. Now I shall make others see me as you do.—Ah, I forgot—— MRS. LINDEN. [_Listening._] Hush! The tarantella! Go! go! KROGSTAD. Why? What is it? MRS. LINDEN. Don’t you hear the dancing overhead? As soon as that is over they will be here. KROGSTAD. Oh yes, I shall go. Nothing will come of this, after all. Of course, you don’t know the step I have taken against the Helmers. MRS. LINDEN. Yes, Nils, I do know. KROGSTAD. And yet you have the courage to——? MRS. LINDEN. I know to what lengths despair can drive a man. KROGSTAD. Oh, if I could only undo it! MRS. LINDEN. You could. Your letter is still in the box. KROGSTAD. Are you sure? MRS. LINDEN. Yes; but—— KROGSTAD. [_Looking to her searchingly._] Is that what it all means? You want to save your friend at any price. Say it out—is that your idea? MRS. LINDEN. Nils, a woman who has once sold herself for the sake of others, does not do so again. KROGSTAD. I shall demand my letter back again. MRS. LINDEN. No, no. KROGSTAD. Yes, of course. I shall wait till Helmer comes; I shall tell him to give it back to me—that it’s only about my dismissal—that I don’t want it read—— MRS. LINDEN. No, Nils, you must not recall the letter. KROGSTAD. But tell me, wasn’t that just why you got me to come here? MRS. LINDEN. Yes, in my first alarm. But a day has passed since then, and in that day I have seen incredible things in this house. Helmer must know everything; there must be an end to this unhappy secret. These two must come to a full understanding. They must have done with all these shifts and subterfuges. KROGSTAD. Very well, if you like to risk it. But _one_ thing I can do, and at once—— MRS. LINDEN. [_Listening._] Make haste! Go, go! The dance is over; we’re not safe another moment. KROGSTAD. I shall wait for you in the street. MRS. LINDEN. Yes, do; you must see me home. KROGSTAD. I never was so happy in all my life! [KROGSTAD _goes out by the outer door. The door between the room and the hall remains open._ MRS. LINDEN. [_Arranging the room and getting her outdoor things together._] What a change! What a change! To have some one to work for, to live for; a home to make happy! Well, it shall not be my fault if I fail.—I wish they would come.—[_Listens._] Ah, here they are! I must get my things on. [_Takes bonnet and cloak._ HELMER’S _and_ NORA’S _voices are heard outside, a key is turned in the lock, and_ HELMER _drags_ NORA _almost by force into the hall. She wears the Italian costume with a large black shawl over it. He is in evening dress and wears a black domino, open._ NORA. [_Struggling with him in the doorway._] No, no, no! I won’t go in! I want to go upstairs again; I don’t want to leave so early! HELMER. But, my dearest girl——! NORA. Oh, please, please, Torvald, I beseech you—only one hour more! HELMER. Not one minute more, Nora dear; you know what we agreed. Come, come in; you’re catching cold here. [_He leads her gently into the room in spite of her resistance._ MRS. LINDEN. Good-evening. NORA. Christina! HELMER. What, Mrs. Linden! You here so late? MRS. LINDEN. Yes, I ought to apologise. I did so want to see Nora in her costume. NORA. Have you been sitting here waiting for me? MRS. LINDEN. Yes; unfortunately I came too late. You had gone upstairs already, and I felt I couldn’t go away without seeing you. HELMER. [_Taking_ NORA’S _shawl off._] Well then, just look at her! I assure you she’s worth it. Isn’t she lovely, Mrs. Linden? MRS. LINDEN. Yes, I must say—— HELMER. Isn’t she exquisite? Every one said so. But she’s dreadfully obstinate, dear little creature. What’s to be done with her? Just think, I had almost to force her away. NORA. Oh, Torvald, you’ll be sorry some day that you didn’t let me stay, if only for one half-hour more. HELMER. There! You hear her, Mrs. Linden? She dances her tarantella with wild applause, and well she deserved it, I must say—though there was, perhaps, a little too much nature in her rendering of the idea—more than was, strictly speaking, artistic. But never mind—the point is, she made a great success, a tremendous success. Was I to let her remain after that—to weaken the impression? Not if I know it. I took my sweet little Capri girl—my capricious little Capri girl, I might say—under my arm; a rapid turn round the room, a curtsey to all sides, and—as they say in novels—the lovely apparition vanished! An exit should always be effective, Mrs. Linden; but I can’t get Nora to see it. By Jove! it’s warm here. [_Throws his domino on a chair and opens the door to his room._] What! No light there? Oh, of course. Excuse me—— [_Goes in and lights candles._ NORA. [_Whispers breathlessly._] Well? MRS. LINDEN. [_Softly._] I’ve spoken to him. NORA. And——? MRS. LINDEN. Nora—you must tell your husband everything—— Nora. [_Tonelessly._] I knew it! MRS. LINDEN. You have nothing to fear from Krogstad; but you must speak out. NORA. I shall not speak. MRS. LINDEN. Then the letter will. NORA. Thank you, Christina. Now I know what I have to do. Hush——! HELMER. [_Coming back._] Well, Mrs. Linden, have you admired her? MRS. LINDEN. Yes; and now I must say good-night. HELMER. What, already? Does this knitting belong to you? MRS. LINDEN. [_Takes it._] Yes, thanks; I was nearly forgetting it. HELMER. Then you do knit? MRS. LINDEN. Yes. HELMER. Do you know, you ought to embroider instead? MRS. LINDEN. Indeed! Why? HELMER. Because it’s so much prettier. Look now! You hold the embroidery in the left hand, so, and then work the needle with the right hand, in a long, graceful curve—don’t you? MRS. LINDEN. Yes, I suppose so. HELMER. But knitting is always ugly. Just look—your arms close to your sides, and the needles going up and down—there’s something Chinese about it.—They really gave us splendid champagne to-night. MRS. LINDEN. Well, good-night, Nora, and don’t be obstinate any more. HELMER. Well said, Mrs. Linden! MRS. LINDEN. Good-night, Mr. Helmer. HELMER. [_Accompanying her to the door._] Good-night, good-night; I hope you’ll get safely home. I should be glad to—but you have such a short way to go. Good-night, good-night. [_She goes;_ HELMER _shuts the door after her and comes forward again._] At last we’ve got rid of her: she’s a terrible bore. NORA. Aren’t you very tired, Torvald? HELMER. No, not in the least. NORA. Nor sleepy? HELMER. Not a bit. I feel particularly lively. But you? You do look tired and sleepy. NORA. Yes, very tired. I shall soon sleep now. HELMER. There, you see. I was right after all not to let you stay longer. NORA. Oh, everything you do is right. HELMER. [_Kissing her forehead._] Now my lark is speaking like a reasonable being. Did you notice how jolly Rank was this evening? NORA. Indeed? Was he? I had no chance of speaking to him. HELMER. Nor I, much; but I haven’t seen him in such good spirits for a long time. [_Looks at_ NORA _a little, then comes nearer her._] It’s splendid to be back in our own home, to be quite alone together!—Oh, you enchanting creature! NORA. Don’t look at me in that way, Torvald. HELMER. I am not to look at my dearest treasure?—at all the loveliness that is mine, mine only, wholly and entirely mine? NORA. [_Goes to the other side of the table._] You mustn’t say these things to me this evening. HELMER. [_Following._] I see you have the tarantella still in your blood—-and that makes you all the more enticing. Listen! the other people are going now. [_More softly._] Nora—soon the whole house will be still. NORA. Yes, I hope so. HELMER. Yes, don’t you, Nora darling? When we are among strangers, do you know why I speak so little to you, and keep so far away, and only steal a glance at you now and then—do you know _why_ I do it? Because I am fancying that we love each other in secret, that I am secretly betrothed to you, and that no one dreams that there is anything between us. NORA. Yes, yes, yes. I know all your thoughts are with me. HELMER. And then, when the time comes to go, and I put the shawl about your smooth, soft shoulders, and this glorious neck of yours, I imagine you are my bride, that our marriage is just over, that I am bringing you for the first time to my home—that I am alone with you for the first time—quite alone with you, in your trembling loveliness! All this evening I have been longing for you, and you only. When I watched you swaying and whirling in the tarantella—my blood boiled—I could endure it no longer; and that’s why I made you come home with me so early—— NORA. Go now, Torvald! Go away from me. I won’t have all this. HELMER. What do you mean? Ah, I see you’re teasing me, little Nora! Won’t—won’t! Am I not your husband——? [_A knock at the outer door._ NORA [_Starts._] Did you hear——? HELMER. [_Going towards the hall._] Who’s there? RANK. [_Outside._] It is I; may I come in for a moment? HELMER. [_In a low tone, annoyed._] Oh! what can he want just now? [_Aloud._] Wait a moment. [_Opens door._] Come, it’s nice of you to look in. RANK. I thought I heard your voice, and that put it into my head. [_Looks round._] Ah, this dear old place! How cosy you two are here! HELMER. You seemed to find it pleasant enough upstairs, too. RANK. Exceedingly. Why not? Why shouldn’t one take one’s share of everything in this world? All one can, at least, and as long as one can. The wine was splendid—— HELMER. Especially the champagne. RANK. Did you notice it? It’s incredible the quantity I contrived to get down. NORA. Torvald drank plenty of champagne, too. RANK. Did he? NORA. Yes, and it always puts him in such spirits. RANK. Well, why shouldn’t one have a jolly evening after a well-spent day? HELMER. Well-spent! Well, I haven’t much to boast of in that respect. RANK. [_Slapping him on the shoulder._] But I _have_, don’t you see? NORA. I suppose you have been engaged in a scientific investigation, Doctor Rank? RANK. Quite right. HELMER. Bless me! Little Nora talking about scientific investigations! NORA. Am I to congratulate you on the result? RANK. By all means. NORA. It was good then? RANK. The best possible, both for doctor and patient—certainty. NORA. [_Quickly and searchingly._] Certainty? RANK. Absolute certainty. Wasn’t I right to enjoy myself after that? NORA. Yes, quite right, Doctor Rank. HELMER. And so say I, provided you don’t have to pay for it to-morrow. RANK. Well, in this life nothing is to be had for nothing. NORA. Doctor Rank—I’m sure you are very fond of masquerades? RANK. Yes, when there are plenty of amusing disguises—— NORA. Tell me, what shall we two be at our next masquerade? HELMER. Little featherbrain! Thinking of your next already! RANK. We two? I’ll tell you. You must go as a good fairy. HELMER. Ah, but what costume would indicate _that_? RANK. She has simply to wear her everyday dress. HELMER. Capital! But don’t you know what you will be yourself? RANK. Yes, my dear friend, I am perfectly clear upon that point. HELMER. Well? RANK. At the next masquerade I shall be invisible. HELMER. What a comical idea! RANK. There’s a big black hat—haven’t you heard of the invisible hat? It comes down all over you, and then no one can see you. HELMER. [_With a suppressed smile._] No, you’re right there. RANK. But I’m quite forgetting what I came for. Helmer, give me a cigar—one of the dark Havanas. HELMER. With the greatest pleasure. [_Hands cigar-case._ RANK. [_Takes one and cuts the end off._] Thank you. NORA. [_Striking a wax match._] Let me give you a light. RANK. A thousand thanks. [_She holds the match. He lights his cigar at it._ RANK. And now, good-bye! HELMER. Good-bye, good-bye, my dear fellow. NORA. Sleep well, Doctor Rank. RANK. Thanks for the wish. NORA. Wish me the same. RANK. You? Very well, since you ask me—Sleep well. And thanks for the light. [_He nods to them both and goes out._ HELMER. [_In an undertone._] He’s been drinking a good deal. NORA. [_Absently._] I daresay. [HELMER _takes his bunch of keys from his pocket and goes into the hall._] Torvald, what are you doing there? HELMER. I must empty the letter-box; it’s quite full; there will be no room for the newspapers to-morrow morning. NORA. Are you going to work to-night? HELMER. You know very well I am not.—Why, how is this? Some one has been at the lock. NORA. The lock——? HELMER. I’m sure of it. What does it mean? I can’t think that the servants——? Here’s a broken hair-pin. Nora, it’s one of yours. NORA. [_Quickly._] It must have been the children—— HELMER. Then you must break them of such tricks.—There! At last I’ve got it open. [_Takes contents out and calls into the kitchen._] Ellen!—Ellen, just put the hall door lamp out. [_He returns with letters in his hand, and shuts the inner door._ HELMER. Just see how they’ve accumulated. [_Turning them over._] Why, what’s this? NORA. [_At the window._] The letter! Oh no, no, Torvald! HELMER. Two visiting-cards—from Rank. NORA. From Doctor Rank? HELMER. [_Looking at them._] Doctor Rank. They were on the top. He must just have put them in. NORA. Is there anything on them? HELMER. There’s a black cross over the name. Look at it. What an unpleasant idea! It looks just as if he were announcing his own death. NORA. So he is. HELMER. What! Do you know anything? Has he told you anything? NORA. Yes. These cards mean that he has taken his last leave of us. He is going to shut himself up and die. HELMER. Poor fellow! Of course I knew we couldn’t hope to keep him long. But so soon——! And to go and creep into his lair like a wounded animal—— NORA. When we _must_ go, it is best to go silently. Don’t you think so, Torvald? HELMER. [_Walking up and down._] He had so grown into our lives, I can’t realise that he is gone. He and his sufferings and his loneliness formed a sort of cloudy background to the sunshine of our happiness.—Well, perhaps it’s best as it is—at any rate for him. [_Stands still._] And perhaps for us too, Nora. Now we two are thrown entirely upon each other. [_Takes her in his arms._] My darling wife! I feel as if I could never hold you close enough. Do you know, Nora, I often wish some danger might threaten you, that I might risk body and soul, and everything, everything, for your dear sake. NORA. [_Tears herself from him and says firmly._] Now you shall read your letters, Torvald. HELMER. No, no; not to-night. I want to be with you, my sweet wife. NORA. With the thought of your dying friend——? HELMER. You are right. This has shaken us both. Unloveliness has come between us—thoughts of death and decay. We must seek to cast them off. Till then—we will remain apart. NORA. [_Her arms round his neck._] Torvald! Goodnight! good-night! HELMER. [_Kissing her forehead!_] Good-night, my little song-bird. Sleep well, Nora. Now I shall go and read my letters. [_He goes with the letters in his hand into his room and shuts the door._ NORA. [_With wild eyes, gropes about her, seizes_ HELMER’S _domino, throws it round her, and whispers quickly, hoarsely, and brokenly._] Never to see him again. Never, never, never. [_Throws her shawl over her head._] Never to see the children again. Never, never.—Oh that black, icy water! Oh that bottomless——! If it were only over! Now he has it; he’s reading it. Oh, no, no, no, not yet. Torvald, good-bye——! Good-bye, my little ones——! [_She is rushing out by the hall; at the same moment_ HELMER _flings his door open, and stands there with an open letter in his hand._ HELMER. Nora! NORA. [_Shrieks._] Ah——! HELMER. What is this? Do you know what is in this letter? NORA. Yes, I know. Let me go! Let me pass! HELMER. [_Holds her back._] Where do you want to go? NORA. [_Tries to break away from him._] You shall not save me, Torvald. HELMER. [_Falling back._] True! Is what he writes true? No, no, it is impossible that this can be true. NORA. It is true. I have loved you beyond all else in the world. HELMER. Pshaw—no silly evasions! NORA. [_A step nearer him._] Torvald——! HELMER. Wretched woman—what have you done! NORA. Let me go—you shall not save me! You shall not take my guilt upon yourself! HELMER. I don’t want any melodramatic airs. [_Locks the outer door._] Here you shall stay and give an account of yourself. Do you understand what you have done? Answer! Do you understand it? NORA. [_Looks at him fixedly, and says with a stiffening expression._] Yes; now I begin fully to understand it. HELMER. [_Walking up and down._] Oh! what an awful awakening! During all these eight years—she who was my pride and my joy—a hypocrite, a liar—worse, worse—a criminal. Oh, the unfathomable hideousness of it all! Ugh! Ugh! [NORA _says nothing, and continues to look fixedly at him._ HELMER. I ought to have known how it would be. I ought to have foreseen it. All your father’s want of principle—be silent!—all your father’s want of principle you have inherited—no religion, no morality, no sense of duty. How I am punished for screening him! I did it for your sake; and you reward me like this. NORA. Yes—like this. HELMER. You have destroyed my whole happiness. You have ruined my future. Oh, it’s frightful to think of! I am in the power of a scoundrel; he can do whatever he pleases with me, demand whatever he chooses; he can domineer over me as much as he likes, and I must submit. And all this disaster and ruin is brought upon me by an unprincipled woman! NORA. When I am out of the world, you will be free. HELMER. Oh, no fine phrases. Your father, too, was always ready with them. What good would it do me, if you were “out of the world,” as you say? No good whatever! He can publish the story all the same; I might even be suspected of collusion. People will think I was at the bottom of it all and egged you on. And for all this I have you to thank—you whom I have done nothing but pet and spoil during our whole married life. Do you understand now what you have done to me? NORA. [_With cold calmness._] Yes. HELMER. The thing is so incredible, I can’t grasp it. But we must come to an understanding. Take that shawl off. Take it off, I say! I must try to pacify him in one way or another—the matter must be hushed up, cost what it may.—As for you and me, we must make no outward change in our way of life—no _outward_ change, you understand. Of course, you will continue to live here. But the children cannot be left in your care. I dare not trust them to you.—Oh, to have to say this to one I have loved so tenderly—whom I still——! But that must be a thing of the past. Henceforward there can be no question of happiness, but merely of saving the ruins, the shreds, the show—— [_A ring;_ HELMER _starts._] What’s that? So late! Can it be the worst? Can he——? Hide yourself, Nora; say you are ill. [NORA _stands motionless._ HELMER _goes to the door and opens it._ ELLEN. [_Half dressed, in the hall._] Here is a letter for you, ma’am. HELMER. Give it to me. [_Seizes the letter and shuts the door._] Yes, from him. You shall not have it. I shall read it. NORA. Read it! HELMER. [_By the lamp._] I have hardly the courage to. We may both be lost, both you and I. Ah! I _must_ know. [_Hastily tears the letter open; reads a few lines, looks at an enclosure; with a cry of joy._] Nora! [NORA _looks inquiringly at him._ HELMER. Nora!—Oh! I must read it again.—Yes, yes, it is so. I am saved! Nora, I am saved! NORA. And I? HELMER. You too, of course; we are both saved, both of us. Look here—he sends you back your promissory note. He writes that he regrets and apologises, that a happy turn in his life——Oh, what matter what he writes. We are saved, Nora! No one can harm you. Oh, Nora, Nora——; but first to get rid of this hateful thing. I’ll just see—— [_Glances at the I.O.U._] No, I will not look at it; the whole thing shall be nothing but a dream to me. [_Tears the I.O.U. and both letters in pieces. Throws them into the fire and watches them burn._] There! it’s gone!—He said that ever since Christmas Eve——Oh, Nora, they must have been three terrible days for you! NORA. I have fought a hard fight for the last three days. HELMER. And in your agony you saw no other outlet but——No; we won’t think of that horror. We will only rejoice and repeat—it’s over, all over! Don’t you hear, Nora? You don’t seem able to grasp it. Yes, it’s over. What is this set look on your face? Oh, my poor Nora, I understand; you cannot believe that I have forgiven you. But I have, Nora; I swear it. I have forgiven everything. I know that what you did was all for love of me. NORA. That is true. HELMER. You loved me as a wife should love her husband. It was only the means that, in your inexperience, you misjudged. But do you think I love you the less because you cannot do without guidance? No, no. Only lean on me; I will counsel you, and guide you. I should be no true man if this very womanly helplessness did not make you doubly dear in my eyes. You mustn’t dwell upon the hard things I said in my first moment of terror, when the world seemed to be tumbling about my ears. I have forgiven you, Nora—I swear I have forgiven you. NORA. I thank you for your forgiveness. [_Goes out, to the right._ HELMER. No, stay——! [_Looking through the doorway._] What are you going to do? NORA. [_Inside._] To take off my masquerade dress. HELMER. [_In the doorway._] Yes, do, dear. Try to calm down, and recover your balance, my scared little song-bird. You may rest secure. I have broad wings to shield you. [_Walking up and down near the door._] Oh, how lovely—how cosy our home is, Nora! Here you are safe; here I can shelter you like a hunted dove whom I have saved from the claws of the hawk. I shall soon bring your poor beating heart to rest; believe me, Nora, very soon. To-morrow all this will seem quite different—everything will be as before. I shall not need to tell you again that I forgive you; you will feel for yourself that it is true. How could you think I could find it in my heart to drive you away, or even so much as to reproach you? Oh, you don’t know a true man’s heart, Nora. There is some thing indescribably sweet and soothing to a man in having forgiven his wife—honestly forgiven her, from the bottom of his heart. She becomes his property in a double sense. She is as though born again; she has become, so to speak, at once his wife and his child. That is what you shall henceforth be to me, my bewildered, helpless darling. Don’t be troubled about anything, Nora; only open your heart to me, and I will be both will and conscience to you. [NORA _enters in everyday dress._] Why, what’s this? Not gone to bed? You have changed your dress? NORA. Yes, Torvald; now I have changed my dress. HELMER. But why now, so late——? NORA. I shall not sleep to-night. HELMER. But, Nora dear—— NORA. [_Looking at her watch._] It’s not so late yet. Sit down, Torvald; you and I have much to say to each other. [_She sits at one side of the table._ HELMER. Nora—what does this mean? Your cold, set face—— NORA. Sit down. It will take some time. I have much to talk over with you. [HELMER _sits at the other side of the table._ HELMER. You alarm me, Nora. I don’t understand you. NORA. No, that is just it. You don’t understand me; and I have never understood you—till to-night. No, don’t interrupt. Only listen to what I say.—We must come to a final settlement, Torvald. HELMER. How do you mean? NORA. [_After a short silence._] Does not one thing strike you as we sit here? HELMER. What should strike me? NORA. We have been married eight years. Does it not strike you that this is the first time we two, you and I, man and wife, have talked together seriously? HELMER. Seriously! What do you call seriously? NORA. During eight whole years, and more—ever since the day we first met—we have never exchanged one serious word about serious things. HELMER. Was I always to trouble you with the cares you could not help me to bear? NORA. I am not talking of cares. I say that we have never yet set ourselves seriously to get to the bottom of anything. HELMER. Why, my dearest Nora, what have you to do with serious things? NORA. There we have it! You have never understood me.—I have had great injustice done me, Torvald; first by father, and then by you. HELMER. What! By your father and me?—By us, who have loved you more than all the world? NORA [_Shaking her head._] You have never loved me. You only thought it amusing to be in love with me. HELMER. Why, Nora, what a thing to say! NORA. Yes, it is so, Torvald. While I was at home with father, he used to tell me all his opinions, and I held the same opinions. If I had others I said nothing about them, because he wouldn’t have liked it. He used to call me his doll-child, and played with me as I played with my dolls. Then I came to live in your house—— HELMER. What an expression to use about our marriage! NORA. [_Undisturbed._] I mean I passed from father’s hands into yours. You arranged everything according to your taste; and I got the same tastes as you; or I pretended to—I don’t know which—both ways, perhaps; sometimes one and sometimes the other. When I look back on it now, I seem to have been living here like a beggar, from hand to mouth. I lived by performing tricks for you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and father have done me a great wrong. It is your fault that my life has come to nothing. HELMER. Why, Nora, how unreasonable and ungrateful you are! Have you not been happy here? NORA. No, never. I thought I was; but I never was. HELMER. Not—not happy! NORA. No; only merry. And you have always been so kind to me. But our house has been nothing but a play-room. Here I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I used to be papa’s doll-child. And the children, in their turn, have been my dolls. I thought it fun when you played with me, just as the children did when I played with them. That has been our marriage, Torvald. HELMER. There is some truth in what you say, exaggerated and overstrained though it be. But henceforth it shall be different. Play-time is over; now comes the time for education. NORA. Whose education? Mine, or the children’s? HELMER. Both, my dear Nora. NORA. Oh, Torvald, you are not the man to teach me to be a fit wife for you. HELMER. And you can say that? NORA. And I—how have I prepared myself to educate the children? HELMER. Nora! NORA. Did you not say yourself, a few minutes ago, you dared not trust them to me? HELMER. In the excitement of the moment! Why should you dwell upon that? NORA. No—you were perfectly right. That problem is beyond me. There is another to be solved first—I must try to educate myself. You are not the man to help me in that. I must set about it alone. And that is why I am leaving you. HELMER. [_Jumping up._] What—do you mean to say——? NORA. I must stand quite alone if I am ever to know myself and my surroundings; so I cannot stay with you. HELMER. Nora! Nora! NORA. I am going at once. I daresay Christina will take me in for to-night—— HELMER. You are mad! I shall not allow it! I forbid it! NORA. It is of no use your forbidding me anything now. I shall take with me what belongs to me. From you I will accept nothing, either now or afterwards. HELMER. What madness this is! NORA. To-morrow I shall go home—I mean to what was my home. It will be easier for me to find some opening there. HELMER. Oh, in your blind inexperience—— NORA. I must try to _gain_ experience, Torvald. HELMER. To forsake your home, your husband, and your children! And you don’t consider what the world will say. NORA. I can pay no heed to that. I only know that I must do it. HELMER. This is monstrous! Can you forsake your holiest duties in this way? NORA. What do you consider my holiest duties? HELMER. Do I need to tell you that? Your duties to your husband and your children. NORA. I have other duties equally sacred. HELMER. Impossible! What duties do you mean? NORA. My duties towards myself. HELMER. Before all else you are a wife and a mother. NORA. That I no longer believe. I believe that before all else I am a human being, just as much as you are—or at least that I should try to become one. I know that most people agree with you, Torvald, and that they say so in books. But henceforth I can’t be satisfied with what most people say, and what is in books. I must think things out for myself, and try to get clear about them. HELMER. Are you not clear about your place in your own home? Have you not an infallible guide in questions like these? Have you not religion? NORA. Oh, Torvald, I don’t really know what religion is. HELMER. What do you mean? NORA. I know nothing but what Pastor Hansen told me when I was confirmed. He explained that religion was this and that. When I get away from all this and stand alone, I will look into that matter too. I will see whether what he taught me is right, or, at any rate, whether it is right for me. HELMER. Oh, this is unheard of! And from so young a woman! But if religion cannot keep you right, let me appeal to your conscience—for I suppose you have some moral feeling? Or, answer me: perhaps you have none? NORA. Well, Torvald, it’s not easy to say. I really don’t know—I am all at sea about these things. I only know that I think quite differently from you about them. I hear, too, that the laws are different from what I thought; but I can’t believe that they can be right. It appears that a woman has no right to spare her dying father, or to save her husband’s life! I don’t believe that. HELMER. You talk like a child. You don’t understand the society in which you live. NORA. No, I do not. But now I shall try to learn. I must make up my mind which is right—society or I. HELMER. Nora, you are ill; you are feverish; I almost think you are out of your senses. NORA. I have never felt so much clearness and certainty as to-night. HELMER. You are clear and certain enough to forsake husband and children? NORA. Yes, I am. HELMER. Then there is only one explanation possible. NORA. What is that? HELMER. You no longer love me. NORA. No; that is just it. HELMER. Nora!—Can you say so! NORA. Oh, I’m so sorry, Torvald; for you’ve always been so kind to me. But I can’t help it. I do not love you any longer. HELMER. [_Mastering himself with difficulty._] Are you clear and certain on this point too? NORA. Yes, quite. That is why I will not stay here any longer. HELMER. And can you also make clear to me how I have forfeited your love? NORA. Yes, I can. It was this evening, when the miracle did not happen; for then I saw you were not the man I had imagined. HELMER. Explain yourself more clearly; I don’t understand. NORA. I have waited so patiently all these eight years; for of course I saw clearly enough that miracles don’t happen every day. When this crushing blow threatened me, I said to myself so confidently, “Now comes the miracle!” When Krogstad’s letter lay in the box, it never for a moment occurred to me that you would think of submitting to that man’s conditions. I was convinced that you would say to him, “Make it known to all the world”; and that then—— HELMER. Well? When I had given my own wife’s name up to disgrace and shame——? NORA. Then I firmly believed that you would come forward, take everything upon yourself, and say, “I am the guilty one.” HELMER. Nora——! NORA. You mean I would never have accepted such a sacrifice? No, certainly not. But what would my assertions have been worth in opposition to yours?—_That_ was the miracle that I hoped for and dreaded. And it was to hinder _that_ that I wanted to die. HELMER. I would gladly work for you day and night, Nora—bear sorrow and want for your sake. But no man sacrifices his honour, even for one he loves. NORA. Millions of women have done so. HELMER. Oh, you think and talk like a silly child. NORA. Very likely. But you neither think nor talk like the man I can share my life with. When your terror was over—not for what threatened me, but for yourself—when there was nothing more to fear—then it seemed to you as though nothing had happened. I was your lark again, your doll, just as before—whom you would take twice as much care of in future, because she was so weak and fragile. [_Stands up._] Torvald—in that moment it burst upon me that I had been living here these eight years with a strange man, and had borne him three children.—Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I could tear myself to pieces! HELMER. [_Sadly._] I see it, I see it; an abyss has opened between us.—But, Nora, can it never be filled up? NORA. As I now am, I am no wife for you. HELMER. I have strength to become another man. NORA. Perhaps—when your doll is taken away from you. HELMER. To part—to part from you! No, Nora, no; I can’t grasp the thought. NORA. [_Going into room on the right._] The more reason for the thing to happen. [_She comes back with out-door things and a small travelling-bag, which she places on a chair._ HELMER. Nora, Nora, not now! Wait till to-morrow. NORA. [_Putting on cloak._] I can’t spend the night in a strange man’s house. HELMER. But can we not live here, as brother and sister——? NORA. [_Fastening her hat._] You know very well that wouldn’t last long. [_Puts on the shawl._] Goodbye, Torvald. No, I won’t go to the children. I know they are in better hands than mine. As I now am, I can be nothing to them. HELMER. But some time, Nora—some time——? NORA. How can I tell? I have no idea what will become of me. HELMER. But you are my wife, now and always! NORA. Listen, Torvald—when a wife leaves her husband’s house, as I am doing, I have heard that in the eyes of the law he is free from all duties towards her. At any rate, I release you from all duties. You must not feel yourself bound, any more than I shall. There must be perfect freedom on both sides. There, I give you back your ring. Give me mine. HELMER. That too? NORA. That too. HELMER. Here it is. NORA. Very well. Now it is all over. I lay the keys here. The servants know about everything in the house—better than I do. To-morrow, when I have started, Christina will come to pack up the things I brought with me from home. I will have them sent after me. HELMER. All over! all over! Nora, will you never think of me again? NORA. Oh, I shall often think of you, and the children, and this house. HELMER. May I write to you, Nora? NORA. No—never. You must not. HELMER. But I must send you—— NORA. Nothing, nothing. HELMER. I must help you if you need it. NORA. No, I say. I take nothing from strangers. HELMER. Nora—can I never be more than a stranger to you? NORA. [_Taking her travelling-bag._] Oh, Torvald, then the miracle of miracles would have to happen—— HELMER. What is the miracle of miracles? NORA. Both of us would have to change so that——Oh, Torvald, I no longer believe in miracles. HELMER. But _I_ will believe. Tell me! We must so change that——? NORA. That communion between us shall be a marriage. Good-bye. [_She goes out by the hall door._ HELMER. [_Sinks into a chair by the door with his face in his hands._] Nora! Nora! [_He looks round and rises._] Empty. She is gone. [_A hope springs up in him._] Ah! The miracle of miracles——?! [_From below is heard the reverberation of a heavy door closing._ THE END GHOSTS (1881) CHARACTERS. MRS. HELEN ALVING, _widow of Captain Alving, late Chamberlain[10] to the King_. OSWALD ALVING, _her son, a painter._ PASTOR MANDERS. JACOB ENGSTRAND, _a carpenter_. REGINA ENGSTRAND, _Mrs. Alving’s maid_. _The action takes place at Mrs. Alving’s country house, beside one of the large fjords in Western Norway._ ----- Footnote 10: Chamberlain (Kammerherre) is the only title of honour now existing in Norway. It is a distinction conferred by the King on men of wealth and position, and is not hereditary. GHOSTS: A FAMILY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. ACT FIRST. _A spacious garden-room, with one door to the left, and two doors to the right. In the middle of the room a round table, with chairs about it. On the table lie books, periodicals, and newspapers. In the foreground to the left a window, and by it a small sofa, with a work-table in front of it. In the background, the room is continued into a somewhat narrower conservatory, the walls of which are formed by large panes of glass. In the right-hand wall of the conservatory is a door leading down into the garden. Through the glass wall a gloomy fjord-landscape is faintly visible, veiled by steady rain._ _ENGSTRAND, the carpenter, stands by the garden door. His left leg is somewhat bent; he has a clump of wood under the sole of his boot. REGINA, with an empty garden syringe in her hand, hinders him from advancing._ REGINA. [_In a low voice._] What do you want? Stop where you are. You’re positively dripping. ENGSTRAND. It’s the Lord’s own rain, my girl. REGINA. It’s the devil’s rain, _I_ say. ENGSTRAND. Lord, how you talk, Regina. [_Limps a step or two forward into the room._] It’s just this as I wanted to say—— REGINA. Don’t clatter so with that foot of yours, I tell you! The young master’s asleep upstairs. ENGSTRAND. Asleep? In the middle of the day? REGINA. It’s no business of yours. ENGSTRAND. I was out on the loose last night—— REGINA. I can quite believe that. ENGSTRAND. Yes, we’re weak vessels, we poor mortals, my girl—— REGINA. So it seems. ENGSTRAND. ——and temptations are manifold in this world, you see. But all the same, I was hard at work, God knows, at half-past five this morning. REGINA. Very well; only be off now. I won’t stop here and have _rendezvous’s_[11] with you. ENGSTRAND. What do you say you won’t have? REGINA. I won’t have any one find you here; so just you go about your business. ENGSTRAND. [_Advances a step or two._] Blest if I go before I’ve had a talk with you. This afternoon I shall have finished my work at the school-house, and then I shall take to-night’s boat and be off home to the town. REGINA. [_Mutters._] Pleasant journey to you! ENGSTRAND. Thank you, my child. To-morrow the Orphanage is to be opened, and then there’ll be fine doings, no doubt, and plenty of intoxicating drink going, you know. And nobody shall say of Jacob Engstrand that he can’t keep out of temptation’s way. REGINA. Oh! ENGSTRAND. You see, there’s to be heaps of grand folks here to-morrow. Pastor Manders is expected from town, too. REGINA. He’s coming to-day. ENGSTRAND. There, you see! And I should be cursedly sorry if he found out anything against me, don’t you understand? REGINA. Oho! is that your game? ENGSTRAND. Is what my game? REGINA. [_Looking hard at him._] What are you going to fool Pastor Manders into doing, this time? ENGSTRAND. Sh! sh! Are you crazy? Do _I_ want to fool Pastor Manders? Oh no! Pastor Manders has been far too good a friend to me for that. But I just wanted to say, you know—that I mean to be off home again to-night. REGINA. The sooner the better, say I. ENGSTRAND. Yes, but I want you with me, Regina. REGINA. [_Open-mouthed._] You want me——? What are you talking about? ENGSTRAND. I want you to come home with me, I say. REGINA. [_Scornfully._] Never in this world shall you get me home with you. ENGSTRAND. Oh, we’ll see about that. REGINA. Yes, you may be sure we’ll see about it! Me, that have been brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving! Me, that am treated almost as a daughter here! Is it _me_ you want to go home with you?—to a house like yours? For shame! ENGSTRAND. What the devil do you mean? Do you set yourself up against your father, you hussy? REGINA. [_Mutters without looking at him._] You’ve said often enough I was no concern of yours. ENGSTRAND. Pooh! Why should you bother about _that_—— REGINA. Haven’t you many a time sworn at me and called me a——? _Fi donc!_ ENGSTRAND. Curse me, now, if ever I used such an ugly word. REGINA. Oh, I remember very well what word you used. ENGSTRAND. Well, but that was only when I was a bit on, don’t you know? Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina. REGINA. Ugh! ENGSTRAND. And besides, it was when your mother was that aggravating—I _had_ to find something to twit her with, my child. She was always setting up for a fine lady. [_Mimics._] “Let me go, Engstrand; let me be. Remember I was three years in Chamberlain Alving’s family at Rosenvold.” [_Laughs._] Mercy on us! She could never forget that the Captain was made a Chamberlain while she was in service here. REGINA. Poor mother! you very soon tormented her into her grave. ENGSTRAND. [_With a twist of his shoulders._] Oh, of course! I’m to have the blame for everything. REGINA. [_Turns away; half aloud._] Ugh——! And that leg too! ENGSTRAND. What do you say, my child? REGINA. _Pied de mouton._ ENGSTRAND. Is that English, eh? REGINA. Yes. ENGSTRAND. Ay, ay; you’ve picked up some learning out here; and that may come in useful now, Regina. REGINA. [_After a short silence._] What do you want with me in town? ENGSTRAND. Can you ask what a father wants with his only child? A’n’t I a lonely, forlorn widower? REGINA. Oh, don’t try on any nonsense like that with _me_! Why do you want me? ENGSTRAND. Well, let me tell you, I’ve been thinking of setting up in a new line of business. REGINA. [_Contemptuously._] You’ve tried that often enough, and much good you’ve done with it. ENGSTRAND. Yes, but this time you shall see, Regina! Devil take me—— REGINA. [_Stamps._] Stop your swearing! ENGSTRAND. Hush, hush; you’re right enough there, my girl. What I wanted to say was just this—I’ve laid by a very tidy pile from this Orphanage job. REGINA. Have you? That’s a good thing for you. ENGSTRAND. What can a man spend his ha’pence on here in this country hole? REGINA. Well, what then? ENGSTRAND. Why, you see, I thought of putting the money into some paying speculation. I thought of a sort of a sailor’s tavern—— REGINA. Pah! ENGSTRAND. A regular high-class affair, of course; not any sort of pig-sty for common sailors. No! damn it! it would be for captains and mates, and—and—regular swells, you know. REGINA. And I was to——? ENGSTRAND. You were to help, to be sure. Only for the look of the thing, you understand. Devil a bit of hard work shall you have, my girl. You shall do exactly what you like. REGINA. Oh, indeed! ENGSTRAND. But there must be a petticoat in the house; that’s as clear as daylight. For I want to have it a bit lively-like in the evenings, with singing and dancing, and so on. You must remember they’re weary wanderers on the ocean of life. [_Nearer._] Now don’t be a fool and stand in your own light, Regina. What’s to become of you out here? Your mistress has given you a lot of learning; but what good is _that_ to you? You’re to look after the children at the new Orphanage, I hear. Is _that_ the sort of thing for you, eh? Are you so dead set on wearing your life out for a pack of dirty brats? REGINA. No; if things go as I want them to——Well there’s no saying—there’s no saying. ENGSTRAND. What do you mean by “there’s no saying”? REGINA. Never you mind.—How much money have you saved? ENGSTRAND. What with one thing and another, a matter of seven or eight hundred crowns.[12] REGINA. That’s not so bad. ENGSTRAND. It’s enough to make a start with, my girl. REGINA. Aren’t you thinking of giving me any? ENGSTRAND. No, I’m blest if I am! REGINA. Not even of sending me a scrap of stuff for a new dress? ENGSTRAND. Come to town with me, my lass, and you’ll soon get dresses enough. REGINA. Pooh! I can do that on my own account, if I want to. ENGSTRAND. No, a father’s guiding hand is what you want, Regina. Now, I’ve got my eye on a capital house in Little Harbour Street. They don’t want much ready-money; and it could be a sort of a Sailors’ Home, you know. REGINA. But I will _not_ live with you! I have nothing whatever to do with you. Be off! ENGSTRAND. You wouldn’t stop long with me, my girl. No such luck! If you knew how to play your cards, such a fine figure of a girl as you’ve grown in the last year or two—— REGINA. Well? ENGSTRAND. You’d soon get hold of some mate—or maybe even a captain—— REGINA. I won’t marry any one of that sort. Sailors have no _savoir vivre_. ENGSTRAND. What’s that they haven’t got? REGINA. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They’re not the sort of people to marry. ENGSTRAND. Then never mind about marrying them. You can make it pay all the same. [_More confidentially._] He—the Englishman—the man with the yacht—he came down with three hundred dollars, he did; and she wasn’t a bit handsomer than you. REGINA. [_Making for him._] Out you go! ENGSTRAND. [_Falling back._] Come, come! You’re not going to hit me, I hope. REGINA. Yes, if you begin talking about mother I shall hit you. Get away with you, I say! [_Drives him back towards the garden door._] And don’t slam the doors. Young Mr. Alving—— ENGSTRAND. He’s asleep; I know. You’re mightily taken up about young Mr. Alving——[_More softly._] Oho! you don’t mean to say it’s him as——? REGINA. Be off this minute! You’re crazy, I tell you! No, not that way. There comes Pastor Manders. Down the kitchen stairs with you. ENGSTRAND. [_Towards the right._] Yes, yes, I’m going. But just you talk to him as is coming there. _He’s_ the man to tell you what a child owes its father. For I _am_ your father all the same, you know. I can prove it from the church register. [_He goes out through the second door to the right, which REGINA has opened, and closes again after him. REGINA glances hastily at herself in the mirror, dusts herself with her pocket handkerchief, and settles her necktie; then she busies herself with the flowers._ _PASTOR MANDERS, wearing an overcoat, carrying an umbrella, and with a small travelling-bag on a strap over his shoulder, comes through the garden door into the conservatory._ MANDERS. Good-morning, Miss Engstrand. REGINA. [_Turning round, surprised and pleased._] No, really! Good-morning, Pastor Manders. Is the steamer in already? MANDERS. It is just in. [_Enters the sitting-room._] Terrible weather we have been having lately. REGINA. [_Follows him._] It’s such blessëd weather for the country, sir. MANDERS. No doubt; you are quite right. We townspeople give too little thought to that. [_He begins to take off his overcoat._ REGINA. Oh, mayn’t I help you?—There! Why, how wet it is? I’ll just hang it up in the hall. And your umbrella, too—I’ll open it and let it dry. [_She goes out with the things through the second door on the right._ PASTOR MANDERS _takes off his travelling-bag and lays it and his hat on a chair. Meanwhile_ REGINA _comes in again._ MANDERS. Ah, it’s a comfort to get safe under cover. I hope everything is going on well here? REGINA. Yes, thank you, sir. MANDERS. You have your hands full, I suppose, in preparation for to-morrow? REGINA. Yes, there’s plenty to do, of course. MANDERS. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I trust? REGINA. Oh dear, yes. She’s just upstairs, looking after the young master’s chocolate. MANDERS. Yes, by-the-bye—I heard down at the pier that Oswald had arrived. REGINA. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn’t expect him before to-day. MANDERS. Quite strong and well, I hope? REGINA. Yes, thank you, quite; but dreadfully tired with the journey. He has made one rush right through from Paris—the whole way in one train, I believe. He’s sleeping a little now, I think; so perhaps we’d better talk a little quietly. MANDERS. Sh!—as quietly as you please. REGINA. [_Arranging an arm-chair beside the table._] Now, do sit down, Pastor Manders, and make yourself comfortable. [_He sits down; she places a footstool under his feet._] There! Are you comfortable now, sir? MANDERS. Thanks, thanks, extremely so. [_Looks at her._] Do you know, Miss Engstrand, I positively believe you have grown since I last saw you. REGINA. Do you think so, sir? Mrs. Alving says I’ve filled out too. MANDERS. Filled out? Well, perhaps a little; just enough. [_Short pause._ REGINA. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here? MANDERS. Thanks, thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child.—By-the-bye, Regina, my good girl, tell me: how is your father getting on out here? REGINA. Oh, thank you, sir, he’s getting on well enough. MANDERS. He called upon me last time he was in town. REGINA. Did he, indeed? He’s always so glad of a chance of talking to you, sir. MANDERS. And you often look in upon him at his work, I daresay? REGINA. I? Oh, of course, when I have time, I—— MANDERS. Your father is not a man of strong character, Miss Engstrand. He stands terribly in need of a guiding hand. REGINA. Oh, yes; I daresay he does. MANDERS. He requires some one near him whom he cares for, and whose judgment he respects. He frankly admitted as much when he last came to see me. REGINA. Yes, he mentioned something of the sort to me. But I don’t know whether Mrs. Alving can spare me; especially now that we’ve got the new Orphanage to attend to. And then I should be so sorry to leave Mrs. Alving; she has always been so kind to me. MANDERS. But a daughter’s duty, my good girl——Of course, we should first have to get your mistress’s consent. REGINA. But I don’t know whether it would be quite proper for me, at my age, to keep house for a single man. MANDERS. What! My dear Miss Engstrand! When the man is your own father! REGINA. Yes, that may be; but all the same——Now, if it were in a thoroughly _nice_ house, and with a real gentleman—— MANDERS. Why, my dear Regina—— REGINA. ——one I could love and respect, and be a daughter to—— MANDERS. Yes, but my dear, good child—— REGINA. Then I should be glad to go to town. It’s very lonely out here; you know yourself, sir, what it is to be alone in the world. And I can assure you I’m both quick and willing. Don’t you know of any such place for me, sir? MANDERS. I? No, certainly not. REGINA. But, dear, dear sir, do remember me if—— MANDERS. [_Rising._] Yes, yes, certainly, Miss Engstrand. REGINA. For if I—— MANDERS. Will you be so good as to tell your mistress I am here? REGINA. I will, at once, sir. [_She goes out to the left._ MANDERS. [_Paces the room two or three times, stands a moment in the background with his hands behind his back, and looks out over the garden. Then he returns to the table, takes up a book, and looks at the title-page; starts, and looks at several books._] Ha—indeed! _MRS. ALVING enters by the door on the left; she is followed by REGINA, who immediately goes out by the first door on the right._ MRS. ALVING. [_Holds out her hand._] Welcome, my dear Pastor. MANDERS. How do you do, Mrs. Alving? Here I am as I promised. MRS. ALVING. Always punctual to the minute. MANDERS. You may believe it was not so easy for me to get away. With all the Boards and Committees I belong to—— MRS. ALVING. That makes it all the kinder of you to come so early. Now we can get through our business before dinner. But where is your portmanteau? MANDERS. [_Quickly._] I left it down at the inn. I shall sleep there to-night. MRS. ALVING. [_Suppressing a smile._] Are you really not to be persuaded, even now, to pass the night under my roof? MANDERS. No, no, Mrs. Alving; many thanks. I shall stay at the inn, as usual. It is so conveniently near the landing-stage. MRS. ALVING. Well, you must have your own way. But I really should have thought we two old people—— MANDERS. Now you are making fun of me. Ah, you’re naturally in great spirits to-day—what with to-morrow’s festival and Oswald’s return. MRS. ALVING. Yes; you can think what a delight it is to me! It’s more than two years since he was home last. And now he has promised to stay with me all the winter. MANDERS. Has he really? That is very nice and dutiful of him. For I can well believe that life in Rome and Paris has very different attractions from any we can offer here. MRS. ALVING. Ah, but here he has his mother, you see. My own darling boy—he hasn’t forgotten his old mother! MANDERS. It would be grievous indeed, if absence and absorption in art and that sort of thing were to blunt his natural feelings. MRS. ALVING. Yes, you may well say so. But there’s nothing of that sort to fear with him. I’m quite curious to see whether you know him again. He’ll be down presently; he’s upstairs just now, resting a little on the sofa. But do sit down, my dear Pastor. MANDERS Thank you. Are you quite at liberty——? MRS. ALVING. Certainly. [_She sits by the table._ MANDERS. Very well. Then let me show you——[_He goes to the chair where his travelling-bag lies, takes out a packet of papers, sits down on the opposite side of the table, and tries to find a clear space for the papers._] Now, to begin with, here is——[_Breaking off._] Tell me, Mrs. Alving, how do these books come to be here? MRS. ALVING. These books? They are books I am reading. MANDERS. Do you read this sort of literature? MRS. ALVING. Certainly I do. MANDERS. Do you feel better or happier for such reading? MRS. ALVING. I feel, so to speak, more secure. MANDERS. That is strange. How do you mean? MRS. ALVING. Well, I seem to find explanation and confirmation of all sorts of things I myself have been thinking. For that is the wonderful part of it, Pastor Manders—there is really nothing new in these books, nothing but what most people think and believe. Only most people either don’t formulate it to themselves, or else keep quiet about it. MANDERS. Great heavens! Do you really believe that most people——? MRS. ALVING. I do, indeed. MANDERS. But surely not in this country? Not here among us? MRS. ALVING. Yes, certainly; here as elsewhere. MANDERS. Well, I really must say——! MRS. ALVING. For the rest, what do you object to in these books? MANDERS. Object to in them? You surely do not suppose that I have nothing better to do than to study such publications as these? MRS. ALVING. That is to say, you know nothing of what you are condemning? MANDERS. I have read enough _about_ these writings to disapprove of them. MRS. ALVING. Yes; but your own judgment—— MANDERS. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one must rely upon others. Things are so ordered in this world; and it is well that they are. Otherwise, what would become of society? MRS. ALVING. Well, well, I daresay you’re right there. MANDERS. Besides, I of course do not deny that there may be much that is attractive in such books. Nor can I blame you for wishing to keep up with the intellectual movements that are said to be going on in the great world—where you have let your son pass so much of his life. But—— MRS. ALVING. But? MANDERS. [_Lowering his voice._] But one should not talk about it, Mrs. Alving. One is certainly not bound to account to everybody for what one reads and thinks within one’s own four walls. MRS. ALVING. Of course not; I quite agree with you. MANDERS. Only think, now, how you are bound to consider the interests of this Orphanage, which you decided on founding at a time when—if I understand you rightly—you thought very differently on spiritual matters. MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; I quite admit that. But it was about the Orphanage—— MANDERS. It was about the Orphanage we were to speak; yes. All I say is: prudence, my dear lady! And now let us get to business. [_Opens the packet, and takes out a number of papers._] Do you see these? MRS. ALVING. The documents? MANDERS. All—and in perfect order. I can tell you it was hard work to get them in time. I had to put on strong pressure. The authorities are almost morbidly scrupulous when there is any decisive step to be taken. But here they are at last. [_Looks through the bundle._] See! here is the formal deed of gift of the parcel of ground known as Solvik in the Manor of Rosenvold, with all the newly constructed buildings, schoolrooms, master’s house, and chapel. And here is the legal fiat for the endowment and for the Bye-laws of the Institution. Will you look at them? [_Reads._] “Bye-laws for the Children’s Home to be known as ‘Captain Alving’s Foundation.’” MRS. ALVING. [_Looks long at the paper._] So there it is. MANDERS. I have chosen the designation “Captain” rather than “Chamberlain.” “Captain” looks less pretentious. MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; just as you think best. MANDERS. And here you have the Bank Account of the capital lying at interest to cover the current expenses of the Orphanage. MRS. ALVING. Thank you; but please keep it—it will be more convenient. MANDERS. With pleasure. I think we will leave the money in the Bank for the present. The interest is certainly not what we could wish—four per cent. and six months’ notice of withdrawal. If a good mortgage could be found later on—of course it must be a first mortgage and an unimpeachable security—then we could consider the matter. MRS. ALVING. Certainly, my dear Pastor Manders. You are the best judge in these things. MANDERS. I will keep my eyes open at any rate.—But now there is one thing more which I have several times been intending to ask you. MRS. ALVING. And what is that? MANDERS. Shall the Orphanage buildings be insured or not? MRS. ALVING. Of course they must be insured. MANDERS. Well, wait a moment, Mrs. Alving. Let us look into the matter a little more closely. MRS. ALVING. I have everything insured; buildings and movables and stock and crops. MANDERS. Of course you have—on your own estate. And so have I—of course. But here, you see, it is quite another matter. The Orphanage is to be consecrated, as it were, to a higher purpose. MRS. ALVING. Yes, but that’s no reason—— MANDERS. For my own part, I should certainly not see the smallest impropriety in guarding against all contingencies—— MRS. ALVING. No, I should think not. MANDERS. But what is the general feeling in the neighbourhood? You, of course, know better than I. MRS. ALVING. Well—the general feeling—— MANDERS. Is there any considerable number of people—really responsible people—who might be scandalised? MRS. ALVING. What do you mean by “really responsible people”? MANDERS. Well, I mean people in such independent and influential positions that one cannot help attaching some weight to their opinions. MRS. ALVING. There are several people of that sort here, who would very likely be shocked if—— MANDERS. There, you see! In town we have many such people. Think of all my colleague’s adherents! People would be only too ready to interpret our action as a sign that neither you nor I had the right faith in a Higher Providence. MRS. ALVING. But for your own part, my dear Pastor, you can at least tell yourself that—— MANDERS. Yes, I know—I know; my conscience would be quite easy, that is true enough. But nevertheless we should not escape grave misinterpretation; and that might very likely react unfavourably upon the Orphanage. MRS. ALVING. Well, in that case—— MANDERS. Nor can I entirely lose sight of the difficult—I may even say painful—position in which _I_ might perhaps be placed. In the leading circles of the town, people take a lively interest in this Orphanage. It is, of course, founded partly for the benefit of the town, as well; and it is to be hoped it will, to a considerable extent, result in lightening our Poor Rates. Now, as I have been your adviser, and have had the business arrangements in my hands, I cannot but fear that I may have to bear the brunt of fanaticism—— MRS. ALVING. Oh, you mustn’t run the risk of that. MANDERS. To say nothing of the attacks that would assuredly be made upon me in certain papers and periodicals, which—— MRS. ALVING. Enough, my dear Pastor Manders. That consideration is quite decisive. MANDERS. Then you do not wish the Orphanage to be insured? MRS. ALVING. No. We will let it alone. MANDERS. [_Leaning back in his chair._] But if, now, a disaster were to happen? One can never tell——Should you be able to make good the damage? MRS. ALVING. No; I tell you plainly I should do nothing of the kind. MANDERS. Then I must tell you, Mrs. Alving—we are taking no small responsibility upon ourselves. MRS. ALVING. Do you think we can do otherwise? MANDERS. No, that is just the point; we really cannot do otherwise. We ought not to expose ourselves to misinterpretation; and we have no right whatever to give offence to the weaker brethren. MRS. ALVING. You, as a clergyman, certainly should not. MANDERS. I really think, too, we may trust that such an institution has fortune on its side; in fact, that it stands under a special providence. MRS. ALVING. Let us hope so, Pastor Manders. MANDERS. Then we will let it take its chance? MRS. ALVING. Yes, certainly. MANDERS. Very well. So be it. [_Makes a note._] Then—no insurance. MRS. ALVING. It’s odd that you should just happen to mention the matter to-day—— MANDERS. I have often thought of asking you about it—— MRS. ALVING. ——for we very nearly had a fire down there yesterday. MANDERS. You don’t say so! MRS. ALVING. Oh, it was a trifling matter. A heap of shavings had caught fire in the carpenter’s workshop. MANDERS. Where Engstrand works? MRS. ALVING. Yes. They say he’s often very careless with matches. MANDERS. He has so much on his mind, that man—so many things to fight against. Thank God, he is now striving to lead a decent life, I hear. MRS. ALVING. Indeed! Who says so? MANDERS. He himself assures me of it. And he is certainly a capital workman. MRS. ALVING. Oh, yes; so long as he’s sober—— MANDERS. Ah, that melancholy weakness! But he is often driven to it by his injured leg, he says. Last time he was in town I was really touched by him. He came and thanked me so warmly for having got him work here, so that he might be near Regina. MRS. ALVING. He doesn’t see much of _her_. MANDERS. Oh, yes; he has a talk with her every day. He told me so himself. MRS. ALVING. Well, it may be so. MANDERS. He feels so acutely that he needs some one to keep a firm hold on him when temptation comes. That is what I cannot help liking about Jacob Engstrand: he comes to you so helplessly, accusing himself and confessing his own weakness. The last time he was talking to me——Believe me, Mrs. Alving, supposing it were a real necessity for him to have Regina home again—— MRS. ALVING. [_Rising hastily._] Regina! MANDERS. ——you must not set yourself against it. MRS. ALVING. Indeed I _shall_ set myself against it. And besides—Regina is to have a position in the Orphanage. MANDERS. But, after all, remember he is her father—— MRS. ALVING. Oh, I know very well what sort of a father he has been to her. No! She shall never go to him with _my_ goodwill. MANDERS. [_Rising._] My dear lady, don’t take the matter so warmly. You sadly misjudge poor Engstrand. You seem to be quite terrified—— MRS. ALVING. [_More quietly._] It makes no difference. I have taken Regina into my house, and there she shall stay. [_Listens._] Hush, my dear Mr. Manders; say no more about it. [_Her face lights up with gladness._] Listen! there is Oswald coming downstairs. Now we’ll think of no one but him. _OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand, and smoking a large meerschaum, enters by the door on the left; he stops in the doorway._ OSWALD. Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought you were in the study. [_Comes forward._] Good-morning, Pastor Manders. MANDERS. [_Staring._] Ah——! How strange——! MRS. ALVING. Well now, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders? MANDERS. I—I—can it really be——? OSWALD. Yes, it’s really the Prodigal Son, sir. MANDERS. [_Protesting._] My dear young friend—— OSWALD. Well, then, the Lost Sheep Found. MRS. ALVING. Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so much opposed to his becoming a painter. MANDERS. To our human eyes many a step seems dubious, which afterwards proves——[_Wrings his hand._] But first of all, welcome, welcome home! Do not think, my dear Oswald—I suppose I may call you by your Christian name? OSWALD. What else should you call me? MANDERS. Very good. What I wanted to say was this, my dear Oswald—you must not think that I utterly condemn the artist’s calling. I have no doubt there are many who can keep their inner self unharmed in that profession, as in any other. OSWALD. Let us hope so. MRS. ALVINO. [_Beaming with delight._] I know one who has kept both his inner and his outer self unharmed. Just look at him, Mr. Manders. OSWALD. [_Moves restlessly about the room._] Yes, yes, my dear mother; let’s say no more about it. MANDERS. Why, certainly—that is undeniable. And you have begun to make a name for yourself already. The newspapers have often spoken of you, most favourably. Just lately, by-the-bye, I fancy I haven’t seen your name quite so often. OSWALD. [_Up in the conservatory._] I haven’t been able to paint so much lately. MRS. ALVING. Even a painter needs a little rest now and then. MANDERS. No doubt, no doubt. And meanwhile he can be preparing himself and mustering his forces for some great work. OSWALD. Yes.—Mother, will dinner soon be ready? MRS. ALVING. In less than half an hour. He has a capital appetite, thank God. MANDERS. And a taste for tobacco, too. OSWALD. I found my father’s pipe in my room—— MANDERS. Aha—then that accounts for it! MRS. ALVING. For what? MANDERS. When Oswald appeared there, in the doorway, with the pipe in his mouth, I could have sworn I saw his father, large as life. OSWALD. No, really? MRS. ALVING. Oh, how can you say so? Oswald takes after me. MANDERS. Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of the mouth—something about the lips—that reminds one exactly of Alving: at any rate, now that he is smoking. MRS. ALVING. Not in the least. Oswald has rather a clerical curve about his mouth, I think. MANDERS. Yes, yes; some of my colleagues have much the same expression. MRS. ALVING. But put your pipe away, my dear boy; I won’t have smoking in here. OSWALD. [_Does so._] By all means. I only wanted to try it; for I once smoked it when I was a child. MRS. ALVING. You? OSWALD. Yes. I was quite small at the time. I recollect I came up to father’s room one evening when he was in great spirits. MRS. ALVING. Oh, you can’t recollect anything of those times. OSWALD. Yes, I recollect it distinctly. He took me on his knee, and gave me the pipe. “Smoke, boy,” he said; “smoke away, boy!” And I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was growing quite pale, and the perspiration stood in great drops on my forehead. Then he burst out laughing heartily—— MANDERS. That was most extraordinary. MRS. ALVING. My dear friend, it’s only something Oswald has dreamt. OSWALD. No, mother, I assure you I didn’t dream it. For—don’t you remember _this_?—you came and carried me out into the nursery. Then I was sick, and I saw that you were crying.—Did father often play such practical jokes? MANDERS. In his youth he overflowed with the joy of life—— OSWALD. And yet he managed to do so much in the world; so much that was good and useful; although he died so early. MANDERS. Yes, you have inherited the name of an energetic and admirable man, my dear Oswald Alving. No doubt it will be an incentive to you—— OSWALD. It ought to, indeed. MANDERS. It was good of you to come home for the ceremony in his honour. OSWALD. I could do no less for my father. MRS. ALVING. And I am to keep him so long! That is the best of all. MANDERS. You are going to pass the winter at home, I hear. OSWALD. My stay is indefinite, sir.—But, ah! it is good to be at home! MRS. ALVING. [_Beaming._] Yes, isn’t it, dear? MANDERS. [_Looking sympathetically at him._] You went out into the world early, my dear Oswald. OSWALD. I did. I sometimes wonder whether it wasn’t _too_ early. MRS. ALVING. Oh, not at all. A healthy lad is all the better for it; especially when he’s an only child. He oughtn’t to hang on at home with his mother and father, and get spoilt. MANDERS. That is a very disputable point, Mrs. Alving. A child’s proper place is, and must be, the home of his fathers. OSWALD. There I quite agree with you, Pastor Manders. MANDERS. Only look at your own son—there is no reason why we should not say it in his presence—what has the consequence been for him? He is six or seven and twenty, and has never had the opportunity of learning what a well-ordered home really is. OSWALD. I beg your pardon, Pastor; there you’re quite mistaken. MANDERS. Indeed? I thought you had lived almost exclusively in artistic circles. OSWALD. So I have. MANDERS. And chiefly among the younger artists? OSWALD. Yes, certainly. MANDERS. But I thought few of those young fellows could afford to set up house and support a family. OSWALD. There are many who cannot afford to marry, sir. MANDERS. Yes, that is just what I say. OSWALD. But they may have a home for all that. And several of them have, as a matter of fact; and very pleasant, well-ordered homes they are, too. [MRS. ALVING _follows with breathless interest; nods, but says nothing._ MANDERS. But I’m not talking of bachelors’ quarters. By a “home” I understand the home of a family, where a man lives with his wife and children. OSWALD. Yes; or with his children and his children’s mother. MANDERS. [_Starts; clasps his hands._] But, good heavens—— OSWALD. Well? MANDERS. Lives with—his children’s mother! OSWALD. Yes. Would you have him turn his children’s mother out of doors? MANDERS. Then it is illicit relations you are talking of! Irregular marriages, as people call them! OSWALD. I have never noticed anything particularly irregular about the life these people lead. MANDERS. But how is it possible that a—a young man or young woman with any decency of feeling can endure to live in that way?—in the eyes of all the world! OSWALD. What are they to do? A poor young artist—a poor girl—marriage costs a great deal. What are they to do? MANDERS. What are they to do? Let me tell you, Mr. Alving, what they ought to do. They ought to exercise self-restraint from the first; that is what they ought to do. OSWALD. That doctrine will scarcely go down with warm-blooded young people who love each other. MRS. ALVING. No, scarcely! MANDERS. [_Continuing._] How can the authorities tolerate such things! Allow them to go on in the light of day! [_Confronting_ MRS. ALVING.] Had I not cause to be deeply concerned about your son? In circles where open immorality prevails, and has even a sort of recognised position——! OSWALD. Let me tell you, sir, that I have been in the habit of spending nearly all my Sundays in one or two such irregular homes—— MANDERS. Sunday of all days! OSWALD. Isn’t that the day to enjoy one’s self? Well, never have I heard an offensive word, and still less have I witnessed anything that could be called immoral. No; do you know when and where I have come across immorality in artistic circles? MANDERS. No, thank heaven, I don’t! OSWALD. Well, then, allow me to inform you. I have met with it when one or other of our pattern husbands and fathers has come to Paris to have a look round on his own account, and has done the artists the honour of visiting their humble haunts. _They_ knew what was what. These gentlemen could tell us all about places and things we had never dreamt of. MANDERS. What! Do you mean to say that respectable men from home here would——? OSWALD. Have you never heard these respectable men, when they got home again, talking about the way in which immorality runs rampant abroad? MANDERS. Yes, no doubt—— MRS. ALVING. I have too. OSWALD. Well, you may take their word for it. They know what they are talking about! [_Presses his hands to his head._] Oh! that that great, free, glorious life out there should be defiled in such a way! MRS. ALVING. You mustn’t get excited, Oswald. It’s not good for you. OSWALD. Yes; you’re quite right, mother. It’s bad for me, I know. You see, I’m wretchedly worn out. I shall go for a little turn before dinner. Excuse me, Pastor: I know you can’t take my point of view; but I couldn’t help speaking out. [_He goes out by the second door to the right._ MRS. ALVING. My poor boy! MANDERS. You may well say so. Then this is what he has come to! [MRS. ALVING _looks at him silently._ MANDERS. [_Walking up and down._] He called himself the Prodigal Son. Alas! alas! [MRS. ALVING _continues looking at him._ MANDERS. And what do you say to all this? MRS. ALVING. I say that Oswald was right in every word. MANDERS. [_Stands still._] Right? Right! In such principles? MRS. ALVING. Here, in my loneliness, I have come to the same way of thinking, Pastor Manders. But I have never dared to say anything. Well! now my boy shall speak for me. MANDERS. You are greatly to be pitied, Mrs. Alving. But now I must speak seriously to you. And now it is no longer your business manager and adviser, your own and your husband’s early friend, who stands before you. It is the priest—the priest who stood before you in the moment of your life when you had gone farthest astray. MRS. ALVING. And what has the priest to say to me? MANDERS. I will first stir up your memory a little. The moment is well chosen. To-morrow will be the tenth anniversary of your husband’s death. To-morrow the memorial in his honour will be unveiled. To-morrow I shall have to speak to the whole assembled multitude. But to-day I will speak to you alone. MRS. ALVING. Very well, Pastor Manders. Speak. MANDERS. Do you remember that after less than a year of married life you stood on the verge of an abyss? That you forsook your house and home? That you fled from your husband? Yes, Mrs. Alving—fled, fled, and refused to return to him, however much he begged and prayed you? MRS. ALVING. Have you forgotten how infinitely miserable I was in that first year? MANDERS. It is the very mark of the spirit of rebellion to crave for happiness in this life. What right have we human beings to happiness? We have simply to do our duty, Mrs. Alving! And your duty was to hold firmly to the man you had once chosen, and to whom you were bound by the holiest ties. MRS. ALVING. You know very well what sort of life Alving was leading—what excesses he was guilty of. MANDERS. I know very well what rumours there were about him; and I am the last to approve the life he led in his young days, if report did not wrong him. But a wife is not appointed to be her husband’s judge. It was your duty to bear with humility the cross which a Higher Power had, in its wisdom, laid upon you. But instead of that you rebelliously throw away the cross, desert the back-slider whom you should have supported, go and risk your good name and reputation, and—nearly succeed in ruining other people’s reputation into the bargain. MRS. ALVING. Other people’s? One other person’s, you mean. MANDERS. It was incredibly reckless of you to seek refuge with me. MRS. ALVING. With our clergyman? With our intimate friend? MANDERS. Just on that account. Yes, you may thank God that I possessed the necessary firmness; that I succeeded in dissuading you from your wild designs; and that it was vouchsafed me to lead you back to the path of duty, and home to your lawful husband. MRS. ALVING. Yes, Pastor Manders, _that_ was certainly your work. MANDERS. I was but a poor instrument in a Higher Hand. And what a blessing has it not proved to you, all the days of your life, that I induced you to resume the yoke of duty and obedience! Did not everything happen as I foretold? Did not Alving turn his back on his errors, as a man should? Did he not live with you from that time, lovingly and blamelessly, all his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the whole district? And did he not help you to rise to his own level, so that you, little by little, became his assistant in all his undertakings? And a capital assistant, too—oh, I know, Mrs. Alving, _that_ praise is due to you.—But now I come to the next great error in your life. MRS. ALVING. What do you mean? MANDERS. Just as you once disowned a wife’s duty, so you have since disowned a mother’s. MRS. ALVING. Ah——! MANDERS. You have been all your life under the dominion of a pestilent spirit of self-will. The whole bias of your mind has been towards insubordination and lawlessness. You have never known how to endure any bond. Everything that has weighed upon you in life you have cast away without care or conscience, like a burden you were free to throw off at will. It did not please you to be a wife any longer, and you left your husband. You found it troublesome to be a mother, and you sent your child forth among strangers. MRS. ALVING. Yes, that is true. I did so. MANDERS. And thus you have become a stranger to him. MRS. ALVING. No! no! I am not. MANDERS. Yes, you are; you _must_ be. And in what state of mind has he returned to you? Bethink yourself well, Mrs. Alving. You sinned greatly against your husband;—that you recognise by raising yonder memorial to him. Recognise now, also, how you have sinned against your son—there may yet be time to lead him back from the paths of error. Turn back yourself, and save what may yet be saved in him. For [_With uplifted forefinger_] verily, Mrs. Alving, you are a guilt-laden mother!—This I have thought it my duty to say to you. [_Silence._ MRS. ALVING. [_Slowly and with self-control._] You have now spoken out, Pastor Manders; and to-morrow you are to speak publicly in memory of my husband. I shall not speak to-morrow. But now I will speak frankly to you, as you have spoken to me. MANDERS. To be sure; you will plead excuses for your conduct—— MRS. ALVING. No. I will only tell you a story. MANDERS. Well——? MRS. ALVING. All that you have just said about my husband and me, and our life after you had brought me back to the path of duty—as you called it—about all that you know nothing from personal observation. From that moment you, who had been our intimate friend, never set foot in our house again. MANDERS. You and your husband left the town immediately after. MRS. ALVING. Yes; and in my husband’s lifetime you never came to see us. It was business that forced you to visit me when you undertook the affairs of the Orphanage. MANDERS. [_Softly and hesitatingly._] Helen—if that is meant as a reproach, I would beg you to bear in mind—— MRS. ALVING. ——the regard you owed to your position, yes; and that I was a runaway wife. One can never be too cautious with such unprincipled creatures. MANDERS. My dear—Mrs. Alving, you know that is an absurd exaggeration—— MRS. ALVING. Well well, suppose it is. My point is that your judgment as to my married life is founded upon nothing but common knowledge and report. MANDERS. I admit that. What then? MRS. ALVING. Well, then, Pastor Manders—I will tell you the truth. I have sworn to myself that one day you should know it—you alone! MANDERS. What is the truth, then? MRS. ALVING. The truth is that my husband died just as dissolute as he had lived all his days. MANDERS. [_Feeling after a chair._] What do you say? MRS. ALVING. After nineteen years of marriage, as dissolute—in his desires at any rate—as he was before you married us. MANDERS. And those—those wild oats—those irregularities—those excesses, if you like—you call “a dissolute life”? MRS. ALVING. Our doctor used the expression. MANDERS. I do not understand you. MRS. ALVING. You need not. MANDERS. It almost makes me dizzy. Your whole married life, the seeming union of all these years, was nothing more than a hidden abyss! MRS. ALVING. Neither more nor less. Now you know it. MANDERS. This is—this is inconceivable to me. I cannot grasp it! I cannot realise it! But how was it possible to——? How could such a state of things be kept secret? MRS. ALVING. That has been my ceaseless struggle, day after day. After Oswald’s birth, I thought Alving seemed to be a little better. But it did not last long. And then I had to struggle twice as hard, fighting as though for life or death, so that nobody should know what sort of man my child’s father was. And you know what power Alving had of winning people’s hearts. Nobody seemed able to believe anything but good of him. He was one of those people whose life does not bite upon their reputation. But at last, Mr. Manders—for you must know the whole story—the most repulsive thing of all happened. MANDERS. More repulsive than what you have told me! MRS. ALVING. I had gone on bearing with him, although I knew very well the secrets of his life out of doors. But when he brought the scandal within our own walls—— MANDERS. Impossible! Here! MRS. ALVING. Yes; here in our own home. It was there [_Pointing towards the first door on the right_], in the dining-room, that I first came to know of it. I was busy with something in there, and the door was standing ajar. I heard our housemaid come up from the garden, with water for those flowers. MANDERS. Well——? MRS. ALVING. Soon after, I heard Alving come in too. I heard him say something softly to her. And then I heard—[_With a short laugh_]—oh! it still sounds in my ears, so hateful and yet so ludicrous—I heard my own servant-maid whisper, “Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!” MANDERS. What unseemly levity on his part! But it cannot have been more than levity, Mrs. Alving; believe me, it cannot. MRS. ALVING. I soon knew what to believe. Mr. Alving had his way with the girl; and that connection had consequences, Mr. Manders. MANDERS. [_As though petrified._] Such things in this house! in this house! MRS. ALVING. I had borne a great deal in this house. To keep him at home in the evenings, and at night, I had to make myself his boon companion in his secret orgies up in his room. There I have had to sit alone with him, to clink glasses and drink with him, and to listen to his ribald, silly talk. I have had to fight with him to get him dragged to bed—— MANDERS. [_Moved._] And you were able to bear all this! MRS. ALVING. I had to bear it for my little boy’s sake. But when the last insult was added; when my own servant-maid——; then I swore to myself: This shall come to an end! And so I took the reins into my own hand—the whole control—over him and everything else. For now I had a weapon against him, you see; he dared not oppose me. It was then I sent Oswald away from home. He was nearly seven years old, and was beginning to observe and ask questions, as children do. That I could not bear. It seemed to me the child must be poisoned by merely breathing the air of this polluted home. That was why I sent him away. And now you can see, too, why he was never allowed to set foot inside his home so long as his father lived. No one knows what that cost me. MANDERS. You have indeed had a life of trial. MRS. ALVING. I could never have borne it if I had not had my work. For I may truly say that I have worked! All the additions to the estate—all the improvements—all the labour-saving appliances, that Alving was so much praised for having introduced—do you suppose he had energy for anything of the sort?—he, who lay all day on the sofa, reading an old Court Guide! No; but I may tell you _this_ too: when he had his better intervals, it was I who urged him on; it was I who had to drag the whole load when he relapsed into his evil ways, or sank into querulous wretchedness. MANDERS. And it is to this man that you raise a memorial? MRS. ALVING. There you see the power of an evil conscience. MANDERS. Evil——? What do you mean? MRS. ALVING. It always seemed to me impossible but that the truth must come out and be believed. So the Orphanage was to deaden all rumours and set every doubt at rest. MANDERS. In that you have certainly not missed your aim, Mrs. Alving. MRS. ALVING. And besides, I had one other reason. I was determined that Oswald, my own boy, should inherit nothing whatever from his father. MANDERS. Then it is Alving’s fortune that——? MRS. ALVING. Yes. The sums I have spent upon the Orphanage, year by year, make up the amount—I have reckoned it up precisely—the amount which made Lieutenant Alving “a good match” in his day. MANDERS. I don’t understand—— MRS. ALVING. It was my purchase-money. I do not choose that that money should pass into Oswald’s hands. My son shall have everything from me—everything. _OSWALD ALVING enters through the second door to the right; he has taken off his hat and overcoat in the hall._ MRS. ALVING. [_Going towards him._] Are you back again already? My dear, dear boy! OSWALD. Yes. What can a fellow do out of doors in this eternal rain? But I hear dinner is ready. That’s capital! REGINA. [_With a parcel, from the dining-room._] A parcel has come for you, Mrs. Alving. [_Hands it to her._ MRS. ALVING. [_With a glance at MR. MANDERS._] No doubt copies of the ode for to-morrow’s ceremony. MANDERS. H’m—— REGINA. And dinner is ready. MRS. ALVING. Very well. We will come directly. I will just—— [_Begins to open the parcel._ REGINA. [_To_ OSWALD.] Would Mr. Alving like red or white wine? OSWALD. Both, if you please. REGINA. _Bien._ Very well, sir. [_She goes into the dining-room._ OSWALD. I may as well help to uncork it. [_He also goes into the dining-room, the door of which swings half open behind him._ MRS. ALVING. [_Who has opened the parcel._] Yes, I thought so. Here is the Ceremonial Ode, Pastor Manders. MANDERS. [_With folded hands._] With what countenance I am to deliver my discourse to-morrow——! MRS. ALVING. Oh, you will get through it somehow. MANDERS. [_Softly, so as not to be heard in the dining-room._] Yes; it would not do to provoke scandal. MRS. ALVING. [_Under her breath, but firmly._] No. But _then_ this long, hateful comedy will be ended. From the day after to-morrow, I shall act in every way as though he who is dead had never lived in this house. There shall be no one here but my boy and his mother. [_From the dining-room comes the noise of a chair overturned, and at the same moment is heard_: REGINA. [_Sharply, but in a whisper._] Oswald! take care! are you mad? Let me go! MRS. ALVING. [_Starts in terror._] Ah——! [_She stares wildly towards the half-open door._ OSWALD _is heard laughing and humming. A bottle is uncorked._ MANDERS. [_Agitated._] What can be the matter? What is it, Mrs. Alving? MRS. ALVING. [_Hoarsely._] Ghosts! The couple from the conservatory—risen again! MANDERS. Is it possible! Regina——? Is _she_——? MRS. ALVING. Yes. Come. Not a word——! [_She seizes_ PASTOR MANDERS _by the arm, and walks unsteadily towards the dining-room._ ----- Footnote 11: This and other French words used, by Regina are in that language in the original. Footnote 12: A “krone” is equal to one shilling and three-halfpence. ACT SECOND. _The same room. The mist still lies heavy over the landscape._ _MANDERS and MRS. ALVING enter from the dining-room._ MRS. ALVING. [_Still in the doorway._] _Velbekomme_,[13] Mr. Manders. [_Turns back towards the dining-room._] Aren’t you coming too, Oswald? OSWALD. [_From within._] No, thank you. I think I shall go out a little. MRS. ALVING. Yes, do. The weather seems a little brighter now. [_She shuts the dining-room door, goes to the hall door, and calls:_] Regina! REGINA. [_Outside._] Yes, Mrs. Alving? MRS. ALVING. Go down to the laundry, and help with the garlands. REGINA. Yes, Mrs. Alving. [_MRS. ALVING assures herself that REGINA goes; then shuts the door._ MANDERS. I suppose he cannot overhear us in there? MRS. ALVING. Not when the door is shut. Besides, he’s just going out. MANDERS. I am still quite upset. I don’t know how I could swallow a morsel of dinner. MRS. ALVING. [_Controlling her nervousness, walks up and down._] Nor I. But what is to be done now? MANDERS. Yes; what is to be done? I am really quite at a loss. I am so utterly without experience in matters of this sort. MRS. ALVING. I feel sure that, so far, no mischief has been done. MANDERS. No; heaven forbid! But it is an unseemly state of things, nevertheless. MRS. ALVING. It is only an idle fancy on Oswald’s part; you may be sure of that. MANDERS. Well, as I say, I am not accustomed to affairs of the kind. But I should certainly think—— MRS. ALVING. Out of the house she must go, and that immediately. That is as clear as daylight—— MANDERS. Yes, of course she must. MRS. ALVING. But where to? It would not be right to—— MANDERS. Where to? Home to her father, of course. MRS. ALVING. To whom did you say? MANDERS. To her——But then, Engstrand is not——? Good God, Mrs. Alving, it’s impossible! You must be mistaken after all. MRS. ALVING. Unfortunately there is no possibility of mistake. Johanna confessed everything to me; and Alving could not deny it. So there was nothing to be done but to get the matter hushed up. MANDERS. No, you could do nothing else. MRS. ALVING. The girl left our service at once, and got a good sum of money to hold her tongue for the time. The rest she managed for herself when she got to town. She renewed her old acquaintance with Engstrand, no doubt let him see that she had money in her purse, and told him some tale about a foreigner who put in here with a yacht that summer. So she and Engstrand got married in hot haste. Why, you married them yourself. MANDERS. But then how to account for——? I recollect distinctly Engstrand coming to give notice of the marriage. He was quite overwhelmed with contrition, and bitterly reproached himself for the misbehaviour he and his sweetheart had been guilty of. MRS. ALVING. Yes; of course he had to take the blame upon himself. MANDERS. But such a piece of duplicity on his part! And towards me too! I never could have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall not fail to take him seriously to task; he may be sure of that.—And then the immorality of such a connection! For money——! How much did the girl receive? MRS. ALVING. Three hundred dollars. MANDERS. Just think of it—for a miserable three hundred dollars, to go and marry a fallen woman! MRS. ALVING. Then what have you to say of me? I went and married a fallen man. MANDERS. Why—good heavens!—what are you talking about! A fallen man! MRS. ALVING. Do you think Alving was any purer when I went with him to the altar than Johanna was when Engstrand married her? MANDERS. Well, but there is a world of difference between the two cases—— MRS. ALVING. Not so much difference after all—except in the price:—a miserable three hundred dollars and a whole fortune. MANDERS. How can you compare such absolutely dissimilar cases? You had taken counsel with your own heart and with your natural advisers. MRS. ALVING. [_Without looking at him._] I thought you understood where what you call my heart had strayed to at the time. MANDERS. [_Distantly._] Had I understood anything of the kind, I should not have been a daily guest in your husband’s house. MRS. ALVING. At any rate, the fact remains that with myself I took no counsel whatever. MANDERS. Well then, with your nearest relatives—as your duty bade you—with your mother and your two aunts. MRS. ALVING. Yes, that is true. Those three cast up the account for me. Oh, it’s marvellous how clearly they made out that it would be downright madness to refuse such an offer. If mother could only see me now, and know what all that grandeur has come to! MANDERS. Nobody can be held responsible for the result. This, at least, remains clear: your marriage was in full accordance with law and order. MRS. ALVING. [_At the window._] Oh, that perpetual law and order! I often think that is what does all the mischief in this world of ours. MANDERS. Mrs. Alving, that is a sinful way of talking. MRS. ALVING. Well, I can’t help it; I must have done with all this constraint and insincerity. I can endure it no longer. I must work my way out to freedom. MANDERS. What do you mean by that? MRS. ALVING. [_Drumming on the window-frame._] I ought never to have concealed the facts of Alving’s life. But at that time I dared not do anything else—I was afraid, partly on my own account. I was such a coward. MANDERS. A coward? MRS. ALVING. If people had come to know anything, they would have said—“Poor man! with a runaway wife, no wonder he kicks over the traces.” MANDERS. Such remarks might have been made with a certain show of right. MRS. ALVING. [_Looking steadily at him._] If I were what I ought to be, I should go to Oswald and say, “Listen, my boy: your father led a vicious life——” MANDERS. Merciful heavens——! MRS. ALVING. ——and then I should tell him all I have told you—every word of it. MANDERS. You shock me unspeakably, Mrs. Alving. MRS. ALVING. Yes; I know that. I know that very well. I myself am shocked at the idea. [_Goes away from the window._] I am such a coward. MANDERS. You call it “cowardice” to do your plain duty? Have you forgotten that a son ought to love and honour his father and mother? MRS. ALVING. Do not let us talk in such general terms. Let us ask: Ought Oswald to love and honour Chamberlain Alving? MANDERS. Is there no voice in your mother’s heart that forbids you to destroy your son’s ideals? MRS. ALVING. But what about the truth? MANDERS. But what about the ideals? MRS. ALVING. Oh—ideals, ideals! If only I were not such a coward! MANDERS. Do not despise ideals, Mrs. Alving; they will avenge themselves cruelly. Take Oswald’s case: he, unfortunately, seems to have few enough ideals as it is; but I can see that his father stands before him as an ideal. MRS. ALVING. Yes, that is true. MANDERS. And this habit of mind you have yourself implanted and fostered by your letters. MRS. ALVING. Yes; in my superstitious awe for duty and the proprieties, I lied to my boy, year after year. Oh, what a coward—what a coward I have been! MANDERS. You have established a happy illusion in your son’s heart, Mrs. Alving; and assuredly you ought not to undervalue it. MRS. ALVING. H’m; who knows whether it is so happy after all——? But, at any rate, I will not have any tampering with Regina. He shall not go and wreck the poor girl’s life. MANDERS. No; good God—that would be terrible! MRS. ALVING. If I knew he was in earnest, and that it would be for his happiness—— MANDERS. What? What then? MRS. ALVING. But it couldn’t be; for unfortunately Regina is not the right sort of woman. MANDERS. Well, what then? What do you mean? MRS. ALVING. If I weren’t such a pitiful coward, I should say to him, “Marry her, or make what arrangement you please, only let us have nothing underhand about it.” MANDERS. Merciful heavens, would you let them _marry_! Anything so dreadful——! so unheard of—— MRS. ALVING. Do you really mean “unheard of”? Frankly, Pastor Manders, do you suppose that throughout the country there are not plenty of married couples as closely akin as they? MANDERS. I don’t in the least understand you. MRS. ALVING. Oh yes, indeed you do. MANDERS. Ah, you are thinking of the possibility that——Alas! yes, family life is certainly not always so pure as it ought to be. But in such a case as you point to, one can never know—at least with any certainty. Here, on the other hand—that you, a mother, can think of letting your son——! MRS. ALVING. But I cannot—I wouldn’t for anything in the world; that is precisely what I am saying. MANDERS. No, because you are a “coward,” as you put it. But if you were not a “coward,” then——? Good God! a connection so shocking! MRS. ALVING. So far as that goes, they say we are all sprung from connections of that sort. And who is it that arranged the world so, Pastor Manders? MANDERS. Questions of that kind I must decline to discuss with you, Mrs. Alving; you are far from being in the right frame of mind for them. But that you dare to call your scruples “cowardly”——! MRS. ALVING. Let me tell you what I mean. I am timid and faint-hearted because of the ghosts that hang about me, and that I can never quite shake off. MANDERS. What do you say hangs about you? MRS. ALVING. Ghosts! When I heard Regina and Oswald in there, it was as though ghosts rose up before me. But I almost think we are all of us ghosts, Pastor Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from our father and mother that “walks” in us. It is all sorts of dead ideas, and lifeless old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they cling to us all the same, and we cannot shake them off. Whenever I take up a newspaper, I seem to see ghosts gliding between the lines. There must be ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sands of the sea. And then we are, one and all, so pitifully afraid of the light. MANDERS. Aha—here we have the fruits of your reading. And pretty fruits they are, upon my word! Oh, those horrible, revolutionary, freethinking books! MRS. ALVING. You are mistaken, my dear Pastor. It was you yourself who set me thinking; and I thank you for it with all my heart. MANDERS. I! MRS. ALVING. Yes—when you forced me under the yoke of what you called duty and obligation; when you lauded as right and proper what my whole soul rebelled against as something loathsome. It was then that I began to look into the seams of your doctrines. I wanted only to pick at a single knot; but when I had got that undone, the whole thing ravelled out. And then I understood that it was all machine-sewn. MANDERS. [_Softly, with emotion._] And was that the upshot of my life’s hardest battle? MRS. ALVING. Call it rather your most pitiful defeat. MANDERS. It was my greatest victory, Helen—the victory over myself. MRS. ALVING. It was a crime against us both. MANDERS. When you went astray, and came to me crying, “Here I am; take me!” I commanded you, saying, “Woman, go home to your lawful husband.” Was _that_ a crime? MRS. ALVING. Yes, I think so. MANDERS. We two do not understand each other. MRS. ALVING. Not now, at any rate. MANDERS. Never—never in my most secret thoughts have I regarded you otherwise than as another’s wife. MRS. ALVING. Oh—indeed? MANDERS. Helen——! MRS. ALVING. People so easily forget their past selves. MANDERS. I do not. I am what I always was. MRS. ALVING. [_Changing the subject._] Well well well; don’t let us talk of old times any longer. You are now over head and ears in Boards and Committees, and I am fighting my battle with ghosts, both within me and without. MANDERS. Those without I shall help you to lay. After all the terrible things I have heard from you today, I cannot in conscience permit an unprotected girl to remain in your house. MRS. ALVING. Don’t you think the best plan would be to get her provided for?—I mean, by a good marriage. MANDERS. No doubt. I think it would be desirable for her in every respect. Regina is now at the age when——Of course I don’t know much about these things, but—— MRS. ALVING. Regina matured very early. MANDERS. Yes, I thought so. I have an impression that she was remarkably well developed, physically, when I prepared her for confirmation. But in the meantime, she ought to be at home, under her father’s eye——Ah! but Engstrand is not——That he—that _he_—could so hide the truth from me! [_A knock at the door into the hall._ MRS. ALVING. Who can this be? Come in! ENGSTRAND. [_In his Sunday clothes, in the doorway._] I humbly beg your pardon, but—— MANDERS. Aha! H’m—— MRS. ALVING. Is that you, Engstrand? ENGSTRAND. ——there was none of the servants about, so I took the great liberty of just knocking. MRS. ALVING. Oh, very well. Come in. Do you want to speak to me? ENGSTRAND. [_Comes in._] No, I’m obliged to you, ma’am; it was with his Reverence I wanted to have a word or two. MANDERS. [_Walking up and down the room._] Ah—indeed! You want to speak to me, do you? ENGSTRAND. Yes, I’d like so terrible much to—— MANDERS. [_Stops in front of him._] Well; may I ask what you want? ENGSTRAND. Well, it was just this, your Reverence: we’ve been paid off down yonder—my grateful thanks to you, ma’am,—and now everything’s finished, I’ve been thinking it would be but right and proper if we, that have been working so honestly together all this time—well, I was thinking we ought to end up with a little prayer-meeting to-night. MANDERS. A prayer-meeting? Down at the Orphanage? ENGSTRAND. Oh, if your Reverence doesn’t think it proper—— MANDERS. Oh yes, I do; but—h’m— ENGSTRAND. I’ve been in the habit of offering up a little prayer in the evenings, myself—— MRS. ALVING. Have you? ENGSTRAND. Yes, every now and then—just a little edification, in a manner of speaking. But I’m a poor, common man, and have little enough gift, God help me!—and so I thought, as the Reverend Mr. Manders happened to be here, I’d—— MANDERS. Well, you see, Engstrand, I have a question to put to you first. Are you in the right frame of mind for such a meeting! Do you feel your conscience clear and at ease? ENGSTRAND. Oh, God help us, your Reverence! we’d better not talk about conscience. MANDERS. Yes, that is just what we must talk about. What have you to answer? ENGSTRAND. Why—a man’s conscience—it can be bad enough now and then. MANDERS. Ah, you admit that. Then perhaps you will make a clean breast of it, and tell me—the real truth about Regina? MRS. ALVING. [_Quickly._] Mr. Manders! MANDERS. [_Reassuringly._] Please allow me—— ENGSTRAND. About Regina! Lord, what a turn you gave me! [_Looks at MRS. ALVING._] There’s nothing wrong about Regina, is there? MANDERS. We will hope not. But I mean, what is the truth about you and Regina? You pass for her father, eh! ENGSTRAND. [_Uncertain._] Well—h’m—your Reverence knows all about me and poor Johanna. MANDERS. Come now, no more prevarication! Your wife told Mrs. Alving the whole story before quitting her service. ENGSTRAND. Well, then, may——! Now, did she really? MANDERS. You see we know you now, Engstrand. ENGSTRAND. And she swore and took her Bible oath—— MANDERS. Did she take her Bible oath? ENGSTRAND No; she only swore; but she did it that solemn-like. MANDERS. And you have hidden the truth from me all these years? Hidden it from me, who have trusted you without reserve, in everything. ENGSTRAND. Well, I can’t deny it. MANDERS. Have I deserved this of you, Engstrand? Have I not always been ready to help you in word and deed, so far as it lay in my power? Answer me. Have I not? ENGSTRAND. It would have been a poor look-out for me many a time but for the Reverend Mr. Manders. MANDERS. And this is how you reward me! You cause me to enter falsehoods in the Church Register, and you withhold from me, year after year, the explanations you owed alike to me and to the truth. Your conduct has been wholly inexcusable, Engstrand; and from this time forward I have done with you! ENGSTRAND. [_With a sigh._] Yes! I suppose there’s no help for it. MANDERS. How can you possibly justify yourself? ENGSTRAND. Who could ever have thought she’d have gone and made bad worse by talking about it? Will your Reverence just fancy yourself in the same trouble as poor Johanna—— MANDERS. I! ENGSTRAND. Lord bless you, I don’t mean just exactly the same. But I mean, if your Reverence had anything to be ashamed of in the eyes of the world, as the saying goes. We menfolk oughtn’t to judge a poor woman too hardly, your Reverence. MANDERS. I am not doing so. It is you I am reproaching. ENGSTRAND. Might I make so bold as to ask your Reverence a bit of a question? MANDERS. Yes, if you want to. ENGSTRAND. Isn’t it right and proper for a man to raise up the fallen? MANDERS. Most certainly it is. ENGSTRAND. And isn’t a man bound to keep his sacred word? MANDERS. Why, of course he is; but—— ENGSTRAND. When Johanna had got into trouble through that Englishman—or it might have been an American or a Russian, as they call them—well, you see, she came down into the town. Poor thing, she’d sent me about my business once or twice before: for she couldn’t bear the sight of anything as wasn’t handsome; and I’d got this damaged leg of mine. Your Reverence recollects how I ventured up into a dancing saloon, where seafaring men was carrying on with drink and devilry, as the saying goes. And then, when I was for giving them a bit of an admonition to lead a new life—— MRS. ALVING. [_At the window._] H’m—— MANDERS. I know all about that, Engstrand; the ruffians threw you downstairs. You have told me of the affair already. Your infirmity is an honour to you. ENGSTRAND. I’m not puffed up about it, your Reverence. But what I wanted to say was, that when she came and confessed all to me, with weeping and gnashing of teeth, I can tell your Reverence I was sore at heart to hear it. MANDERS. Were you indeed, Engstrand? Well, go on. ENGSTRAND. So I says to her, “The American, he’s sailing about on the boundless sea. And as for you, Johanna,” says I, “you’ve committed a grievous sin, and you’re a fallen creature. But Jacob Engstrand,” says I, “he’s got two good legs to stand upon, he has——” You see, your Reverence, I was speaking figurative-like. MANDERS. I understand quite well. Go on. ENGSTRAND. Well, that was how I raised her up and made an honest woman of her, so as folks shouldn’t get to know how as she’d gone astray with foreigners. MANDERS. In all that you acted very well. Only I cannot approve of your stooping to take money—— ENGSTRAND. Money? I? Not a farthing! MANDERS. [_Inquiringly to MRS. ALVING._] But—— ENGSTRAND. Oh, wait a minute!—now I recollect. Johanna _did_ have a trifle of money. But I would have nothing to do with _that_. “No,” says I, “that’s mammon; that’s the wages of sin. This dirty gold—or notes, or whatever it was—we’ll just fling that back in the American’s face,” says I. But he was off and away, over the stormy sea, your Reverence. MANDERS. Was he really, my good fellow? ENGSTRAND. He was indeed, sir. So Johanna and I, we agreed that the money should go to the child’s education; and so it did, and I can account for every blessed farthing of it. MANDERS. Why, this alters the case considerably. ENGSTRAND. That’s just how it stands, your Reverence. And I make so bold as to say as I’ve been an honest father to Regina, so far as my poor strength went; for I’m but a weak vessel, worse luck! MANDERS. Well, well, my good fellow—— ENGSTRAND. All the same, I bear myself witness as I’ve brought up the child, and lived kindly with poor Johanna, and ruled over my own house, as the Scripture has it. But it couldn’t never enter my head to go to your Reverence and puff myself up and boast because even the likes of me had done some good in the world. No, sir; when anything of that sort happens to Jacob Engstrand, he holds his tongue about it. It don’t happen so terrible often, I daresay. And when I do come to see your Reverence, I find a mortal deal that’s wicked and weak to talk about. For I said it before, and I says it again—a man’s conscience isn’t always as clean as it might be. MANDERS. Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand. ENGSTRAND. Oh, Lord! your Reverence——? MANDERS. Come, no nonsense [wrings his hand]. There we are! ENGSTRAND. And if I might humbly beg your Reverence’s pardon—— MANDERS. You? On the contrary, it is I who ought to beg your pardon—— ENGSTRAND. Lord, no, sir! MANDERS. Yes, assuredly. And I do it with all my heart. Forgive me for misunderstanding you. I only wish I could give you some proof of my hearty regret, and of my good-will towards you—— ENGSTRAND. Would your Reverence do it? MANDERS. With the greatest pleasure. ENGSTRAND. Well then, here’s the very chance. With the bit of money I’ve saved here, I was thinking I might set up a Sailors’ Home down in the town. MRS. ALVING. _You?_ ENGSTRAND. Yes; it might be a sort of Orphanage, too, in a manner of speaking. There’s such a many temptations for seafaring folk ashore. But in this Home of mine, a man might feel like as he was under a father’s eye, I was thinking. MANDERS. What do you say to this, Mrs. Alving? ENGSTRAND. It isn’t much as I’ve got to start with, Lord help me! But if I could only find a helping hand, why—— MANDERS. Yes, yes; we will look into the matter more closely. I entirely approve of your plan. But now, go before me and make everything ready, and get the candles lighted, so as to give the place an air of festivity. And then we will pass an edifying hour together, my good fellow; for now I quite believe you are in the right frame of mind. ENGSTRAND. Yes, I trust I am. And so I’ll say good-bye, ma’am, and thank you kindly; and take good care of Regina for me—[_Wipes a tear from his eye_]—poor Johanna’s child. Well, it’s a queer thing, now; but it’s just like as if she’d growd into the very apple of my eye. It is, indeed. [_He bows and goes out through the hall._ MANDERS. Well, what do you say of that man now, Mrs. Alving? _That_ was a very different account of matters, was it not? MRS. ALVING. Yes, it certainly was. MANDERS. It only shows how excessively careful one ought to be in judging one’s fellow creatures. But what a heartfelt joy it is to ascertain that one has been mistaken! Don’t you think so? MRS. ALVING. I think you are, and will always be, a great baby, Manders. MANDERS. I? MRS. ALVING. [_Laying her two hands upon his shoulders._] And I say that I have half a mind to put my arms round your neck, and kiss you. MANDERS. [_Stepping hastily back._] No, no! God bless me! What an idea! MRS. ALVING. [_With a smile._] Oh, you needn’t be afraid of me. MANDERS. [_By the table._] You have sometimes such an exaggerated way of expressing yourself. Now, let me just collect all the documents, and put them in my bag. [_He does so._] There, that’s all right. And now, good-bye for the present. Keep your eyes open when Oswald comes back. I shall look in again later. [_He takes his hat and goes out through the hall door._ MRS. ALVING. [_Sighs, looks for a moment out of the window, sets the room in order a little, and is about to go into the dining-room, but stops at the door with a half-suppressed cry._] Oswald, are you still at table? OSWALD. [_In the dining room._] I’m only finishing my cigar. MRS. ALVING. I thought you had gone for a little walk. OSWALD. In such weather as this? [_A glass clinks. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open, and sits down with her knitting on the sofa by the window._ OSWALD. Wasn’t that Pastor Manders that went out just now? MRS. ALVING. Yes; he went down to the Orphanage. OSWALD. H’m. [_The glass and decanter clink again._ MRS. ALVING. [_With a troubled glance._] Dear Oswald, you should take care of that liqueur. It is strong. OSWALD. It keeps out the damp. MRS. ALVING. Wouldn’t you rather come in here, to me? OSWALD. I mayn’t smoke in there. MRS. ALVING. You know quite well you may smoke cigars. OSWALD. Oh, all right then; I’ll come in. Just a tiny drop more first.—There! [_He comes into the room with his cigar, and shuts the door after him. A short silence._] Where has the pastor gone to? MRS. ALVING. I have just told you; he went down to the Orphanage. OSWALD. Oh, yes; so you did. MRS. ALVING. You shouldn’t sit so long at table, Oswald. OSWALD. [_Holding his cigar behind him._] But I find it so pleasant, mother. [_Strokes and caresses her._] Just think what it is for me to come home and sit at mother’s own table, in mother’s room, and eat mother’s delicious dishes. MRS. ALVING. My dear, dear boy! OSWALD. [_Somewhat impatiently, walks about and smokes._] And what else can I do with myself here? I can’t set to work at anything. MRS. ALVING. Why can’t you? OSWALD. In such weather as this? Without a single ray of sunshine the whole day? [_Walks up the room._] Oh, not to be able to work——! MRS. ALVING. Perhaps it was not quite wise of you to come home? OSWALD. Oh, yes, mother; I had to. MRS. ALVING. You know I would ten times rather forgo the joy of having you here, than let you—— OSWALD. [_Stops beside the table._] Now just tell me, mother: does it really make you so very happy to have me home again? MRS. ALVING. _Does_ it make me happy! OSWALD. [_Crumpling up a newspaper._] I should have thought it must be pretty much the same to you whether I was in existence or not. MRS. ALVING. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald? OSWALD. But you’ve got on very well without me all this time. MRS. ALVING. Yes; I have got on without you. That is true. [_A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. OSWALD paces to and fro across the room. He has laid his cigar down._ OSWALD. [_Stops beside Mrs. Alving._] Mother, may I sit on the sofa beside you? MRS. ALVING. [_Makes room for him._] Yes, do, my dear boy. OSWALD. [_Sits down._] There is something I must tell you, mother. MRS. ALVING. [_Anxiously._] Well? OSWALD. [_Looks fixedly before him._] For I can’t go on hiding it any longer. MRS. ALVING. Hiding what? What is it? OSWALD. [_As before._] I could never bring myself to write to you about it; and since I’ve come home—— MRS. ALVING. [_Seizes him by the arm._] Oswald, what is the matter? OSWALD. Both yesterday and to-day I have tried to put the thoughts away from me—to cast them off; but it’s no use. MRS. ALVING. [_Rising._] Now you must tell me everything, Oswald! OSWALD. [_Draws her down to the sofa again._] Sit still; and then I will try to tell you.—I complained of fatigue after my journey—— MRS. ALVING. Well? What then? OSWALD. But it isn’t that that is the matter with me; not any ordinary fatigue—— MRS. ALVING. [_Tries to jump up._] You are not ill, Oswald? OSWALD. [_Draws her down again._] Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. I’m not downright ill, either; not what is commonly called “ill.” [_Clasps his hands above his head._] Mother, my mind is broken down—ruined—I shall never be able to work again! [_With his hands before his face, he buries his head in her lap, and breaks into bitter sobbing._ MRS. ALVING. [_White and trembling._] Oswald! Look at me! No, no; it’s not true. OSWALD. [_Looks up with despair in his eyes._] Never to be able to work again! Never!—never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so horrible? MRS. ALVING. My poor boy! How has this horrible thing come upon you? OSWALD. [_Sitting upright again._] That’s just what I cannot possibly grasp or understand. I have never led a dissipated life—never, in any respect. You mustn’t believe that of me, mother! I’ve never done that. MRS. ALVING. I am sure you haven’t, Oswald. OSWALD. And yet this has come upon me just the same—this awful misfortune! MRS. ALVING. Oh, but it will pass over, my dear, blessëd boy. It’s nothing but over-work. Trust me, I am right. OSWALD. [_Sadly._] I thought so too, at first; but it isn’t so. MRS. ALVING. Tell me everything, from beginning to end. OSWALD. Yes, I will. MRS. ALVING. When did you first notice it? OSWALD. It was directly after I had been home last time, and had got back to Paris again. I began to feel the most violent pains in my head—chiefly in the back of my head, they seemed to come. It was as though a tight iron ring was being screwed round my neck and upwards. MRS. ALVING. Well, and then? OSWALD. At first I thought it was nothing but the ordinary headache I had been so plagued with while I was growing up—— MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes—— OSWALD. But it wasn’t that. I soon found that out. I couldn’t work any more. I wanted to begin upon a big new picture, but my powers seemed to fail me; all my strength was crippled; I could form no definite images; everything swam before me—whirling round and round. Oh, it was an awful state! At last I sent for a doctor—and from him I learned the truth. MRS. ALVING. How do you mean? OSWALD. He was one of the first doctors in Paris. I told him my symptoms; and then he set to work asking me a string of questions which I thought had nothing to do with the matter. I couldn’t imagine what the man was after—— MRS. ALVING. Well? OSWALD. At last he said: “There has been something worm-eaten in you from your birth.” He used that very word—_vermoulu_. MRS. ALVING. [_Breathlessly._] What did he mean by that? OSWALD. I didn’t understand either, and begged him to explain himself more clearly. And then the old cynic said—[_Clenching his fist_] Oh——! MRS. ALVING. What did he say? OSWALD. He said, “The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.” MRS. ALVING. [_Rising slowly._] The sins of the fathers——! OSWALD. I very nearly struck him in the face—— MRS. ALVING. [_Walks away across the room._] The sins of the fathers—— OSWALD. [_Smiles sadly._] Yes; what do you think of that? Of course I assured him that such a thing was out of the question. But do you think he gave in? No, he stuck to it; and it was only when I produced your letters and translated the passages relating to father—— MRS. ALVING. But _then_——? OSWALD. Then of course he had to admit that he was on the wrong track; and so I learned the truth—the incomprehensible truth! I ought not to have taken part with my comrades in that light-hearted, glorious life of theirs. It had been too much for my strength. So I had brought it upon myself! MRS. ALVING. Oswald! No, no; do not believe it! OSWALD. No other explanation was possible, he said. _That’s_ the awful part of it. Incurably ruined for life—by my own heedlessness! All that I meant to have done in the world—I never dare think of it again—I’m not _able_ to think of it. Oh! if I could only live over again, and undo all I have done! [_He buries his face in the sofa._ MRS. ALVING. [_Wrings her hands and walks, in silent struggle, backwards and forwards._] OSWALD. [_After a while, looks up and remains resting upon his elbow._] If it had only been something inherited—something one wasn’t responsible for! But this! To have thrown away so shamefully, thoughtlessly, recklessly, one’s own happiness, one’s own health, everything in the world—one’s future, one’s very life——! MRS. ALVING. No, no, my dear, darling boy; this is impossible! [_Bends over him._] Things are not so desperate as you think. OSWALD. Oh, you don’t know——[_Springs up._] And then, mother, to cause you all this sorrow! Many a time I have almost wished and hoped that at bottom you didn’t care so very much about me. MRS. ALVING. I, Oswald? My only boy! You are all I have in the world! The only thing I care about! OSWALD. [_Seizes both her hands and kisses them._] Yes, yes, I see it. When I’m at home, I see it, of course; and that’s almost the hardest part for me.—But now you know the whole story; and now we won’t talk any more about it to-day. I daren’t think of it for long together. [_Goes up the room._] Get me something to drink, mother. MRS. ALVING. To drink? What do you want to drink now? OSWALD. Oh, anything you like. You have some cold punch in the house. MRS. ALVING. Yes, but my dear Oswald—— OSWALD. Don’t refuse me, mother. Do be kind, now! I _must_ have something to wash down all these gnawing thoughts. [_Goes into the conservatory._] And then——it’s so dark here! [_MRS. ALVING pulls a bell-rope on the right._] And this ceaseless rain! It may go on week after week, for months together. Never to get a glimpse of the sun! I can’t recollect ever having seen the sun shine all the times I’ve been at home. MRS. ALVING. Oswald—you are thinking of going away from me. OSWALD. H’m—[_Drawing a heavy breath._]—I’m not thinking of anything. I _cannot_ think of anything! [_In a low voice._] I let thinking alone. REGINA. [_From the dining-room._] Did you ring, ma’am? MRS. ALVING. Yes; let us have the lamp in. REGINA. Yes, ma’am. It’s ready lighted. [_Goes out._ MRS. ALVING. [_Goes across to OSWALD._] Oswald, be frank with me. OSWALD. Well, so I am, mother. [_Goes to the table._] I think I have told you enough. [_REGINA brings the lamp and sets it upon the table._ MRS. ALVING. Regina, you may bring us a small bottle of champagne. REGINA. Very well, ma’am. [_Goes out._ OSWALD. [_Puts his arm round MRS. ALVING’S neck._] That’s just what I wanted. I knew mother wouldn’t let her boy go thirsty. MRS. ALVING. My own, poor, darling Oswald; how could I deny you anything now? OSWALD. [_Eagerly._] Is that true, mother? Do you mean it? MRS. ALVING. How? What? OSWALD. That you couldn’t deny me anything. MRS. ALVING. My dear Oswald—— OSWALD. Hush! REGINA. [_Brings a tray with a half-bottle of champagne and two glasses, which she sets on the table._] Shall I open it? OSWALD. No, thanks. I will do it myself. [_REGINA goes out again._ MRS. ALVING. [_Sits down by the table._] What was it you meant—that I musn’t deny you? OSWALD. [_Busy opening the bottle._] First let us have a glass—or two. [_The cork pops; he pours wine into one glass, and is about to pour it into the other._ MRS. ALVING. [_Holding her hand over it._] Thanks; not for me. OSWALD. Oh! won’t you? Then I will! [_He empties the glass, fills, and empties it again; then he sits down by the table._ MRS. ALVING. [_In expectancy._] Well? OSWALD. [_Without looking at her._] Tell me—I thought you and Pastor Manders seemed so odd—so quiet—at dinner to-day. MRS. ALVING. Did you notice it? OSWALD. Yes. H’m——[_After a short silence._] Tell me: what do you think of Regina? MRS. ALVING. What do I think? OSWALD. Yes; isn’t she splendid? MRS. ALVING. My dear Oswald, you don’t know her as I do—— OSWALD. Well? MRS. ALVING. Regina, unfortunately, was allowed to stay at home too long. I ought to have taken her earlier into my house. OSWALD. Yes, but isn’t she splendid to look at, mother? [_He fills his glass._ MRS. ALVING. Regina has many serious faults—— OSWALD. Oh, what does that matter? [_He drinks again._ MRS. ALVING. But I am fond of her, nevertheless, and I am responsible for her. I wouldn’t for all the world have any harm happen to her. OSWALD. [_Springs up._] Mother, Regina is my only salvation! MRS. ALVING. [_Rising._] What do you mean by that? OSWALD. I cannot go on bearing all this anguish of soul alone. MRS. ALVING. Have you not your mother to share it with you? OSWALD. Yes; that’s what I thought; and so I came home to you. But that will not do. I see it won’t do. I cannot endure my life here. MRS. ALVING. Oswald! OSWALD. I must live differently, mother. That is why I must leave you. I will not have you looking on at it. MRS. ALVING. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, while you are so ill as this—— OSWALD. If it were only the illness, I should stay with you, mother, you may be sure; for you are the best friend I have in the world. MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not? OSWALD. [_Wanders restlessly about._] But it’s all the torment, the gnawing remorse—and then, the great, killing dread. Oh—that awful dread! MRS. ALVING. [_Walking after him._] Dread? What dread? What do you mean? OSWALD. Oh, you mustn’t ask me any more. I don’t know. I can’t describe it. MRS. ALVING. [_Goes over to the right and pulls the bell._] OSWALD. What is it you want? MRS. ALVING. I want my boy to be happy—that is what I want. He sha’n’t go on brooding over things. [_To REGINA, who appears at the door:_] More champagne—a large bottle. [_REGINA goes._ OSWALD. Mother! MRS. ALVING. Do you think we don’t know how to live here at home? OSWALD. Isn’t she splendid to look at? How beautifully she’s built! And so thoroughly healthy! MRS. ALVING. [_Sits by the table._] Sit down, Oswald; let us talk quietly together. OSWALD. [_Sits._] I daresay you don’t know, mother, that I owe Regina some reparation. MRS. ALVING. You! OSWALD. For a bit of thoughtlessness, or whatever you like to call it—very innocent, at any rate. When I was home last time—— MRS. ALVING. Well? OSWALD. She used often to ask me about Paris, and I used to tell her one thing and another. Then I recollect I happened to say to her one day, “Shouldn’t you like to go there yourself?” MRS. ALVING. Well? OSWALD. I saw her face flush, and then she said, “Yes, I should like it of all things.” “Ah, well,” I replied, “it might perhaps be managed”—or something like that. MRS. ALVING. And then? OSWALD. Of course I had forgotten all about it; but the day before yesterday I happened to ask her whether she was glad I was to stay at home so long—— MRS. ALVING. Yes? OSWALD. And then she gave me such a strange look, and asked, “But what’s to become of my trip to Paris?” MRS. ALVING. Her trip! OSWALD. And so it came out that she had taken the thing seriously; that she had been thinking of me the whole time, and had set to work to learn French—— MRS. ALVING. So _that_ was why——! OSWALD. Mother—when I saw that fresh, lovely, splendid girl standing there before me—till then I had hardly noticed her—but when she stood there as though with open arms ready to receive me—— MRS. ALVING. Oswald! OSWALD. ——then it flashed upon me that in her lay my salvation; for I saw that she was full of the joy of life. MRS. ALVING. [_Starts._] The joy of life——? Can there be salvation in _that_? REGINA. [_From the dining-room, with a bottle of champagne._] I’m sorry to have been so long, but I had to go to the cellar. [_Places the bottle on the table._ OSWALD. And now bring another glass. REGINA. [_Looks at him in surprise._] There is Mrs. Alving’s glass, Mr. Alving. OSWALD. Yes, but bring one for yourself, Regina. [_REGINA starts and gives a lightning-like side glance at MRS. ALVING._] Why do you wait? REGINA. [_Softly and hesitatingly._] Is it Mrs. Alving’s wish? MRS. ALVING. Bring the glass, Regina. [_REGINA goes out into the dining-room._ OSWALD. [_Follows her with his eyes._] Have you noticed how she walks?—so firmly and lightly! MRS. ALVING. This can never be, Oswald! OSWALD. It’s a settled thing. Can’t you see that? It’s no use saying anything against it. [_REGINA enters with an empty glass, which she keeps in her hand._ OSWALD. Sit down, Regina. [_REGINA looks inquiringly at Mrs. Alving._ MRS. ALVING. Sit down. [_REGINA sits on a chair by the dining-room door, still holding the empty glass in her hand._] Oswald—what were you saying about the joy of life? OSWALD. Ah, the joy of life, mother—that’s a thing you don’t know much about in these parts. I have never felt it here. MRS. ALVING. Not when you are with me? OSWALD. Not when I’m at home. But you don’t understand that. MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I think I almost understand it—now. OSWALD. And then, too, the joy of work! At bottom, it’s the same thing. But that, too, you know nothing about. MRS. ALVING. Perhaps you are right. Tell me more about it, Oswald. OSWALD. I only mean that here people are brought up to believe that work is a curse and a punishment for sin, and that life is something miserable, something it would be best to have done with, the sooner the better. MRS. ALVING. “A vale of tears,” yes; and we certainly do our best to make it one. OSWALD. But in the great world people won’t hear of such things. There, nobody really believes such doctrines any longer. There, you feel it a positive bliss and ecstasy merely to draw the breath of life. Mother, have you noticed that everything I have painted has turned upon the joy of life?—always, always upon the joy of life?—light and sunshine and glorious air—and faces radiant with happiness. That is why I’m afraid of remaining at home with you. MRS. ALVING. Afraid? What are you afraid of here, with me? OSWALD. I’m afraid lest all my instincts should be warped into ugliness. MRS. ALVING. [_Looks steadily at him._] Do you think _that_ is what would happen? OSWALD. I know it. You may live the same life here as there, and yet it won’t be the same life. MRS. ALVING. [_Who has been listening eagerly, rises, her eyes big with thought, and says:_] Now I see the sequence of things. OSWALD. What is it you see? MRS. ALVING. I see it now for the first time. And now I can speak. OSWALD. [_Rising._] Mother, I don’t understand you. REGINA. [_Who has also risen._] Perhaps I ought to go? MRS. ALVING. No. Stay here. Now I can speak. Now, my boy, you shall know the whole truth. And then you can choose. Oswald! Regina! OSWALD. Hush! The Pastor—— MANDERS. [_Enters by the hall door._] There! We have had a most edifying time down there. OSWALD. So have we. MANDERS. We must stand by Engstrand and his Sailors’ Home. Regina must go to him and help him—— REGINA. No thank you, sir. MANDERS. [_Noticing her for the first time._] What——? You here? And with a glass in your hand! REGINA. [_Hastily putting the glass down._] _Pardon!_ OSWALD. Regina is going with _me_, Mr. Manders. MANDERS. Going! With you! OSWALD. Yes; as my wife—if she wishes it. MANDERS. But, merciful God——! REGINA. I can’t help it, sir. OSWALD. Or she’ll stay here, if I stay. REGINA. [_Involuntarily._] Here! MANDERS. I am thunderstruck at your conduct, Mrs. Alving. MRS. ALVING. They will do neither one thing nor the other; for now I can speak out plainly. MANDERS. You surely will not do that! No, no, no! MRS. ALVING. Yes, I can speak and I will. And no ideals shall suffer after all. OSWALD. Mother—what is it you are hiding from me? REGINA. [_Listening._] Oh, ma’am, listen! Don’t you hear shouts outside. [_She goes into the conservatory and looks out._ OSWALD. [_At the window on the left._] What’s going on? Where does that light come from? REGINA. [_Cries out._] The Orphanage is on fire! MRS. ALVING. [_Rushing to the window._] On fire! MANDERS. On fire! Impossible! I’ve just come from there. OSWALD. Where’s my hat? Oh, never mind it—Father’s Orphanage——! [_He rushes out through the garden door._ MRS. ALVING. My shawl, Regina! The whole place is in a blaze! MANDERS. Terrible! Mrs. Alving, it is a judgment upon this abode of lawlessness. MRS. ALVING. Yes, of course. Come, Regina. [_She and REGINA hasten out through the hall._ MANDERS. [_Clasps his hands together._] And we left it uninsured! [_He goes out the same way._ ----- Footnote 13: A phrase equivalent to the German _Prosit die Mahlzeit_—“May good digestion wait on appetite.” ACT THIRD. _The room as before. All the doors stand open. The lamp is still burning on the table. It is dark out of doors; there is only a faint glow from the conflagration in the background to the left._ _MRS. ALVING, with a shawl over her head, stands in the conservatory, looking out. REGINA, also with a shawl on, stands a little behind her._ MRS. ALVING. The whole thing burnt!—burnt to the ground! REGINA. The basement is still burning. MRS. ALVING. How is it Oswald doesn’t come home? There’s nothing to be saved. REGINA. Should you like me to take down his hat to him? MRS. ALVING. Has he not even got his hat on? REGINA. [_Pointing to the hall._] No; there it hangs. MRS. ALVING. Let it be. He must come up now. I shall go and look for him myself. [_She goes out through the garden door._ MANDERS. [_Comes in from the hall._] Is not Mrs. Alving here? REGINA. She has just gone down the garden. MANDERS. This is the most terrible night I ever went through. REGINA. Yes; isn’t it a dreadful misfortune, sir? MANDERS. Oh, don’t talk about it! I can hardly bear to think of it. REGINA. How can it have happened——? MANDERS. Don’t ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should _I_ know? Do _you_, too——? Is it not enough that your father——? REGINA. What about him? MANDERS. Oh, he has driven me distracted—— ENGSTRAND. [_Enters through the hall._] Your Reverence—— MANDERS. [_Turns round in terror._] Are you after me here, too? ENGSTRAND. Yes, strike me dead, but I must——! Oh, Lord! what am I saying? But this is a terrible ugly business, your Reverence. MANDERS. [_Walks to and fro._] Alas! alas! REGINA. What’s the matter? ENGSTRAND. Why, it all came of this here prayer-meeting, you see. [_Softly._] The bird’s limed, my girl. [_Aloud._] And to think it should be _my_ doing that such a thing should be his Reverence’s doing! MANDERS. But I assure you, Engstrand—— ENGSTRAND. There wasn’t another soul except your Reverence as ever laid a finger on the candles down there. MANDERS. [_Stops._] So you declare. But I certainly cannot recollect that I ever had a candle in my hand. ENGSTRAND. And I _saw_ as clear as daylight how your Reverence took the candle and snuffed it with your fingers, and threw away the snuff among the shavings. MANDERS. And you stood and looked on? ENGSTRAND. Yes; I saw it as plain as a pike-staff, I did. MANDERS. It’s quite beyond my comprehension. Besides, it has never been my habit to snuff candles with my fingers. ENGSTRAND. And terrible risky it looked, too, that it did! But is there such a deal of harm done after all, your Reverence? MANDERS. [_Walks restlessly to and fro._] Oh, don’t ask me! ENGSTRAND. [_Walks with him._] And your Reverence hadn’t insured it, neither? MANDERS. [_Continuing to walk up and down._] No, no, no; I have told you so. ENGSTRAND. [_Following him._] Not insured! And then to go straight away down and set light to the whole thing! Lord, Lord, what a misfortune! MANDERS. [_Wipes the sweat from his forehead._] Ay, you may well say that, Engstrand. ENGSTRAND. And to think that such a thing should happen to a benevolent Institution, that was to have been a blessing both to town and country, as the saying goes! The newspapers won’t be for handling your Reverence very gently, I expect. MANDERS. No; that is just what I am thinking of. That is almost the worst of the whole matter. All the malignant attacks and imputations——! Oh, it makes me shudder to think of it! MRS. ALVING. [_Comes in from the garden._] He is not to be persuaded to leave the fire. MANDERS. Ah, there you are, Mrs. Alving. MRS. ALVING. So you have escaped your Inaugural Address, Pastor Manders. MANDERS. Oh, I should so gladly—— MRS. ALVING. [_In an undertone._] It is all for the best. That Orphanage would have done no one any good. MANDERS. Do you think not? MRS. ALVING. Do you think it would? MANDERS. It is a terrible misfortune, all the same. MRS. ALVING. Let us speak of it plainly, as a matter of business.—Are you waiting for Mr. Manders, Engstrand? ENGSTRAND. [_At the hall door._] That’s just what I’m a-doing of, ma’am. MRS. ALVING. Then sit down meanwhile. ENGSTRAND. Thank you, ma’am; I’d as soon stand. MRS. ALVING. [_To MANDERS._] I suppose you are going by the steamer? MANDERS. Yes; it starts in an hour. MRS. ALVING. Then be so good as to take all the papers with you. I won’t hear another word about this affair. I have other things to think of—— MANDERS. Mrs. Alving—— MRS. ALVING. Later on I shall send you a Power of Attorney to settle everything as you please. MANDERS. That I will very readily undertake. The original destination of the endowment must now be completely changed, alas! MRS. ALVING. Of course it must. MANDERS. I think, first of all, I shall arrange that the Solvik property shall pass to the parish. The land is by no means without value. It can always be turned to account for some purpose or other. And the interest of the money in the Bank I could, perhaps, best apply for the benefit of some undertaking of acknowledged value to the town. MRS. ALVING. Do just as you please. The whole matter is now completely indifferent to me. ENGSTRAND. Give a thought to my Sailors’ Home, your Reverence. MANDERS. Upon my word, that is not a bad suggestion. That must be considered. ENGSTRAND. Oh, devil take considering—Lord forgive me! MANDERS. [_With a sigh._] And unfortunately I cannot tell how long I shall be able to retain control of these things—whether public opinion may not compel me to retire. It entirely depends upon the result of the official inquiry into the fire—— MRS. ALVING. What are you talking about? MANDERS. And the result can by no means be foretold. ENGSTRAND. [_Comes close to him._] Ay, but it can though. For here stands old Jacob Engstrand. MANDERS. Well well, but——? ENGSTRAND. [_More softy._] And Jacob Engstrand isn’t the man to desert a noble benefactor in the hour of need, as the saying goes. MANDERS. Yes, but my good fellow—how——? ENGSTRAND. Jacob Engstrand may be likened to a sort of a guardian angel, he may, your Reverence. MANDERS. No, no; I really cannot accept that. ENGSTRAND. Oh, that’ll be the way of it, all the same. I know a man as has taken others’ sins upon himself before now, I do. MANDERS. Jacob! [_Wrings his hand._] Yours is a rare nature. Well, you shall be helped with your Sailors’ Home. That you may rely upon. [_ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but cannot for emotion._ MANDERS. [_Hangs his travelling-bag over his shoulder._] And now let us set out. We two will go together. ENGSTRAND. [_At the dining-room door, softly to REGINA._] You come along too, my lass. You shall live as snug as the yolk in an egg. REGINA. [_Tosses her head._] _Merci!_ [_She goes out into the hall and fetches MANDERS’S overcoat._ MANDERS. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! and may the spirit of Law and Order descend upon this house, and that quickly. MRS. ALVING. Good-bye, Pastor Manders. [_She goes up towards the conservatory, as she sees OSWALD coming in through the garden door._ ENGSTRAND. [_While he and REGINA help MANDERS to get his coat on._] Good-bye, my child. And if any trouble should come to you, you know where Jacob Engstrand is to be found. [_Softly._] Little Harbour Street, h’m——! [_To MRS. ALVING and OSWALD._] And the refuge for wandering mariners shall be called “Chamberlain Alving’s Home,” that it shall! And if so be as I’m spared to carry on that house in my own way, I make so bold as to promise that it shall be worthy of the Chamberlain’s memory. MANDERS. [_In the doorway._] H’m—h’m!—Come along, my dear Engstrand. Good-bye! Good-bye! [_He and ENGSTRAND go out through the hall._ OSWALD. [_Goes towards the table._] What house was he talking about? MRS. ALVING. Oh, a kind of Home that he and Pastor Manders want to set up. OSWALD. It will burn down like the other. MRS. ALVING. What makes you think so? OSWALD. Everything will burn. All that recalls father’s memory is doomed. Here am I, too, burning down. [_REGINA starts and looks at him._ MRS. ALVING. Oswald! You oughtn’t to have remained so long down there, my poor boy. OSWALD. [_Sits down by the table._] I almost think you are right. MRS. ALVING. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are quite wet. [_She dries his face with her pocket-handkerchief._ OSWALD. [_Stares indifferently in front of him._] Thanks, mother. MRS. ALVING. Are you not tired, Oswald? Should you like to sleep? OSWALD. [_Nervously._] No, no—not to sleep! I never sleep. I only pretend to. [_Sadly._] That will come soon enough. MRS. ALVING. [_Looking sorrowfully at him._] Yes, you really are ill, my blessëd boy. REGINA. [Eagerly.] Is Mr. Alving ill? OSWALD. [_Impatiently._] Oh, do shut all the doors! This killing dread—— MRS. ALVING. Close the doors, Regina. [_REGINA shuts them and remains standing by the hall door. MRS. ALVING takes her shawl off. REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING draws a chair across to OSWALD’S, and sits by him._ MRS. ALVING. There now! I am going to sit beside you—— OSWALD. Yes, do. And Regina shall stay here too. Regina shall be with me always. You will come to the rescue, Regina, won’t you? REGINA. I don’t understand—— MRS. ALVING. To the rescue? OSWALD. Yes—when the need comes. MRS. ALVING. Oswald, have you not your mother to come to the rescue? OSWALD. You? [_Smiles._] No, mother; _that_ rescue you will never bring me. [_Laughs sadly._] You! ha ha! [_Looks earnestly at her._] Though, after all, who ought to do it if not you? [_Impetuously._] Why can’t you say “thou” to me, Regina?[14] Why do’n’t you call me “Oswald”? REGINA. [_Softly._] I don’t think Mrs. Alving would like it. MRS. ALVING. You shall have leave to, presently. And meanwhile sit over here beside us. [_REGINA seats herself demurely and hesitatingly at the other side of the table._ MRS. ALVING. And now, my poor suffering boy, I am going to take the burden off your mind—— OSWALD. You, mother? MRS. ALVING. ——all the gnawing remorse and self-reproach you speak of. OSWALD. And you think you can do that? MRS. ALVING. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you spoke of the joy of life; and at that word a new light burst for me over my life and everything connected with it. OSWALD. [_Shakes his head._] I don’t understand you. MRS. ALVING. You ought to have known your father when he was a young lieutenant. He was brimming over with the joy of life! OSWALD. Yes, I know he was. MRS. ALVING. It was like a breezy day only to look at him. And what exuberant strength and vitality there was in him! OSWALD. Well——? MRS. ALVING. Well then, child of joy as he was—for he _was_ like a child in those days—he had to live at home here in a half-grown town, which had no joys to offer him—only dissipations. He had no object in life—only an official position. He had no work into which he could throw himself heart and soul; he had only business. He had not a single comrade that could realise what the joy of life meant—only loungers and boon-companions—— OSWALD. Mother——! MRS. ALVING. So the inevitable happened. OSWALD. The inevitable? MRS. ALVING. You told me yourself, this evening, what would become of _you_ if you stayed at home. OSWALD. Do you mean to say that father——? MRS. ALVING. Your poor father found no outlet for the over-powering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no brightness into his home. OSWALD. Not even you? MRS. ALVING. They had taught me a great deal about duties and so forth, which I went on obstinately believing in. Everything was marked out into duties—into _my_ duties, and _his_ duties, and—I am afraid I made his home intolerable for your poor father, Oswald. OSWALD. Why have you never spoken of this in writing to me? MRS. ALVING. I have never before seen it in such a light that I could speak of it to you, his son. OSWALD. In what light did you see it, then? MRS. ALVING. [_Slowly._] I saw only this one thing: that your father was a broken-down man before you were born. OSWALD. [_Softly._] Ah——! [_He rises and walks away to the window._ MRS. ALVING. And then, day after day, I dwelt on the one thought that by rights Regina should be at home in this house—just like my own boy. OSWALD. [_Turning round quickly._] Regina——! REGINA. [_Springs up and asks, with bated breath._] I——? MRS. ALVING. Yes, now you know it, both of you. OSWALD. Regina! REGINA. [_To herself._] So mother _was_ that kind of woman. MRS. ALVING. Your mother had many good qualities, Regina. REGINA. Yes, but she was one of that sort, all the same. Oh, I’ve often suspected it; but——And now, if you please, ma’am, may I be allowed to go away at once? MRS. ALVING. Do you really wish it, Regina? REGINA. Yes, indeed I do. MRS. ALVING. Of course you can do as you like; but—— OSWALD. [_Goes towards_ REGINA.] Go away now? Your place is here. REGINA. _Merci_, Mr. Alving!—or now, I suppose, I may say Oswald. But I can tell you _this_ wasn’t at all what I expected. MRS. ALVING. Regina, I have not been frank with you—— REGINA. No, that you haven’t indeed. If I’d known that Oswald was an invalid, why——And now, too, that it can never come to anything serious between us——I really can’t stop out here in the country and wear myself out nursing sick people. OSWALD. Not even one who is so near to you? REGINA. No, that I can’t. A poor girl must make the best of her young days, or she’ll be left out in the cold before she knows where she is. And I, too, have the joy of life in me, Mrs. Alving! MRS. ALVING. Unfortunately, you have. But don’t throw yourself away, Regina. REGINA. Oh, what must be, must be. If Oswald takes after his father, I take after my mother, I daresay.—May I ask, ma’am, if Pastor Manders knows all this about me? MRS. ALVING. Pastor Manders knows all about it. REGINA. [_Busied in putting on her shawl._] Well then, I’d better make haste and get away by this steamer. The Pastor is such a nice man to deal with; and I certainly think I’ve as much right to a little of that money as _he_ has—that brute of a carpenter. MRS. ALVING. You are heartily welcome to it, Regina. REGINA. [_Looks hard at her._] I think you might have brought me up as a gentleman’s daughter, ma’am; it would have suited me better. [_Tosses her head._] But pooh—what does it matter! [_With a bitter side glance at the corked bottle._] I may come to drink champagne with gentlefolks yet. MRS. ALVING. And if you ever need a home, Regina, come to me. REGINA. No, thank you, ma’am. Pastor Manders will look after me, I know. And if the worst comes to the worst, I know of one house where I’ve every right to a place. MRS. ALVING. Where is that? REGINA. “Chamberlain Alving’s Home.” MRS. ALVING. Regina—now I see it—you are going to your ruin. REGINA. Oh, stuff! Good-bye. [_She nods and goes out through the hall._ OSWALD. [_Stands at the window and looks out._] Is she gone? MRS. ALVING. Yes. OSWALD. [_Murmuring aside to himself._] I think it was a mistake, this. MRS. ALVING. [_Goes up behind him and lays her hands on his shoulders._] Oswald, my dear boy—has it shaken you very much? OSWALD. [_Turns his face towards her._] All that about father, do you mean? MRS. ALVING. Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have been too much for you. OSWALD. Why should you fancy that? Of course it came upon me as a great surprise; but it can make no real difference to me. MRS. ALVING. [_Draws her hands away._] No difference! That your father was so infinitely unhappy! OSWALD. Of course I can pity him, as I would anybody else; but—— MRS. ALVING. Nothing more! Your own father! OSWALD. [_Impatiently._] Oh, “father,”—“father”! I never knew anything of father. I remember nothing about him, except that he once made me sick. MRS. ALVING. This is terrible to think of! Ought not a son to love his father, whatever happens? OSWALD. When a son has nothing to thank his father for? has never known him? Do you really cling to that old superstition?—you who are so enlightened in other ways? MRS. ALVING. Can it be only a superstition——? OSWALD. Yes; surely you can see _that_, mother. It’s one of those notions that are current in the world, and so—— MRS. ALVING. [_Deeply moved._] Ghosts! OSWALD. [_Crossing the room._] Yes; you may call them ghosts. MRS. ALVING. [_Wildly._] Oswald—then you don’t love me, either! OSWALD. You I know, at any rate—— MRS. ALVING. Yes, you know me; but is that all! OSWALD. And, of course, I know how fond you are of me, and I can’t but be grateful to you. And then you can be so useful to me, now that I am ill. MRS. ALVING. Yes, cannot I, Oswald? Oh, I could almost bless the illness that has driven you home to me. For I see very plainly that you are not mine: I have to win you. OSWALD. [_Impatiently._] Yes yes yes; all these are just so many phrases. You must remember that I am a sick man, mother. I can’t be much taken up with other people; I have enough to do thinking about myself. MRS. ALVING. [_In a low voice._] I shall be patient and easily satisfied. OSWALD. And cheerful too, mother! MRS. ALVING. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. [_Goes towards him._] Have I relieved you of all remorse and self-reproach now? OSWALD. Yes, you have. But now who will relieve me of the dread? MRS. ALVING. The dread? OSWALD. [_Walks across the room._] Regina could have been got to do it. MRS. ALVING. I don’t understand you. What is this about dread—and Regina? OSWALD. Is it very late, mother? MRS. ALVING. It is early morning. [_She looks out through the conservatory._] The day is dawning over the mountains. And the weather is clearing, Oswald. In a little while you shall see the sun. OSWALD. I’m glad of that. Oh, I may still have much to rejoice in and live for—— MRS. ALVING. I should think so, indeed! OSWALD. Even if I can’t work—— MRS. ALVING. Oh, you’ll soon be able to work again, my dear boy—now that you haven’t got all those gnawing and depressing thoughts to brood over any longer. OSWALD. Yes, I’m glad you were able to rid me of all those fancies. And when I’ve got over this one thing more——[_Sits on the sofa._] Now we will have a little talk, mother—— MRS. ALVING. Yes, let us. [_She pushes an arm-chair towards the sofa, and sits down close to him._ OSWALD. And meantime the sun will be rising. And then you will know all. And then I shall not feel this dread any longer. MRS. ALVING. What is it that I am to know? OSWALD. [_Not listening to her._] Mother, did you not say a little while ago, that there was nothing in the world you would not do for me, if I asked you? MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I said so! OSWALD. And you’ll stick to it, mother? MRS. ALVING. You may rely on that, my dear and only boy! I have nothing in the world to live for but you alone. OSWALD. Very well, then; now you shall hear——Mother, you have a strong, steadfast mind, I know. Now you’re to sit quite still when you hear it. MRS. ALVING. What dreadful thing can it be——? OSWALD. You’re not to scream out. Do you hear? Do you promise me that? We will sit and talk about it quietly. Do you promise me, mother? MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I promise. Only speak! OSWALD. Well, you must know that all this fatigue—and my inability to think of work—all that is not the illness itself—— MRS. ALVING. Then what is the illness itself? OSWALD. The disease I have as my birthright—[_He points to his forehead and adds very softly_]—is seated here. MRS. ALVING. [_Almost voiceless._] Oswald! No—no! OSWALD. Don’t scream. I can’t bear it. Yes, mother, it is seated here—waiting. And it may break out any day—at any moment. MRS. ALVING. Oh, what horror——! OSWALD. Now, quiet, quiet. That is how it stands with me—— MRS. ALVING. [_Springs up._] It’s not true, Oswald! It’s impossible! It cannot be so! OSWALD. I have had _one_ attack down there already. It was soon over. But when I came to know the state I had been in, then the dread descended upon me, raging and ravening; and so I set off home to you as fast as I could. MRS. ALVING. Then this is the dread——! OSWALD. Yes—it’s so indescribably loathsome, you know. Oh, if it had only been an ordinary mortal disease——! For I’m not so afraid of death—though I should like to live as long as I can. MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must! OSWALD. But this is so unutterably loathsome. To become a little baby again! To have to be fed! To have to——Oh, it’s not to be spoken of! MRS. ALVING. The child has his mother to nurse him. OSWALD. [_Springs up._] No, never that! That is just what I will not have. I can’t endure to think that perhaps I should lie in that state for many years—and get old and grey. And in the meantime you might die and leave me. [_Sits in_ MRS. ALVING’S _chair._] For the doctor said it wouldn’t necessarily prove fatal at once. He called it a sort of softening of the brain—or something like that. [_Smiles sadly._] I think that expression sounds so nice. It always sets me thinking of cherry-coloured velvet—something soft and delicate to stroke. MRS. ALVING. [_Shrieks._] Oswald! OSWALD. [_Springs up and paces the room._] And now you have taken Regina from me. If I could only have had her! She would have come to the rescue, I know. MRS. ALVING. [_Goes to him._] What do you mean by that, my darling boy? Is there any help in the world that I would not give you? OSWALD. When I got over my attack in Paris, the doctor told me that when it comes again—and it _will_ come—there will be no more hope. MRS. ALVING. He was heartless enough to—— OSWALD. I demanded it of him. I told him I had preparations to make——[_He smiles cunningly._] And so I had. [_He takes a little box from his inner breast pocket and opens it._] Mother, do you see this? MRS. ALVING. What is it? OSWALD. Morphia. MRS. ALVING. [_Looks at him horror-struck._] Oswald—my boy! OSWALD. I’ve scraped together twelve pilules—— MRS. ALVING. [_Snatches at it._] Give me the box, Oswald! OSWALD. Not yet, mother. [_He hides the box again in his pocket._ MRS. ALVING. I shall never survive this! OSWALD. It must be survived. Now if I’d had Regina here, I should have told her how things stood with me—and begged her to come to the rescue at the last. She would have done it. I know she would. MRS. ALVING. Never! OSWALD. When the horror had come upon me, and she saw me lying there helpless, like a little new-born baby, impotent, lost, hopeless—past all saving—— MRS. ALVING. Never in all the world would Regina have done this! OSWALD. Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly light-hearted. And she would soon have wearied of nursing an invalid like me. MRS. ALVING. Then heaven be praised that Regina is not here. OSWALD. Well then, it is you that must come to the rescue, mother. MRS. ALVING. [_Shrieks aloud._] I! OSWALD. Who should do it if not you? MRS. ALVING. I! your mother! OSWALD. For that very reason. MRS. ALVING. I, who gave you life! OSWALD. I never asked you for life. And what sort of a life have you given me? I will not have it! You shall take it back again! MRS. ALVING. Help! Help! [_She runs out into the hall._ OSWALD. [_Going after her._] Do not leave me! Where are you going? MRS. ALVING. [_In the hall._] To fetch the doctor, Oswald! Let me pass! OSWALD. [_Also outside._] You shall not go out. And no one shall come in. [_The locking of a door is heard._ MRS. ALVING. [_Comes in again._] Oswald! Oswald—my child! OSWALD. [_Follows her._] Have you a mother’s heart for me—and yet can see me suffer from this unutterable dread? MRS. ALVING. [_After a moment’s silence, commands herself, and says:_] Here is my hand upon it. OSWALD. Will you——? MRS. ALVING. If it should ever be necessary. But it will never be necessary. No, no; it is impossible. OSWALD. Well, let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we can. Thank you, mother. [_He seats himself in the arm-chair which_ MRS. ALVING _has moved to the sofa. Day is breaking. The lamp is still burning on the table._ MRS. ALVING. [_Drawing near cautiously._] Do you feel calm now? OSWALD. Yes. MRS. ALVING. [_Bending over him._] It has been a dreadful fancy of yours, Oswald—nothing but a fancy. All this excitement has been too much for you. But now you shall have a long rest; at home with your mother, my own blessëd boy. Everything you point to you shall have, just as when you were a little child.—There now. The crisis is over. You see how easily it passed! Oh, I was sure it would.—And do you see, Oswald, what a lovely day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine! Now you can really see your home. [_She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. Sunrise. The glacier and the snow-peaks in the background glow in the morning light._ OSWALD. [_Sits in the arm-chair with his back towards the landscape, without moving. Suddenly he says:_] Mother, give me the sun. MRS. ALVING. [_By the table, starts and looks at him._] What do you say? OSWALD. [_Repeats, in a dull, toneless voice._] The sun. The sun. MRS. ALVING. [_Goes to him._] Oswald, what is the matter with you? OSWALD. [_Seems to shrink together in the chair; all his muscles relax; his face is expressionless, his eyes have a glassy stare._] MRS. ALVING. [_Quivering with terror._] What is this? [_Shrieks._] Oswald! what is the matter with you? [_Falls on her knees beside him and shakes him._] Oswald! Oswald! look at me! Don’t you know me? OSWALD. [_Tonelessly as before._] The sun.—The sun. MRS. ALVING. [_Springs up in despair, entwines her hands in her hair and shrieks._] I cannot bear it! [_Whispers, as though petrified_;] I cannot bear it! Never! [_Suddenly._] Where has he got them? [_Fumbles hastily in his breast._] Here! [_Shrinks back a few steps and screams:_] No; no; no!—Yes!—No; no! [_She stands a few steps away from him with her hands twisted in her hair, and stares at him in speechless horror._ OSWALD. [_Sits motionless as before and says._] The sun.—The sun. THE END. ----- Footnote 14: “Sige du” = Fr. _tutoyer_. Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Transcriber’s Note There was no anchor for the footnote on p. 276. An anchor has been placed on the most likely spot, based on the context. There are quite a few instances of missing punctuation. The conventional period following the character’s name is sometimes missing and has been added for consistency’s sake without further comment. Those missing from setting and stage direction are also added without comment, since there is no obvious purpose to be served by the omission. However, the restoration of punctuation missing from dialogue is noted below, since the punctuation is frequently expressive. Several instances of dubious ‘?’ marks have been corrected, based on context. Volume I of this series included errata for each succeeding volume, but noted none in Volume VII. The contraction ‘mustn’t’ appears twenty-one times, but twice without the internal ‘t’ as ‘musn’t’. These have been corrected. Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. 13.3 how wonderful it is to think of[?/!] Replaced. 14.2 I see you don’t recognise me[.] Added. 28.16 Yes, of cou[r]se. Inserted. 36.11 Ugly[?] Added. 47.27 Only unpleasantness[.] Added. 52.5 to your father[?] Added. 54.22 b[n/u]t soon pauses. Inverted. 55.18 Has anybody been here[./?] Replaced. 68.21 I’ll tell you something[?/.] Replaced. 72.19 “trying on[.]” Inserted. 84.15 Look here[!] Look! Added. 84.22 look at the rest too[.] Added. 98.28 That l[a/e]tter is from Krogstad Replaced. 103.12 you mus[t]n’t even touch Inserted. 106.28 mustn’t look at the letter-box[.] Added. 122.2 I shall not speak[?/.] Replaced. 133.14 it is best to go silently[.] Added. 207.19 be kept [r/s]ecret Replaced. 273.8 REGIN[A.] Restored. 289.7 though [I] should like to live Missing. 291.24 Regina is not here[.] Added. # Project Gutenberg #70577 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Transcriber’s Note: This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. In the printed original, emphasis is indicated by gesperrt (spaced) text, but is here also delimited as the italic. The few footnotes have been collected at the end of the section or act in which they are referenced. Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any other textual issues encountered during its preparation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSEN VOLUME VIII AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE THE WILD DUCK THE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSEN _Copyright Edition. Complete in 11 Volumes._ _Crown 8vo, price 4s. each._ =ENTIRELY REVISED AND EDITED BY= =WILLIAM ARCHER= Vol. I. Lady Inger, The Feast at Solhoug, Love’s Comedy Vol. II. The Vikings, The Pretenders Vol. III. Brand Vol. IV. Peer Gynt Vol. V. Emperor and Galilean (2 parts) Vol. VI. The League of Youth, Pillars of Society Vol. VII. A Doll’s House, Ghosts Vol. VIII. An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck Vol. IX. Rosmersholm, The Lady from the Sea Vol. X. Hedda Gabler, The Master Builder Vol. XI. Little Eyolf, John Gabriel Borkman, When We Dead Awaken LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. 21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C. THE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSEN COPYRIGHT EDITION ------------------------------------------------------------------------ VOLUME VIII AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE THE WILD DUCK WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY WILLIAM ARCHER ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: title page] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN 1910 _Copyright Edition_ _First printed March 1907_ _Second Impression June 1910_ _Copyright 1907 by William Heinemann_ CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION TO “AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE” vii INTRODUCTION TO “THE WILD DUCK” xvii “AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE” 1 _Translated by_ MRS. ELEANOR MARX-AVELING “THE WILD DUCK” 189 _Translated by_ MRS. FRANCES E. ARCHER AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE. INTRODUCTION. From _Pillars of Society_ to _John Gabriel Borkman_, all Ibsen’s plays, with one exception, succeeded each other at intervals of two years. The single exception was _An Enemy of the People_. The storm of obloquy which greeted _Ghosts_ stirred him to unwonted rapidity of production. _Ghosts_ had appeared in December 1881; already, in the spring of 1882, Ibsen, then living in Rome, was at work upon its successor; and he finished it at Gossensass, in the Tyrol, in the early autumn. It appeared in Copenhagen at the end of November. John Paulsen[1] relates an anecdote of the poet’s extreme secretiveness during the process of composition, which may find a place here: “One summer he was travelling by rail with his wife and son. He was engaged upon a new play at the time; but neither Fru Ibsen nor Sigurd had any idea as to what it was about. Of course they were both very curious. It happened that, at a station, Ibsen left the carriage for a few moments. As he did so he dropped a scrap of paper. His wife picked it up, and read on it only the words, ‘The doctor says....’ Nothing more. Fru Ibsen showed it laughingly to Sigurd, and said, ‘Now we will tease your father a little when he comes back. He will be horrified to find that we know anything of his play.’ When Ibsen entered the carriage his wife looked at him roguishly, and said, ‘What doctor is it that figures in your new piece? I am sure he must have many interesting things to say.’ But if she could have foreseen the effect of her innocent jest, Fru Ibsen would certainly have held her tongue. For Ibsen was speechless with surprise and rage. When at last he recovered his speech, it was to utter a torrent of reproaches. What did this mean? Was he not safe in his own house? Was he surrounded with spies? Had his locks been tampered with, his desk rifled? And so forth, and so forth. His wife, who had listened with a quiet smile to the rising tempest of his wrath, at last handed him the scrap of paper. ‘We know nothing more than what is written upon this slip which you let fall. Allow me to return it to you.’ There stood Ibsen crestfallen. All his suspicions had vanished into thin air. The play on which he was occupied proved to be _An Enemy of the People_, and the doctor was none other than our old friend Stockmann, the good-hearted and muddleheaded reformer, for whom Jonas Lie partly served as a model.” The indignation which glows in _An Enemy of the People_ was kindled, in the main, by the attitude adopted towards _Ghosts_ by the Norwegian Liberal press and the “compact majority” it represented. But the image on which the play rings the changes was present to the poet’s long before _Ghosts_ was written. On December 19, 1879—a fortnight after the publication of _A Doll’s House_—Ibsen wrote to Professor Dietrichson: “It appears to me doubtful whether better artistic conditions can be attained in Norway before the intellectual soil has been thoroughly turned up and cleansed, and all the swamps drained off.” Here we have clearly the germ of _An Enemy of the People_. The image so took hold of Ibsen that after applying it to social life in this play, he recurred to it in _The Wild Duck_, in relation to the individual life. The mood to which we definitely owe _An Enemy of the People_ appears very clearly in a letter to George Brandes, dated January 3, 1882, in which Ibsen thanks him for his criticism of _Ghosts_. “What are we to say,” he proceeds, “of the attitude taken up by the so-called Liberal press—by those leaders who speak and write about freedom of action and thought, and at the same time make themselves the slaves of the supposed opinions of their subscribers? I am more and more confirmed in my belief that there is something demoralising in engaging in politics and joining parties. I, at any rate, shall never be able to join a party which has the majority on its side. Björnson says, ‘The majority is always right’; and as a practical politician he is bound, I suppose, to say so. I, on the contrary, of necessity say, ‘The minority is always right.’ Naturally I am not thinking of that minority of stagnationists who are left behind by the great middle party, which with us is called Liberal; I mean that minority which leads the van, and pushes on to points which the majority has not yet reached. I hold that that man is in the right who is most closely in league with the future.” The same letter closes with a passage which foreshadows not only _An Enemy of the People_, but _Rosmersholm_: “When I think how slow and heavy and dull the general intelligence is at home, when I notice the low standard by which everything is judged, a deep despondency comes over me, and it often seems to me that I might just as well end my literary activity at once. They really do not need poetry at home; they get along so well with the _Parliamentary News_ and the _Lutheran Weekly_. And then they have their party papers. I have not the gifts that go to make a good citizen, nor yet the gift of orthodoxy; and what I possess no gift for I keep out of. Liberty is the first and highest condition for me. At home they do not trouble much about liberty, but only about liberties: a few more or a few less, according to the standpoint of their party. I feel, too, most painfully affected by the crudity, the plebeian element, in all our public discussion. The very praiseworthy attempt to make of our people a democratic community has inadvertently gone a good way towards making us a plebeian community. Distinction of soul seems to be on the decline at home.” So early as March 16, 1882, Ibsen announces to his publisher that he is “fully occupied with preparations for a new play.” “This time,” he says, “it will be a peaceable production which can be read by Ministers of State and wholesale merchants and their ladies, and from which the theatres will not be obliged to recoil. Its execution will come very easy to me, and I shall do my best to have it ready pretty early in the autumn.” In this he was successful. From Gossensass, on September 9, he wrote to Hegel: “I have the pleasure of sending you herewith the remainder of the manuscript of my new play. I have enjoyed writing this piece, and I feel quite lost and lonely now that it is out of hand. Dr. Stockmann and I got on excellently together; we agree on so many subjects. But the Doctor is a more muddleheaded person than I am, and he has, moreover, several other characteristics because of which people will stand hearing a good many things from him which they might perhaps not have taken in such very good part had they been said by me.” A letter to Brandes, written six months after the appearance of the play (June 12, 1883), answers some objection which the critic seems to have made—of what nature we can only guess: “As to _An Enemy of the People_, if we had a chance to discuss it I think we should come to a tolerable agreement. You are, of course right in urging that we _must_ all work for the spread of our opinions. But I maintain that a fighter at the intellectual outposts can never gather a majority around him. In ten years, perhaps, the majority may occupy the standpoint which Dr. Stockmann held at the public meeting. But during these ten years the Doctor will not have been standing still; he will still be at least ten years ahead of the majority. The majority, the mass, the multitude, can never overtake him; he can never have the majority with him. As for myself, at all events, I am conscious of this incessant progression. At the point where I stood when I wrote each of my books, there now stands a fairly compact multitude; but I myself am there no longer; I am elsewhere, and, I hope, further ahead.” This is a fine saying, and as just as it is fine, with respect to the series of social plays, down to, and including, _Rosmersholm_. To the psychological series, which begins with _The Lady from the Sea_, this law of progression scarcely applies. The standpoint in each is different; but the movement is not so much one of intellectual advance as of deepening spiritual insight. As Ibsen predicted, the Scandinavian theatres seized with avidity upon _An Enemy of the People_. Between January and March 1883 it was produced in Christiania, Bergen, Stockholm, and Copenhagen. It has always been very popular on the stage, and was the play chosen to represent Ibsen in the series of festival performances which inaugurated the National Theatre at Christiania. The first evening, September 1, 1899, was devoted to Holberg, the great founder of Norwegian-Danish drama; _An Enemy of the People_ followed on September 2; and on September 3 Björnson held the stage, with _Sigurd Jorsalfar_. Oddly enough, _Ein Volksfeind_ was four years old before it found its way to the German stage. It was first produced in Berlin, March 5, 1887, and has since then been very popular throughout Germany. It has even been presented at the Court Theatres of Berlin and Vienna—a fact which seems remarkable when we note that in France and Spain it has been pressed into the service of anarchism, as a revolutionary manifesto. When first produced in Paris in 1895, and again in 1899, it was made the occasion of anarchist demonstrations. It was the play chosen for representation in Paris on Ibsen’s seventieth birthday, March 29, 1898. In England it was first produced by Mr. Beerbohm Tree at the Haymarket Theatre on the afternoon of June 14, 1893. Mr. Tree has repeated his performance of Stockmann a good many times in London, the provinces, and America. He revived the play at His Majesty’s Theatre in 1905. Mr. Louis Calvert played Stockmann at the Gentleman’s Concert Hall in Manchester, January 27, 1894. I can find no record of any performances of the play in America, save German performances and those given by Mr. Tree; but it seems incredible that no American actor should have been attracted by the part of Stockmann. _Een Vijand des Volks_ was produced in Holland in 1884, before it had even been seen in Germany; and in Italy, _Un Nemico del Popolo_ holds a place in the repertory of the distinguished actor Ermete Novelli. Of all Ibsen’s plays, _An Enemy of the People_ is the least poetical, the least imaginative, the one which makes least appeal to our sensibilities. Even in _The League of Youth_ there is a touch of poetic fancy in the character of Selma; while _Pillars of Society_ is sentimentally conceived throughout, and possesses in Martha a figure of great, though somewhat conventional, pathos. In this play, on the other hand, there is no appeal either to the imagination or to the tender emotions. It is a straightforward satiric comedy, dealing exclusively with the everyday prose of life. We have only to compare it with its immediate predecessor, _Ghosts_, and its immediate successor, _The Wild Duck_, to feel how absolutely different is the imaginative effort involved in it. Realising this, we no longer wonder that the poet should have thrown it off in half the time he usually required to mature and execute one of his creations. Yet _An Enemy of the People_ takes a high place in the second rank of the Ibsen works, in virtue of its buoyant vitality, its great technical excellence, and the geniality of its humour. It seems odd, at first sight, that a distinctly polemical play, which took its rise in a mood of exasperation, should be perhaps the most amiable of all the poet’s productions. But the reason is fairly obvious. Ibsen’s nature was far too complex, and far too specifically dramatic, to permit of his giving anything like direct expression to a personal mood. The very fact that Dr. Stockmann was to utter much of his own indignation and many of his own ideas forced him to make the worthy Doctor in temperament and manner as unlike himself as possible. Now boisterous geniality, loquacity, irrepressible rashness of utterance, and a total absence of self-criticism and self-irony were the very contradiction of the poet’s own characteristics—at any rate, after he had entered upon middle life. He doubtless looked round for models who should be his own antipodes in these respects. John Paulsen, as we have seen, thinks that he took many traits from Jonas Lie; others say[2] that one of his chief models was an old friend named Harald Thaulow, the father of the great painter. Be this as it may, the very effort to disguise himself naturally led him to attribute to his protagonist and mouthpiece a great superficial amiability. I am far from implying that Ibsen’s own character was essentially unamiable; it would ill become one whom he always treated with the utmost kindness to say or think anything of the kind. But his amiability was not superficial, effusive, exuberant; it seldom reached that boiling-point which we call geniality; and for that very reason Thomas Stockmann became the most genial of his characters. He may be called Ibsen’s Colonel Newcome. We have seen from the letter to Hegel (p. x.) that the poet regarded him with much the same ironic affection which Thackeray must have felt for that other Thomas who, amid many differences, had the same simple-minded, large-hearted, child-like nature. In technical quality, _An Enemy of the People_ is wholly admirable. We have only to compare it with _Pillars of Society_, the last play in which Ibsen had painted a broad satiric picture of the life of a Norwegian town, to feel how great an advance he had made in the intervening five years. In naturalness of exposition, suppleness of development, and what may be called general untheatricality of treatment, the later play has every possible advantage over the earlier. In one point only can it be said that Ibsen has allowed a touch of artificiality to creep in. In order to render the peripety of the third act more striking, he has made Hovstad, Billing, and Aslaksen, in the earlier scenes, unnaturally inapprehensive of the sacrifices implied in Stockmann’s scheme of reform. It is scarcely credible that they should be so free and emphatic in their offers of support to the Doctor’s agitation, before they have made the smallest inquiry as to what it is likely to cost the town. They think, it may be said, that the shareholders of the Baths will have to bear the whole expense; but surely some misgivings could not but cross their minds as to whether the shareholders would be prepared to do so. THE WILD DUCK. INTRODUCTION. The first mention of _The Wild Duck_ (as yet unnamed) occurs in a letter from Ibsen to George Brandes, dated Rome, June 12, 1883, some six months after the appearance of _An Enemy of the People_. “I am revolving in my mind just now,” he says, “the plan of a new dramatic work in four acts. From time to time a variety of whimsies gathers in one’s mind, and one wants to find an outlet for them. But as the play will neither deal with the Supreme Court nor with the Absolute Veto, nor even with the Pure Flag, it can hardly count upon attracting much attention in Norway. Let us hope, however, that it may find a hearing elsewhere.” The allusion in this passage is to the great constitutional struggle of 1880-84, of which some account will have to be given in the Introduction to _Rosmersholm_. The “Pure Flag” agitation aimed at, and obtained, the exclusion from the Norwegian flag of the mark of union with Sweden, and was thus a preliminary step towards the severance of the two kingdoms. The word which I have translated “whimsies” is in the original _galskaber_, which might be literally rendered “mad fancies” or “crazy notions.” This word, or _galskab_ in the singular, was Ibsen’s favourite term for his conceptions as they grew up in his mind. I well remember his saying to me, while he was engaged on _The Lady from the Sea_, “I hope to have some tomfoolery [_galskab_] ready for next year.” Sometimes he would vary the expression and say _djœvelskab_, or “devilry.” Of this particular “tomfoolery” we hear no more for a full year. Then, at the end of June 1884, he writes in almost identical terms to Brandes and to Theodor Caspari, announcing its completion in the rough. His letter to Caspari is dated Rome, June 27. “All last winter,” he says, “I have been pondering over some new whimsies, and have wrestled with them till at last they took dramatic form in a five-act play which I have just completed. That is to say, I have completed the rough draft of it. Now comes the more delicate elaboration, the more energetic individualisation of the characters and their methods of expression. In order to find the requisite quiet and solitude for this work, I am going in a few days to Gossensass, in the Tyrol.” This little glimpse into his workshop is particularly interesting. From Gossensass he wrote to Hegel on September 2: “Herewith I send you the manuscript of my new play, _The Wild Duck_, which has occupied me daily for the past four months, and from which I cannot part without a sense of regret. The characters in this play, despite their many frailties, have, in the course of our long daily association, endeared themselves to me. However, I hope they will also find good and kind friends among the great reading public, and not least among the player-folk, to whom they all, without exception, offer problems worth the solving. But the study and presentation of these personages will not be easy.... This new play in some ways occupies a place apart among my dramatic productions; its method of development [literally, of advance] is in many respects divergent from that of its predecessors. But for the present I shall say no more on this subject. The critics will no doubt discover the points in question; at all events, they will find a good deal to wrangle about, a good deal to interpret. Moreover, I think _The Wild Duck_ may perhaps lure some of our younger dramatists into new paths, and this I hold to be desirable.” The play was published on November 11, 1884, and was acted at all the leading theatres of Scandinavia in January or February 1885. Ibsen’s estimate of its acting value was fully justified. It everywhere proved itself immensely effective on the stage, and Hialmar, Gina, and Hedvig have made, or greatly enhanced, the reputation of many an actor and actress. Hialmar was one of the chief successes of Emil Poulsen, the leading Danish actor of his day, who placed the second act of _The Wild Duck_ in the programme of his farewell performance. It took more than three years for the play to reach the German stage. It was first acted in Berlin in March 1888; but thereafter it rapidly spread throughout Germany and Austria, and everywhere took firm hold. It was on several occasions, and in various cities, selected for performance in Ibsen’s presence, as representing the best that the local theatre could do. In Paris it was produced at the Théâtre Libre in 1891, and was pronounced by Francisque Sarcey to be “obscure, incoherent, insupportable,” but nevertheless to leave “a profound impression.” In London it was first produced by the Independent Theatre Society on May 4, 1894, Mr. W. L. Abingdon playing Hialmar, and Miss Winifred Fraser giving a delightful performance of Hedvig. The late Clement Scott’s pronouncement on it was that “to make a fuss about so feeble a production was to insult dramatic literature and to outrage common sense.” It was repeated at the Globe Theatre in May 1897, with Mr. Laurence Irving as Hialmar and Miss Fraser again as Hedvig. In October 1905 it was revived at the Court Theatre, with Mr. Granville Barker as Hialmar and Miss Dorothy Minto as Hedvig. Of American performances I find no record. It has been acted in Italy and in Greece, I know not with what success. The fact that it has no part for a “leading lady” has rendered it less of an international stock-piece than _A Doll’s House_, _Hedda Gabler_, or even _Rosmersholm_. There can be no doubt that _The Wild Duck_ marks a reaction in the poet’s mood, following upon the eager vivacity wherewith, in _An Enemy of the People_, he had flung his defiance at the “compact Liberal majority,” which, as the reception of _Ghosts_ had proved, could not endure to be told the truth. Having said his say and liberated his soul, he now began to ask himself whether human nature was, after all, capable of assimilating the strong meat of truth—whether illusion might not be, for the average man, the only thing that could make life livable. It would be too much to say that the play gives a generally affirmative answer to this question. On the contrary, its last lines express pretty clearly the poet’s firm conviction that if life cannot reconcile itself with truth, then life may as well go to the wall. Nevertheless his very devotion to truth forces him to realise and admit that it is an antitoxin which, rashly injected at wrong times or in wrong doses, may produce disastrous results. It ought not to be indiscriminately administered by “quacksalvers.” Gregers Werle is unquestionably a piece of ironic self-portraiture. In his habit of “pestering people, in their poverty, with the claim of the ideal,” the poet adumbrates his own conduct from _Brand_ onwards, but especially in _Ghosts_ and _An Enemy of the People_. Relling, again, is an embodiment of the mood which was dominant during the conception of the play—the mood of pitying contempt for that poor thing human nature, as embodied in Hialmar. An actor who, in playing the part of Relling, made up as Ibsen himself, has been blamed for having committed a fault not only of taste, but of interpretation, since Gregers (it is maintained) is the true Ibsen. But the fact is that both characters represent the poet. They embody the struggle in his mind between idealism and cynical despondency. There can be no doubt, however, that in some measure he consciously identified himself with Gregers. In a letter to Mr. Gosse, written in 1872, he had employed in his own person the very phrase, _den ideale fordring_—“the claim of the ideal”—which is Gregers' watchword. The use of this sufficiently obvious phrase, however, does not mean much. Far stronger evidence of identification is afforded by John Paulsen[3] in some anecdotes he relates of Ibsen’s habits of “self-help”—evidence which we may all the more safely accept, as Herr Paulsen seems to have been unconscious of its bearing upon the character of Gregers. “Ibsen,” he says, “was always bent upon doing things himself, so as not to give trouble to servants. His ideal was ‘the self-made man.’[4] Thus, if a button came off one of his garments he would retire to his own room, lock the door, and, after many comical and unnecessary preliminaries, proceed to sew on the button himself, with the same care with which he wrote the fair copy of a new play. Such an important task he could not possibly entrust to any one else, not even to his wife. One of his paradoxes was that ‘a woman never knew how to sew on a button so that it would hold.’ But if he himself sewed it on, it held to all eternity. Fru Ibsen smiled roguishly and subtly when the creator of Nora came out with such anti-feminist sentiments. Afterwards she told me in confidence, 'It is true that Ibsen himself sews on his vagrant buttons; but the fact that they hold so well is _my_ doing, for, without his knowledge, I always ‘finish them off,’ which he forgets to do. But don’t disturb his conviction: it makes him so happy.'” “One winter day in Munich,” Herr Paulsen continues, “Ibsen asked me with a serious and even anxious countenance, ‘Tell me one thing, Paulsen—do you black your own boots every morning?’ I was taken aback, and doubtless looked quite guilty as I answered, ‘No.’ I had a vaguely uncomfortable sense that I had failed in a duty to myself and to society. ‘But you really ought to do so. It will make you feel a different man. One should never let others do what one can do oneself. If you begin with blacking your boots, you will get on to putting your room in order, laying the fire, etc. In this way you will at last find yourself an emancipated man, independent of Tom, Dick, or Harry.’ I promised to follow his advice, but have unfortunately not kept my word.” It is evident that Ibsen purposely transferred to Gregers this characteristic of his own; and the sentiments with which Gina regards it are probably not unlike those which Fru Ibsen may from time to time have manifested. We could scarcely demand clearer proof that in Gregers the poet was laughing at himself. To Hedvig, Ibsen gave the name of his only sister, and in many respects she seems to have served as a model for the character. She was the poet’s favourite among all his relatives. “You are certainly the best of us,” he wrote to her in 1869. Björnstjerne Björnson said, after making her acquaintance, that he now understood what a large element of heredity there was in Ibsen’s bent towards mysticism. We may be sure that Hedvig’s researches among the books left by the old sea-captain, and her dislike for the frontispiece of Harrison’s _History of London_, are remembered traits from the home-life of the poet’s childhood. It does not seem to be known who had the honour of “sitting for” the character of Hialmar. Probably he is a composite of many originals. Moreover, he is obviously a younger brother of Peer Gynt. Deprive Peer Gynt of his sense of humour, and clip the wings of his imagination, and you have Hialmar Ekdal. I confess I do not know quite definitely what Ibsen had in mind when he spoke of _The Wild Duck_ holding “a place apart” among his productions and exemplifying a technique (for he is evidently thinking of its technical development) “divergent” from that of its predecessors. I should rather say that it marked the continuation and consummation of the technical method which he had been elaborating from _Pillars of Society_ onward. It is the first example of what we may term his retrospective method, in its full complexity. _Pillars of Society_ and _A Doll’s House_ may be called semi-retrospective; something like half of the essential action takes place before the eyes of the audience. _Ghosts_ is almost wholly retrospective; as soon as the past has been fully unravelled, the action is over, and only the catastrophe remains; but in this case the past to be unravelled is comparatively simple and easy of disentanglement. _An Enemy of the People_ is scarcely retrospective at all; almost the whole of its action falls within the frame of the picture. In _The Wild Duck_, on the other hand, the unravelling of the past is a task of infinite subtlety and elaborate art. The execution of this task shows a marvellous and hitherto unexampled grasp of mind. Never before, certainly, had the poet displayed such an amazing power of fascinating and absorbing us by the gradual withdrawal of veil after veil from the past; and as every event was also a trait of character, it followed that never before had his dialogue been so saturated, as it were, with character-revelation. The development of the drama reminds one of the practice (in itself a very bad practice) of certain modern stage-managers, who are fond of raising their curtain on a dark scene, and then gradually lighting it up by a series of touches on the electric switchboard. First there comes a glimmer from the right, then a flash from the left; then the background is suffused with light, so that we see objects standing out against it in profile, but cannot as yet discern their details. Then comes a ray from this batten, a gleam from that; here a penetrating shaft of light, there a lambent glow; until at last the footlights are turned on at full, and every nook and cranny of the scene stands revealed in a blaze of luminosity. But Ibsen’s switchboard is far more subtly subdivided than that of even the most modern theatre. At every touch upon it, some single, cunningly-placed, ingeniously-dissembled burner kindles, almost unnoticed save by the most watchful eye; so that the full light spreads over the scene as imperceptibly as dawn grows into day. It seems to me, then, that _The Wild Duck_ is a consummation rather than a new departure. Assuredly it marks the summit of the poet’s achievement (in modern prose) up to that date. Its only possible rival is _Ghosts_; and who does not feel the greater richness, depth, suppleness, and variety of the later play? It gives us, in a word, a larger segment of life. AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE (1882) CHARACTERS. DOCTOR THOMAS STOCKMANN, _medical officer of the Baths_. MRS. STOCKMANN, _his wife_. PETRA, _their daughter, a teacher_. EILIF } _their sons, thirteen and ten years old respectively_. MORTEN } PETER STOCKMANN, _the doctor’s elder brother, Burgomaster[5] and chief of police, chairman of the Baths Committee, etc._ MORTEN KIIL,[6] _master tanner, Mrs. Stockmann’s adoptive-father_. HOVSTAD, _editor of the “People’s Messenger.”_ BILLING, _on the staff of the paper_. HORSTER, _a ship’s captain_. ASLAKSEN, _a printer_. _Participants in a meeting of citizens: all sorts and conditions of men, some women, and a band of schoolboys._ _The action passes in a town on the South Coast of Norway._ ----- Footnote 1: _Samliv med Ibsen_, p. 173. Footnote 2: See article by Julius Elias in _Die neue Rundschau_, December 1906, p. 1461. Footnote 3: _Samliv med Ibsen_, p. 33. Footnote 4: Herr Paulsen uses the English words; but it will appear from the sequel that Ibsen’s ideal was not so much the self-made as the self-mended man. Footnote 5: “Burgomaster” is the most convenient substitute for “Byfogd,” but “Town Clerk” would perhaps be more nearly equivalent. It is impossible to find exact counterparts in English for the different grades of the Norwegian bureaucracy. Footnote 6: Pronounce: _Keel_. AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE. PLAY IN FIVE ACTS. ACT FIRST. _Evening. DR. STOCKMANN’S sitting-room; simply but neatly decorated and furnished. In the wall to the right are two doors, the further one leading to the hall, the nearer one to the Doctor’s study. In the opposite wall, facing the hall door, a door leading to the other rooms of the house. Against the middle of this wall stands the stove; further forward a sofa with a mirror above it, and in front of it an oval table with a cover. On the table a lighted lamp, with a shade. In the back wall an open door leading to the dining-room, in which is seen a supper-table, with a lamp on it._ BILLING _is seated at the supper-table, with a napkin under his chin._ MRS. STOCKMANN _is standing by the table and placing before him a dish with a large joint of roast beef. The other seats round the table are empty; the table is in disorder, as after a meal._ MRS. STOCKMANN. If you come an hour late, Mr. Billing, you must put up with a cold supper. BILLING. [_Eating._] It is excellent—really first rate. MRS. STOCKMANN. You know how Stockmann insists on regular meal-hours—— BILLING. Oh, I don’t mind at all. I almost think I enjoy my supper more when I can sit down to it like this, alone and undisturbed. MRS. STOCKMANN. Oh, well, if you enjoy it—— [_Listening in the direction of the hall._] I believe this is Mr. Hovstad coming too. BILLING. Very likely. BURGOMASTER STOCKMANN _enters, wearing an overcoat and an official gold-laced cap, and carrying a stick._ BURGOMASTER. Good evening, sister-in-law. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Coming forward into the sitting-room._] Oh, good evening; is it you? It is good of you to look in. BURGOMASTER. I was just passing, and so—— [_Looks towards the drawing-room._] Ah, I see you have company. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Rather embarrassed._] Oh no, not at all; it’s the merest chance. [_Hurriedly._] Won’t you sit down and have a little supper? BURGOMASTER. I? No, thank you. Good gracious! hot meat in the evening! That wouldn’t suit my digestion. MRS. STOCKMANN. Oh, for once in a way—— BURGOMASTER. No, no,—much obliged to you. I stick to tea and bread and butter. It’s more wholesome in the long run—and rather more economical, too. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Smiling._] You mustn’t think Thomas and I are mere spendthrifts, either. BURGOMASTER. You are not, sister-in-law; far be it from me to say that. [_Pointing to the Doctor’s study._] Is he not at home? MRS. STOCKMANN. No, he has gone for a little turn after supper—with the boys. BURGOMASTER. I wonder if that is a good thing to do? [_Listening._] There he is, no doubt. MRS. STOCKMANN. No, that is not he. [_A knock._] Come in! HOVSTAD _enters from the hall._ MRS. STOCKMANN. Ah, it’s Mr. Hovstad—— HOVSTAD. You must excuse me; I was detained at the printer’s. Good evening, Burgomaster. BURGOMASTER. [_Bowing rather stiffly._] Mr. Hovstad? You come on business, I presume? HOVSTAD. Partly. About an article for the paper. BURGOMASTER. So I supposed. I hear my brother is an extremely prolific contributor to the _People’s Messenger_. HOVSTAD. Yes, when he wants to unburden his mind on one thing or another, he gives the _Messenger_ the benefit. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_To HOVSTAD._] But will you not——? [_Points to the dining-room._] BURGOMASTER. Well, well, I am far from blaming him for writing for the class of readers he finds most in sympathy with him. And, personally, I have no reason to bear your paper any ill-will, Mr. Hovstad. HOVSTAD. No, I should think not. BURGOMASTER. One may say, on the whole, that a fine spirit of mutual tolerance prevails in our town—an excellent public spirit. And that is because we have a great common interest to hold us together—an interest in which all right-minded citizens are equally concerned—— HOVSTAD. Yes—the Baths. BURGOMASTER. Just so. We have our magnificent new Baths. Mark my words! The whole life of the town will centre around the Baths, Mr. Hovstad. There can be no doubt of it! MRS. STOCKMANN. That is just what Thomas says. BURGOMASTER. How marvellously the place has developed, even in this couple of years! Money has come into circulation, and brought life and movement with it. Houses and ground-rents rise in value every day. HOVSTAD. And there are fewer people out of work. BURGOMASTER. That is true. There is a gratifying diminution in the burden imposed on the well-to-do classes by the poor-rates; and they will be still further lightened if only we have a really good summer this year—a rush of visitors—plenty of invalids, to give the Baths a reputation. HOVSTAD. I hear there is every prospect of that. BURGOMASTER. Things look most promising. Inquiries about apartments and so forth keep on pouring in. HOVSTAD. Then the Doctor’s paper will come in very opportunely. BURGOMASTER. Has he been writing again? HOVSTAD. This is a thing he wrote in the winter; enlarging on the virtues of the Baths, and on the excellent sanitary conditions of the town. But at that time I held it over. BURGOMASTER. Ah—I suppose there was something not quite judicious about it? HOVSTAD. Not at all. But I thought it better to keep it till the spring, when people are beginning to look about them, and think of their summer quarters—— BURGOMASTER. You were right, quite right, Mr. Hovstad. MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, Thomas is really indefatigable where the Baths are concerned. BURGOMASTER. It is his duty as one of the staff. HOVSTAD. And of course he was really their creator. BURGOMASTER. Was he? Indeed! I gather that certain persons are of that opinion. But I should have thought that I, too, had a modest share in that undertaking. MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, that is what Thomas is always saying. HOVSTAD. No one dreams of denying it, Burgomaster. You set the thing going, and put it on a practical basis; everybody knows that. I only meant that the original idea was the doctor’s. BURGOMASTER. Yes, my brother has certainly had ideas enough in his time—worse luck! But when it comes to realising them, Mr. Hovstad, we want men of another stamp. I should have thought that in this house at any rate—— MRS. STOCKMANN. Why, my dear brother-in-law—— HOVSTAD. Burgomaster, how can you——? MRS. STOCKMANN. Do go in and have some supper, Mr. Hovstad; my husband is sure to be home directly. HOVSTAD. Thanks; just a mouthful, perhaps. [_He goes into the dining-room._ BURGOMASTER. [_Speaking in a low voice._] It is extraordinary how people who spring direct from the peasant class never can get over their want of tact. MRS. STOCKMANN. But why should you care? Surely you and Thomas can share the honour, like brothers. BURGOMASTER. Yes, one would suppose so; but it seems a share of the honour is not enough for some persons. MRS. STOCKMANN. What nonsense! You and Thomas always get on so well together. [_Listening._] There, I think I hear him. _Goes and opens the door to the hall._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Laughing and talking loudly, without._] Here’s another visitor for you, Katrina. Isn’t it capital, eh? Come in, Captain Horster. Hang your coat on that peg. What! you don’t wear an overcoat? Fancy, Katrina, I caught him in the street, and I could hardly get him to come in. CAPTAIN HORSTER. _Enters and bows to MRS. STOCKMANN._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_In the doorway._] In with you, boys. They’re famishing again! Come along, Captain Horster; you must try our roast beef—— [_He forces HORSTER into the dining-room. EILIF and MORTEN follow them._ MRS. STOCKMANN. But, Thomas, don’t you see—— DR. STOCKMANN. [_Turning round in the doorway._] Oh, is that you, Peter! [_Goes up to him and holds out his hand._] Now this is really capital. BURGOMASTER. Unfortunately, I have only a moment to spare—— DR. STOCKMANN. Nonsense! We shall have some toddy in a minute. You’re not forgetting the toddy, Katrina? MRS. STOCKMANN. Of course not; the water’s boiling. [_She goes into the dining-room._ BURGOMASTER. Toddy too——! DR. STOCKMANN. Yes; sit down, and let’s make ourselves comfortable. BURGOMASTER. Thanks; I never join in drinking parties. DR. STOCKMANN. But this isn’t a party. BURGOMASTER. I don’t know what else—— [_Looks towards the dining-room._] It’s extraordinary how they can get through all that food. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Rubbing his hands._] Yes, doesn’t it do one good to see young people eat? Always hungry! That’s as it should be. They need good, solid meat to put stamina into them! It is they that have got to whip up the ferment of the future, Peter. BURGOMASTER. May I ask what there is to be “whipped up,” as you call it? DR. STOCKMANN. You’ll have to ask the young people that—when the time comes. We shan’t see it, of course. Two old fogies like you and me—— BURGOMASTER. Come, come! Surely that is a very extraordinary expression to use—— DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, you mustn’t mind my nonsense, Peter. I'm in such glorious spirits, you see. I feel so unspeakably happy in the midst of all this growing, germinating life. Isn’t it a marvellous time we live in! It seems as though a whole new world were springing up around us. BURGOMASTER. Do you really think so? DR. STOCKMANN. Of course, you can’t see it as clearly as I do. You have passed your life in the midst of it all; and that deadens the impression. But I who had to vegetate all those years in that little hole in the north, hardly ever seeing a soul that could speak a stimulating word to me—all this affects me as if I had suddenly dropped into the heart of some teeming metropolis. BURGOMASTER. Well, metropolis—— DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, I know well enough that things are on a small scale here, compared with many other places. But there’s life here—there’s promise—there’s an infinity of things to work and strive for; and that is the main point. [_Calling._] Katrina, haven’t there been any letters? MRS. STOCKMANN. [_In the dining-room._] No, none at all. DR. STOCKMANN. And then a good income, Peter! That’s a thing one learns to appreciate when one has lived on starvation wages—— BURGOMASTER. Good heavens——! DR. STOCKMANN. Oh yes, I can tell you we often had hard times of it up there. And now we can live like princes! To-day, for example, we had roast beef for dinner; and we’ve had some of it for supper too. Won’t you have some? Come along—just look at it, at any rate—— BURGOMASTER. No, no; certainly not—— DR. STOCKMANN. Well then, look here—do you see we’ve bought a table-cover? BURGOMASTER. Yes, so I observed. DR. STOCKMANN. And a lamp-shade, too. Do you see? Katrina has been saving up for them. They make the room look comfortable, don’t they? Come over here. No, no, no, not there. So—yes! Now you see how it concentrates the light——. I really think it has quite an artistic effect. Eh? BURGOMASTER. Yes, when one can afford such luxuries—— DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, I can afford it now. Katrina says I make almost as much as we spend. BURGOMASTER. Ah—almost! DR. STOCKMANN. Besides, a man of science must live in some style. Why, I believe a mere sheriff[7] spends much more a year than I do. BURGOMASTER. Yes, I should think so! A member of the superior magistracy—— DR. STOCKMANN. Well then, even a common shipowner! A man of that sort will get through many times as much—— BURGOMASTER. That is natural, in your relative positions. DR. STOCKMANN. And after all, Peter, I really don’t squander any money. But I can’t deny myself the delight of having people about me. I must have them. After living so long out of the world, I find it a necessity of life to have bright, cheerful, freedom-loving, hard-working young fellows around me—and that’s what they are, all of them, that are sitting there eating so heartily. I wish you knew more of Hovstad—— BURGOMASTER. Ah, that reminds me—Hovstad was telling me that he is going to publish another article of yours. DR. STOCKMANN. An article of mine? BURGOMASTER. Yes, about the Baths. An article you wrote last winter. DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, that one! But I don’t want that to appear for the present. BURGOMASTER. Why not? It seems to me this is the very time for it. DR. STOCKMANN. Very likely—under ordinary circumstances—— [_Crosses the room._ BURGOMASTER. [_Following him with his eyes._] And what is unusual in the circumstances now? DR. STOCKMANN. [_Standing still._] The fact is, Peter, I really cannot tell you just now; not this evening, at all events. There may prove to be a great deal that is unusual in the circumstances. On the other hand, there may be nothing at all. Very likely it’s only my fancy. BURGOMASTER. Upon my word, you are very enigmatical. Is there anything in the wind? Anything I am to be kept in the dark about? I should think, as Chairman of the Bath Committee—— DR. STOCKMANN. And I should think that I——Well, well, don’t let us get our backs up, Peter. BURGOMASTER. God forbid! I am not in the habit of “getting my back up,” as you express it. But I must absolutely insist that all arrangements shall be made and carried out in a businesslike manner, and through the properly constituted authorities. I cannot be a party to crooked or underhand courses. DR. STOCKMANN. Have _I_ ever been given to crooked or underhand courses? BURGOMASTER. At any rate you have an ingrained propensity to taking your own course. And that, in a well-ordered community, is almost as inadmissible. The individual must subordinate himself to society, or, more precisely, to the authorities whose business it is to watch over the welfare of society. DR. STOCKMANN. Maybe. But what the devil has that to do with me? BURGOMASTER. Why this is the very thing, my dear Thomas, that it seems you will never learn. But take care; you will have to pay for it—sooner or later. Now I have warned you. Good-bye. DR. STOCKMANN. Are you stark mad? You’re on a totally wrong track—— BURGOMASTER. I am not often on the wrong track. Moreover, I must protest against——[_Bowing towards dining-room._] Good-bye, sister-in-law; good-day to you, gentlemen. [_He goes._ MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Entering the sitting-room._] Has he gone? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, and in a fine temper, too. MRS. STOCKMANN. Why, my dear Thomas, what have you been doing to him now? DR. STOCKMANN. Nothing at all. He can’t possibly expect me to account to him for everything—before the time comes. MRS. STOCKMANN. What have you to account to him for? DR. STOCKMANN. H'm;—never mind about that, Katrina.—It’s very odd the postman doesn’t come. [HOVSTAD, BILLING _and_ HORSTER _have risen from table and come forward into the sitting-room._ EILIF _and_ MORTEN _presently follow._ BILLING. [_Stretching himself._] Ah! Strike me dead if one doesn’t feel a new man after such a meal. HOVSTAD. The Burgomaster didn’t seem in the best of tempers this evening. DR. STOCKMANN. That’s his stomach. He has a very poor digestion. HOVSTAD. I fancy it’s the staff of the _Messenger_ he finds it hardest to stomach. MRS. STOCKMANN. I thought you got on well enough with him. HOVSTAD. Oh, yes; but it’s only a sort of armistice between us. BILLING. That’s it. That word sums up the situation. DR. STOCKMANN. We must remember that Peter is a lonely bachelor, poor devil! He has no home to be happy in; only business, business. And then all that cursëd weak tea he goes and pours down his throat! Now then, chairs round the table, boys! Katrina, shan’t we have the toddy now? MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Going towards the dining-room._] I am just getting it. DR. STOCKMANN. And you, Captain Horster, sit beside me on the sofa. So rare a guest as you——. Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. [_The men sit round the table; MRS. STOCKMANN brings in a tray with kettle, glasses, decanters, etc._ MRS. STOCKMANN. Here you have it: here’s arrak, and this is rum, and this cognac. Now, help yourselves. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Taking a glass._] So we will. [_While the toddy is being mixed._] And now out with the cigars. Eilif, I think you know where the box is. And Morten, you may fetch my pipe. [_The boys go into the room on the right._] I have a suspicion that Eilif sneaks a cigar now and then, but I pretend not to notice. [_Calls._] And my smoking-cap, Morten! Katrina, can’t you tell him where I left it. Ah, he’s got it. [_The boys bring in the things._] Now, friends, help yourselves. I stick to my pipe, you know;—this one has been on many a stormy journey with me, up there in the north. [_They clink glasses._] Your health! Ah, I can tell you it’s better fun to sit cosily here, safe from wind and weather. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Who sits knitting._] Do you sail soon, Captain Horster? HORSTER. I hope to be ready for a start by next week. MRS. STOCKMANN. And you’re going to America? HORSTER. Yes, that’s the intention. BILLING. But then you’ll miss the election of the new Town Council. HORSTER. Is there to be an election again? BILLING. Didn’t you know? HORSTER. No, I don’t trouble myself about those things. BILLING. But I suppose you take an interest in public affairs? HORSTER. No, I don’t understand anything about them. BILLING. All the same, one ought at least to vote. HORSTER. Even those who don’t understand anything about it? BILLING. Understand? Why, what do you mean by that? Society is like a ship: every man must put his hand to the helm. HORSTER. That may be all right on shore; but at sea it wouldn’t do at all. HOVSTAD. It’s remarkable how little sailors care about public affairs as a rule. BILLING. Most extraordinary. DR. STOCKMANN. Sailors are like birds of passage; they are at home both in the south and in the north. So it behoves the rest of us to be all the more energetic, Mr. Hovstad. Will there be anything of public interest in the _People’s Messenger_ to-morrow? HOVSTAD. Nothing of local interest. But the day after to-morrow I think of printing your article—— DR. STOCKMANN. Oh confound it, that article! No, you’ll have to hold it over. Hovstad. Really? We happen to have plenty of space, and I should say this was the very time for it—— DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, yes, you may be right; but you must hold it over all the same. I shall explain to you by-and-by. PETRA, _wearing a hat and cloak, and with a number of exercise-books under her arm, enters from the hall._ PETRA. Good evening. DR. STOCKMANN. Good evening, Petra. Is that you? [_General greetings. PETRA puts her cloak, hat, and books on a chair by the door._ PETRA. Here you all are, enjoying yourselves, while I've been out slaving. DR. STOCKMANN. Well then, you come and enjoy yourself too. BILLING. May I mix you a little——? PETRA. [_Coming towards the table._] Thank you, I'd rather help myself—you always make it too strong. By the way, father, I have a letter for you. [_Goes to the chair where her things are lying._ DR. STOCKMANN. A letter! From whom? PETRA. [_Searching in the pocket of her cloak._] I got it from the postman just as I was going out—— DR. STOCKMANN. [_Rising and going towards her._] And you only bring it me now? PETRA. I really hadn’t time to run up again. Here it is. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Seizing the letter._] Let me see, let me see, child. [_Reads the address._] Yes; this is it——! MRS. STOCKMANN. Is it the one you have been so anxious about, Thomas? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes it is. I must go at once. Where shall I find a light, Katrina? Is there no lamp in my study again! MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes—the lamp is lighted. It’s on the writing-table. DR. STOCKMANN. Good, good. Excuse me one moment—— [_He goes into the room on the right._ PETRA. What can it be, mother? MRS. STOCKMANN. I don’t know. For the last few days he has been continually on the look-out for the postman. BILLING. Probably a country patient—— PETRA. Poor father! He’ll soon have far too much to do. [_Mixes her toddy._] Ah, this will taste good! HOVSTAD. Have you been teaching in the night school as well to-day? PETRA. [_Sipping from her glass._] Two hours. BILLING. And four hours in the morning at the institute—— PETRA. [_Sitting down by the table._] Five hours. MRS. STOCKMANN. And I see you have exercises to correct this evening. PETRA. Yes, a heap of them. HORSTER. It seems to me you have plenty to do, too. PETRA. Yes; but I like it. You feel so delightfully tired after it. BILLING. Do you like that? PETRA. Yes, for then you sleep so well. MORTEN. I say, Petra, you must be a great sinner. PETRA. A sinner? MORTEN. Yes, if you work so hard. Mr. Rörlund[8] says work is a punishment for our sins. EILIF. [_Contemptuously._] Bosh! What a silly you are, to believe such stuff as that. MRS. STOCKMANN. Come come, Eilif. BILLING. [_Laughing._] Capital, capital! HOVSTAD. Should you not like to work so hard, Morten? MORTEN. No, I shouldn’t. HOVSTAD. Then what will you do with yourself in the world? MORTEN. I should like to be a Viking. EILIF. But then you’d have to be a heathen. MORTEN. Well, so I would. BILLING. There I agree with you, Morten! I say just the same thing. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Making a sign to him._] No, no, Mr. Billing, I'm sure you don’t. BILLING. Strike me dead but I do, though. I am a heathen, and I'm proud of it. You’ll see we shall all be heathens soon. MORTEN. And shall we be able to do anything we like then? BILLING. Well, you see, Morten—— MRS. STOCKMANN. Now run away, boys; I'm sure you have lessons to prepare for to-morrow. EILIF. You might let me stay just a little longer—— MRS. STOCKMANN. No, you must go too. Be off, both of you. [_The boys say good-night and go into the room on the left._ HOVSTAD. Do you really think it can hurt the boys to hear these things? MRS. STOCKMANN. Well, I don’t know; I don’t like it. PETRA. Really, mother, I think you are quite wrong there. MRS. STOCKMANN. Perhaps. But I don’t like it—not here, at home. PETRA. There’s no end of hypocrisy both at home and at school. At home you must hold your tongue, and at school you have to stand up and tell lies to the children. HORSTER. Have you to tell lies? PETRA. Yes; do you think we don’t have to tell them many and many a thing we don’t believe ourselves? BILLING. Ah, that’s too true. PETRA. If only I could afford it, I should start a school myself, and things should be very different there. BILLING. Oh, afford it——! HORSTER. If you really think of doing that, Miss Stockmann, I shall be delighted to let you have a room at my place. You know my father’s old house is nearly empty; there’s a great big dining-room on the ground floor—— PETRA. [_Laughing._] Oh, thank you very much—but I'm afraid it won’t come to anything. HOVSTAD. No, I fancy Miss Petra is more likely to go over to journalism. By the way, have you had time to look into the English novel you promised to translate for us? PETRA. Not yet. But you shall have it in good time. DR. STOCKMANN _enters from his room, with the letter open in his hand._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Flourishing the letter._] Here’s news, I can tell you, that will waken up the town! BILLING. News? MRS. STOCKMANN. What news? DR. STOCKMANN. A great discovery, Katrina! HOVSTAD. Indeed? MRS. STOCKMANN. Made by you? DR. STOCKMANN. Precisely—by me! [_Walks up and down._] Now let them go on accusing me of fads and crack-brained notions. But they won’t dare to! Ha-ha! I tell you they won’t dare! PETRA. Do tell us what it is, father. DR. STOCKMANN. Well, well, give me time, and you shall hear all about it. If only I had Peter here now! This just shows how we men can go about forming judgments like the blindest moles—— HOVSTAD. What do you mean, doctor? DR. STOCKMANN. [_Stopping beside the table._] Isn’t it the general opinion that our town is a healthy place? HOVSTAD. Of course. DR. STOCKMANN. A quite exceptionally healthy place, indeed—a place to be warmly recommended, both to invalids and people in health—— MRS. STOCKMANN. My dear Thomas—— DR. STOCKMANN. And assuredly we haven’t failed to recommend and belaud it. I've sung its praises again and again, both in the _Messenger_ and in pamphlets—— HOVSTAD. Well, what then? DR. STOCKMANN. These Baths, that we have called the pulse of the town, its vital nerve, and—and the devil knows what else—— BILLING. “Our city’s palpitating heart,” I once ventured to call them in a convivial moment—— DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, I daresay. Well—do you know what they really are, these mighty, magnificent, belauded Baths, that have cost so much money—do you know what they are? HOVSTAD. No, what are they? MRS. STOCKMANN. Do tell us. DR. STOCKMANN. Simply a pestiferous hole. PETRA. The Baths, father? MRS. STOCKMANN. [_At the same time._] Our Baths! HOVSTAD. [_Also at the same time._] But, Doctor——! BILLING. Oh, it’s incredible! DR. STOCKMANN. I tell you the whole place is a poisonous whited-sepulchre; noxious in the highest degree! All that filth up there in the Mill Dale—the stuff that smells so horribly—taints the water in the feed-pipes of the Pump-Room; and the same accursëd poisonous refuse oozes out by the beach—— HOVSTAD. Where the sea-baths are? DR. STOCKMANN. Exactly. HOVSTAD. But how are you so sure of all this, Doctor? DR. STOCKMANN. I've investigated the whole thing as conscientiously as possible. I've long had my suspicions about it. Last year we had some extraordinary cases of illness among the patients—both typhoid and gastric attacks—— MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, I remember. DR. STOCKMANN. We thought at the time that the visitors had brought the infection with them; but afterwards—last winter—I began to question that. So I set about testing the water as well as I could. MRS. STOCKMANN. It was _that_ you were working so hard at! DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, you may well say I've worked, Katrina. But here, you know, I hadn’t the necessary scientific appliances; so I sent samples both of our drinking-water and of our sea-water to the University, for exact analysis by a chemist. HOVSTAD. And you have received his report? DR. STOCKMANN. [_Showing letter._] Here it is! And it proves beyond dispute the presence of putrefying organic matter in the water—millions of infusoria. It’s absolutely pernicious to health, whether used internally or externally. MRS. STOCKMANN. What a blessing you found it out in time. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, you may well say that. HOVSTAD. And what do you intend to do now, Doctor? DR. STOCKMANN. Why, to set things right, of course. HOVSTAD. You think it can be done, then? DR. STOCKMANN. It must be done. Else the whole Baths are useless, ruined. But there’s no fear. I am quite clear as to what is required. MRS. STOCKMANN. But, my dear Thomas, why should you have made such a secret of all this? DR. STOCKMANN. Would you have had me rush all over the town and chatter about it, before I was quite certain? No, thank you; I'm not so mad as that. PETRA. But to us at home—— DR. STOCKMANN. I couldn’t say a word to a living soul. But to-morrow you may look in at the Badger’s—— MRS. STOCKMANN. Oh, Thomas! DR. STOCKMANN. Well well, at your grandfather’s. The old fellow will be astonished! He thinks I'm not quite right in my head—yes, and plenty of others think the same, I've noticed. But now these good people shall see—yes, they shall see now! [_Walks up and down rubbing his hands._] What a stir there will be in the town, Katrina! Just think of it! All the water-pipes will have to be relaid. HOVSTAD. [_Rising._] All the water-pipes——? DR. STOCKMANN. Why, of course. The intake is too low down; it must be moved much higher up. PETRA. So you were right, after all. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, do you remember, Petra? I wrote against it when they were beginning the works. But no one would listen to me then. Now, you may be sure, I shall give them my full broadside—for of course I've prepared a statement for the Directors; it has been lying ready a whole week; I've only been waiting for this report. [_Points to letter._] But now they shall have it at once. [_Goes into his room and returns with a MS. in his hand._] See! Four closely-written sheets! And I'll enclose the report. A newspaper, Katrina! Get me something to wrap them up in. There—that’s it. Give it to—to—[_Stamps._]—what the devil’s her name? Give it to the girl, I mean, and tell her to take it at once to the Burgomaster. [MRS. STOCKMANN _goes out with the packet through the dining-room._ PETRA. What do you think Uncle Peter will say, father? DR. STOCKMANN. What should he say? He can’t possibly be otherwise than pleased that so important a fact has been brought to light. HOVSTAD. I suppose you will let me put a short announcement of your discovery in the _Messenger_. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, I shall be much obliged if you will. HOVSTAD. It is highly desirable that the public should know about it as soon as possible. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, certainly. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Returning._] She’s gone with it. BILLING. Strike me dead if you won’t be the first man in the town, Doctor! DR. STOCKMANN. [_Walks up and down in high glee._] Oh, nonsense! After all, I have done no more than my duty. I've been a lucky treasure-hunter, that’s all. But all the same—— BILLING. Hovstad, don’t you think the town ought to get up a torchlight procession in honour of Dr. Stockmann? HOVSTAD. I shall certainly propose it. BILLING. And I'll talk it over with Aslaksen. DR. STOCKMANN. No, my dear friends; let all such claptrap alone. I won’t hear of anything of the sort. And if the Directors should want to raise my salary, I won’t accept it. I tell you, Katrina, I will not accept it. MRS. STOCKMANN. You are quite right, Thomas. PETRA. [_Raising her glass._] Your health, father! HOVSTAD _and_ BILLING. Your health, your health, Doctor! HORSTER. [_Clinking glasses with the_ DOCTOR.] I hope you may have nothing but joy of your discovery. DR. STOCKMANN. Thanks, thanks, my dear friends! I can’t tell you how happy I am—! Oh, what a blessing it is to feel that you have deserved well of your native town and your fellow citizens. Hurrah, Katrina! [_He puts both his arms round her neck, and whirls her round with him. MRS. STOCKMANN screams and struggles. A burst of laughter, applause, and cheers for the DOCTOR. The boys thrust their heads in at the door._ ----- Footnote 7: _Amtmand_, the chief magistrate of an _Amt_ or county: consequently a high dignitary in the official hierarchy. Footnote 8: See _Pillars of Society_. ACT SECOND. _The DOCTOR’S sitting-room. The dining-room door is closed. Morning._ MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Enters from the dining-room with a sealed letter in her hand, goes to the foremost door on the right, and peeps in._] Are you there, Thomas? DR. STOCKMANN. [_Within._] Yes, I have just come in. [_Enters._] What is it? MRS. STOCKMANN. A letter from your brother. _Hands it to him._ DR. STOCKMANN. Aha, let us see. [_Opens the envelope and reads._] “The MS. sent me is returned herewith——” [_Reads on, mumbling to himself._] H'm— MRS. STOCKMANN. Well, what does he say? DR. STOCKMANN. [_Putting the paper in his pocket._] Nothing; only that he’ll come up himself about midday. MRS. STOCKMANN. Then be sure you remember to stay at home. DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, I can easily manage that; I've finished my morning’s visits. MRS. STOCKMANN. I am very curious to know how he takes it. DR. STOCKMANN. You’ll see he won’t be over-pleased that it is I that have made the discovery, and not he himself. MRS. STOCKMANN. Ah, that’s just what I'm afraid of. DR. STOCKMANN. Of course at bottom he’ll be glad. But still—Peter is damnably unwilling that any one but himself should do anything for the good of the town. MRS. STOCKMANN. Do you know, Thomas, I think you might stretch a point, and share the honour with him. Couldn’t it appear that it was he that put you on the track——? DR. STOCKMANN. By all means, for aught I care. If only I can get things put straight—— _Old_ MORTEN KIIL _puts his head in at the hall door, and asks slyly:_ MORTEN KIIL. Is it—is it true? MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Going towards him._] Father—is that you? DR. STOCKMANN. Hallo, father-in-law! Good morning, good morning. MRS. STOCKMANN. Do come in. MORTEN KIIL. Yes, if it’s true; if not, I'm off again. DR. STOCKMANN. If what is true? MORTEN KIIL. This crazy business about the water-works. Now, is it true? DR. STOCKMANN. Why, of course it is. But how came you to hear of it? MORTEN KIIL. [_Coming in._] Petra looked in on her way to the school—— DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, did she? MORTEN KIIL. Ay ay—and she told me—. I thought she was only making game of me; but that’s not like Petra either. DR. STOCKMANN. No, indeed; how could you think so? MORTEN KIIL. Oh, you can never be sure of anybody. You may be made a fool of before you know where you are. So it is true, after all? DR. STOCKMANN. Most certainly it is. Do sit down, father-in-law. [_Forces him down on the sofa._] Now isn’t it a real blessing for the town——? MORTEN KIIL. [_Suppressing his laughter._] A blessing for the town? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, that I made this discovery in time—— MORTEN KIIL. [_As before._] Ay, ay, ay!—Well, I could never have believed that you would play monkey-tricks with your very own brother. DR. STOCKMANN. Monkey-tricks! MRS. STOCKMANN. Why, father dear—— MORTEN KIIL. [_Resting his hands and chin on the top of his stick and blinking slyly at the_ DOCTOR.] What was it again? Wasn’t it that some animals had got into the water-pipes? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes; infusorial animals. MORTEN KIIL. And any number of these animals had got in, Petra said—whole swarms of them. DR. STOCKMANN. Certainly; hundreds of thousands. MORTEN KIIL. But no one can see them—isn’t that it? DR. STOCKMANN. Quite right; no one can see them. MORTEN KIIL. [_With a quiet, chuckling laugh._] I'll be damned if that isn’t the best thing I've heard of you yet. DR. STOCKMANN. What do you mean? MORTEN KIIL. But you’ll never in this world make the Burgomaster take in anything of the sort. DR. STOCKMANN. Well, that we shall see. MORTEN KIIL. Do you really think he’ll be so crazy? DR. STOCKMANN. I hope the whole town will be so crazy. MORTEN KIIL. The whole town! Well, I don’t say but it may. But it serves them right; it’ll teach them a lesson. They wanted to be so much cleverer than we old fellows. They hounded me out of the Town Council. Yes; I tell you they hounded me out like a dog, that they did. But now it’s their turn. Just you keep up the game with them, Stockmann. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, but, father-in-law—— MORTEN KIIL. Keep it up, I say. [_Rising._] If you can make the Burgomaster and his gang eat humble pie, I'll give a hundred crowns straight away to the poor. DR. STOCKMANN. Come, that’s good of you. MORTEN KIIL. Of course I've little enough to throw away; but if you can manage that, I shall certainly remember the poor at Christmas-time, to the tune of fifty crowns. HOVSTAD _enters from hall._ HOVSTAD. Good morning! [_Pausing._] Oh! I beg your pardon—— DR. STOCKMANN. Not at all. Come in, come in. MORTEN KIIL. [_Chuckling again._] He! Is he in it too? HOVSTAD. What do you mean? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, of course he is. MORTEN KIIL. I might have known it! It’s to go into the papers. Ah, you’re the one, Stockmann! Do you two lay your heads together; I'm off. DR. STOCKMANN. Oh no; don’t go yet, father-in-law. MORTEN KIIL. No, I'm off now. Play them all the monkey-tricks you can think of. Deuce take me but you shan’t lose by it. [_He goes, MRS. STOCKMANN accompanying him._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Laughing._] What do you think—? The old fellow doesn’t believe a word of all this about the water-works. HOVSTAD. Was that what he——? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes; that was what we were talking about. And I daresay you have come on the same business? HOVSTAD. Yes. Have you a moment to spare, Doctor? DR. STOCKMANN. As many as you like, my dear fellow. HOVSTAD. Have you heard anything from the Burgomaster? DR. STOCKMANN. Not yet. He’ll be here presently. HOVSTAD. I have been thinking the matter over since last evening. DR. STOCKMANN. Well? HOVSTAD. To you, as a doctor and a man of science, this business of the water-works appears an isolated affair. I daresay it hasn’t occurred to you that a good many other things are bound up with it? DR. STOCKMANN. Indeed! In what way? Let us sit down, my dear fellow.—No; there, on the sofa. [HOVSTAD _sits on sofa; the_ DOCTOR _in an easy-chair on the other side of the table._ DR. STOCKMANN. Well, so you think——? HOVSTAD. You said yesterday that the water is polluted by impurities in the soil. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, undoubtedly; the mischief comes from that poisonous swamp up in the Mill Dale. HOVSTAD. Excuse me, Doctor, but I think it comes from a very different swamp. DR. STOCKMANN. What swamp may that be? HOVSTAD. The swamp in which our whole municipal life is rotting. DR. STOCKMANN. The devil, Mr. Hovstad! What notion is this you’ve got hold of? HOVSTAD. All the affairs of the town have gradually drifted into the hands of a pack of bureaucrats—— DR. STOCKMANN. Come now, they’re not all bureaucrats. HOVSTAD. No; but those who are not are the friends and adherents of those who are. We are entirely under the thumb of a ring of wealthy men, men of old family and position in the town. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, but they are also men of ability and insight. HOVSTAD. Did they show ability and insight when they laid the water-pipes where they are? DR. STOCKMANN. No; that, of course, was a piece of stupidity. But that will be set right now. HOVSTAD. Do you think it will go so smoothly? DR. STOCKMANN. Well, smoothly or not, it will have to be done. HOVSTAD. Yes, if the press exerts its influence. DR. STOCKMANN. Not at all necessary, my dear fellow; I am sure my brother—— HOVSTAD. Excuse me, Doctor, but I must tell you that I think of taking the matter up. DR. STOCKMANN. In the paper? HOVSTAD. Yes. When I took over the _People’s Messenger_, I was determined to break up the ring of obstinate old blockheads who held everything in their hands. DR. STOCKMANN. But you told me yourself what came of it. You nearly ruined the paper. HOVSTAD. Yes, at that time we had to draw in our horns, that’s true enough. The whole Bath scheme might have fallen through if these men had been sent about their business. But now the Baths are an accomplished fact, and we can get on without these august personages. DR. STOCKMANN. Get on without them, yes; but still we owe them a great deal. HOVSTAD. The debt shall be duly acknowledged. But a journalist of my democratic tendencies cannot let such an opportunity slip through his fingers. We must explode the tradition of official infallibility. That rubbish must be got rid of, like every other superstition. DR. STOCKMANN. There I am with you with all my heart, Mr. Hovstad. If it’s a superstition, away with it! HOVSTAD. I should be sorry to attack the Burgomaster, as he is your brother. But I know you think with me—the truth before all other considerations. DR. STOCKMANN. Why, of course. [_Vehemently._] But still—! but still——! HOVSTAD. You mustn’t think ill of me. I am neither more self-interested nor more ambitious than other men. DR. STOCKMANN. Why, my dear fellow—who says you are? HOVSTAD. I come of humble folk, as you know; and I have had ample opportunities of seeing what the lower classes really require. And that is to have a share in the direction of public affairs, Doctor. That is what develops ability and knowledge and self-respect—— DR. STOCKMANN. I understand that perfectly. HOVSTAD. Yes; and I think a journalist incurs a heavy responsibility if he lets slip a chance of helping to emancipate the downtrodden masses. I know well enough that our oligarchy will denounce me as an agitator, and so forth; but what do I care? If only my conscience is clear, I—— DR. STOCKMANN. Just so, just so, my dear Mr. Hovstad. But still—deuce take it——! [_A knock at the door._] Come in! ASLAKSEN, _the printer, appears at the door leading to the hall. He is humbly but respectably dressed in black, wears a white necktie, slightly crumpled, and has a silk hat and gloves in his hand._ ASLAKSEN. [_Bowing._] I beg pardon, Doctor, for making so bold—— DR. STOCKMANN. [_Rising._] Hallo! If it isn’t Mr. Aslaksen! ASLAKSEN. Yes, it’s me, Doctor. HOVSTAD. [_Rising._] Is it me you want, Aslaksen? ASLAKSEN. No, not at all. I didn’t know you were here. No, it’s the Doctor himself—— DR. STOCKMANN. Well, what can I do for you? ASLAKSEN. Is it true, what Mr. Billing tells me, that you’re going to get us a better set of water-works? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, for the Baths. ASLAKSEN. Of course, of course. Then I just looked in to say that I'll back up the movement with all my might. HOVSTAD. [_To the DOCTOR._] You see! DR. STOCKMANN. I'm sure I thank you heartily; but—— ASLAKSEN. You may find it no such bad thing to have us small middle-class men at your back. We form what you may call a compact majority in the town—when we really make up our minds, that’s to say. And it’s always well to have the majority with you, Doctor. DR. STOCKMANN. No doubt, no doubt; but I can’t conceive that any special measures will be necessary in this case. I should think in so clear and straightforward a matter—— ASLAKSEN. Yes, but all the same, it can do no harm. I know the local authorities very well—the powers that be are not over ready to adopt suggestions from outsiders. So I think it wouldn’t be amiss if we made some sort of a demonstration. HOVSTAD. Precisely my opinion. DR. STOCKMANN. A demonstration, you say? But in what way would you demonstrate? ASLAKSEN. Of course with great moderation, Doctor. I always insist upon moderation; for moderation is a citizen’s first virtue—at least that’s my way of thinking. DR. STOCKMANN. We all know that, Mr. Aslaksen. ASLAKSEN. Yes, I think my moderation is generally recognised. And this affair of the water-works is very important for us small middle-class men. The Baths bid fair to become, as you might say, a little gold-mine for the town. We shall all have to live by the Baths, especially we house-owners. So we want to support the Baths all we can; and as I am Chairman of the House-owners' Association—— DR. STOCKMANN. Well——? ASLAKSEN. And as I'm an active worker for the Temperance[9] Society—of course you know, Doctor, that I'm a temperance man? DR. STOCKMANN. To be sure, to be sure. ASLAKSEN. Well, you’ll understand that I come in contact with a great many people. And as I'm known to be a prudent and law-abiding citizen, as you yourself remarked, Doctor, I have a certain influence in the town, and hold some power in my hands—though I say it that shouldn’t. DR. STOCKMANN. I know that very well, Mr. Aslaksen. ASLAKSEN. Well then, you see—it would be easy for me to get up an address, if it came to a pinch. DR. STOCKMANN. An address? ASLAKSEN. Yes, a kind of vote of thanks to you, from the citizens of the town, for your action in a matter of such general concern. Of course it will have to be drawn up with all fitting moderation, so as to give no offence to the authorities and parties in power. But so long as we’re careful about that, no one can take it ill, I should think. HOVSTAD. Well, even if they didn’t particularly like it—— ASLAKSEN. No no no; no offence to the powers that be, Mr. Hovstad. No opposition to people that can take it out of us again so easily. I've had enough of that in my time; no good ever comes of it. But no one can object to the free but temperate expression of a citizen’s opinion. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Shaking his hand._] I can’t tell you, my dear Mr. Aslaksen, how heartily it delights me to find so much support among my fellow townsmen. I'm so happy—so happy! Come, you’ll have a glass of sherry? Eh? ASLAKSEN. No, thank you; I never touch spirituous liquors. DR. STOCKMANN. Well, then, a glass of beer—what do you say to that? ASLAKSEN. Thanks, not that either, Doctor. I never take anything so early in the day. And now I'll be off round the town, and talk to some of the house-owners, and prepare public opinion. DR. STOCKMANN. It’s extremely kind of you, Mr. Aslaksen; but I really cannot get it into my head that all these preparations are necessary. The affair seems to me so simple and self-evident. ASLAKSEN. The authorities always move slowly, Doctor—God forbid I should blame them for it—— HOVSTAD. We’ll stir them up in the paper to-morrow, Aslaksen. ASLAKSEN. No violence, Mr. Hovstad. Proceed with moderation, or you’ll do nothing with them. Take my advice; I've picked up experience in the school of life.—And now I'll say good morning, Doctor. You know now that at least you have us small middle-class men behind you, solid as a wall. You have the compact majority on your side, Doctor. DR. STOCKMANN. Many thanks, my dear Mr. ASLAKSEN. [_Holds out his hand._] Good-bye, good-bye. ASLAKSEN. Are you coming to the office, Mr. Hovstad? HOVSTAD. I shall come on presently. I have still one or two things to arrange. ASLAKSEN. Very well. [_Bows and goes. DR. STOCKMANN accompanies him into the hall._ HOVSTAD. [_As the DOCTOR re-enters._] Well, what do you say to that, Doctor? Don’t you think it is high time we should give all this weak-kneed, half-hearted cowardice a good shaking up? DR. STOCKMANN. Are you speaking of Aslaksen? HOVSTAD. Yes, I am. He’s a decent enough fellow, but he’s one of those who are sunk in the swamp. And most people here are just like him; they are for ever wavering and wobbling from side to side; what with scruples and misgivings, they never dare advance a step. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, but Aslaksen seems to me thoroughly well-intentioned. HOVSTAD. There is one thing I value more than good intentions, and that is an attitude of manly self-reliance. DR. STOCKMANN. There I am quite with you. HOVSTAD. So I am going to seize this opportunity, and try whether I can’t for once put a little grit into their good intentions. The worship of authority must be rooted up in this town. This gross, inexcusable blunder of the waterworks must be brought home clearly to every voter. DR. STOCKMANN. Very well. If you think it’s for the good of the community, so be it; but not till I have spoken to my brother. HOVSTAD. At all events, I shall be writing my leader in the meantime. And if the Burgomaster won’t take the matter up—— DR. STOCKMANN. But how can you conceive his refusing? HOVSTAD. Oh, it’s not inconceivable. And then—— DR. STOCKMANN. Well then, I promise you—; look here—in that case you may print my paper—put it in just as it is. HOVSTAD. May I? Is that a promise? DR. STOCKMANN. [_Handing him the manuscript._] There it is; take it with you. You may as well read it in any case; you can return it to me afterwards. HOVSTAD. Very good; I shall do so. And now, good-bye, Doctor. DR. STOCKMANN. Good-bye, good-bye. You’ll see it will all go smoothly, Mr. Hovstad—as smoothly as possible. HOVSTAD. H'm—we shall see. [_Bows and goes out through the hall._ */ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Going to the dining-room door and looking in._] Katrina! Hallo! are you back, Petra? PETRA. [_Entering._] Yes, I've just got back from school. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Entering._] Hasn’t he been here yet? DR. STOCKMANN. Peter? No; but I have been having a long talk with Hovstad. He’s quite enthusiastic about my discovery. It turns out to be of much wider import than I thought at first. So he has placed his paper at my disposal, if I should require it. MRS. STOCKMANN. Do you think you will? DR. STOCKMANN. Not I! But at the same time, one cannot but be proud to know that the enlightened, independent press is on one’s side. And what do you think? I have had a visit from the Chairman of the House-owners' Association too. MRS. STOCKMANN. Really? What did he want? DR. STOCKMANN. To assure me of his support. They will all stand by me at a pinch. Katrina, do you know what I have behind me? MRS. STOCKMANN. Behind you? No. What have you behind you? DR. STOCKMANN. The compact majority! MRS. STOCKMANN. Oh! Is that good for you, Thomas? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, indeed; I should think it _was_ good. [_Rubbing his hands as he walks up and down._] Great God! what a delight it is to feel oneself in such brotherly unison with one’s fellow townsmen? PETRA. And to do so much that’s good and useful, father! DR. STOCKMANN. And all for one’s native town, too! MRS. STOCKMANN. There’s the bell. DR. STOCKMANN. That must be he. [_Knock at the door._] Come in! _Enter BURGOMASTER STOCKMANN from the hall._ BURGOMASTER. Good morning. DR. STOCKMANN. I'm glad to see you, Peter. MRS. STOCKMANN. Good morning, brother-in-law. How are you? BURGOMASTER. Oh, thanks, so-so. [_To the DOCTOR._] Yesterday evening, after office hours, I received from you a dissertation upon the state of the water at the Baths. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes. Have you read it? BURGOMASTER. I have. DR. STOCKMANN. And what do you think of the affair? BURGOMASTER. H'm— _With a sidelong glance._ MRS. STOCKMANN. Come, Petra. [_She and PETRA go into the room on the left._ BURGOMASTER. [_After a pause._] Was it necessary to make all these investigations behind my back? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, till I was absolutely certain, I—— BURGOMASTER. And are you absolutely certain now? DR. STOCKMANN. My paper must surely have convinced you of that. BURGOMASTER. Is it your intention to submit this statement to the Board of Directors, as a sort of official document? DR. STOCKMANN. Of course. Something must be done in the matter, and that promptly. BURGOMASTER. As usual, you use very strong expressions in your statement. Amongst other things, you say that what we offer our visitors is a slow poison. DR. STOCKMANN. Why, Peter, what else can it be called? Only think—poisoned water both internally and externally! And that to poor invalids who come to us in all confidence, and pay us handsomely to cure them! BURGOMASTER. And then you announce as your conclusion that we must build a sewer to carry off the alleged impurities from the Mill Dale, and must re-lay all the water-pipes. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes. Can you suggest any other plan?—I know of none. BURGOMASTER. I found a pretext for looking in at the town engineer’s this morning, and—in a half-jesting way—I mentioned these alterations as things we might possibly have to consider, at some future time. DR. STOCKMANN. At some future time! BURGOMASTER. Of course he smiled at what he thought my extravagance. Have you taken the trouble to think what your proposed alterations would cost? From what the engineer said, I gathered that the expenses would probably mount up to several hundred thousand crowns. DR. STOCKMANN. So much as that? BURGOMASTER. Yes. But that is not the worst. The work would take at least two years. DR. STOCKMANN. Two years! Do you mean to say two whole years? BURGOMASTER. At least. And what are we to do with the Baths in the meanwhile? Are we to close them? We should have no alternative. Do you think any one would come here, if it got abroad that the water was pestilential? DR. STOCKMANN. But, Peter, that’s precisely what it is. BURGOMASTER. And all this now, just now, when the Baths are doing so well! Neighbouring towns, too, are not without their claims to rank as health-resorts. Do you think they would not at once set to work to divert the full stream of visitors to themselves? Undoubtedly they would; and we should be left stranded. We should probably have to give up the whole costly undertaking; and so you would have ruined your native town. DR. STOCKMANN. I—ruined——! BURGOMASTER. It is only through the Baths that the town has any future worth speaking of. You surely know that as well as I do. DR. STOCKMANN. Then what do you think should be done? BURGOMASTER. I have not succeeded in convincing myself that the condition of the water at the Baths is as serious as your statement represents. DR. STOCKMANN. I tell you it’s if anything worse—or will be in the summer, when the hot weather sets in. BURGOMASTER. I repeat that I believe you exaggerate greatly. A competent physician should know what measures to take—he should be able to obviate deleterious influences, and to counteract them in case they should make themselves unmistakably felt. DR. STOCKMANN. Indeed—? And then—? BURGOMASTER. The existing water-works are, once for all, a fact, and must naturally be treated as such. But when the time comes, the Directors will probably not be indisposed to consider whether it may not be possible, without unreasonable pecuniary sacrifices, to introduce certain improvements. DR. STOCKMANN. And do you imagine I could ever be a party to such dishonesty? BURGOMASTER. Dishonesty? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, it would be dishonesty—a fraud, a lie, an absolute crime against the public, against society as a whole! BURGOMASTER. I have not, as I before remarked, been able to convince myself that there is really any such imminent danger. DR. STOCKMANN. You have! You must have! I know that my demonstration is absolutely clear and convincing. And you understand it perfectly, Peter, only you won’t admit it. It was you who insisted that both the Bath-buildings and the water-works should be placed where they now are; and it’s _that_—it’s that damned blunder that you won’t confess. Pshaw! Do you think I don’t see through you? BURGOMASTER. And even it were so? If I do watch over my reputation with a certain anxiety, I do it for the good of the town. Without moral authority I cannot guide and direct affairs in the way I consider most conducive to the general welfare. Therefore—and on various other grounds—it is of great moment to me that your statement should not be submitted to the Board of Directors. It must be kept back, for the good of the community. Later on I will bring up the matter for discussion, and we will do the best we can, quietly; but not a word, not a whisper, of this unfortunate business must come to the public ears. DR. STOCKMANN. But it can’t be prevented now, my dear Peter. BURGOMASTER. It must and shall be prevented. DR. STOCKMANN. It can’t be, I tell you; far too many people know about it already. BURGOMASTER. Know about it! Who? Surely not those fellows on the _People’s Messenger_——? DR. STOCKMANN. Oh yes; they know. The liberal, independent press will take good care that you do your duty. BURGOMASTER. [_After a short pause._] You are an amazingly reckless man, Thomas. Have not you reflected what the consequences of this may be to yourself? DR. STOCKMANN. Consequences?—Consequences to me? BURGOMASTER. Yes—to you and yours. DR. STOCKMANN. What the devil do you mean? BURGOMASTER. I believe I have always shown myself ready and willing to lend you a helping hand. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, you have, and I thank you for it. BURGOMASTER. I ask for no thanks. Indeed, I was in some measure forced to act as I did—for my own sake. I always hoped I should be able to keep you a little in check, if I helped to improve your pecuniary position. DR. STOCKMANN. What! So it was only for your own sake——! BURGOMASTER. In a measure, I say. It is painful for a man in an official position, when his nearest relative goes and compromises himself time after time. DR. STOCKMANN. And you think I do that? BURGOMASTER. Yes, unfortunately, you do, without knowing it. Yours is a turbulent, unruly, rebellious spirit. And then you have an unhappy propensity for rushing into print upon every possible and impossible occasion. You no sooner hit upon an idea than you must needs write a newspaper article or a whole pamphlet about it. DR. STOCKMANN. Isn’t it a citizen’s duty, when he has conceived a new idea, to communicate it to the public! BURGOMASTER. Oh, the public has no need for new ideas. The public gets on best with the good old recognised ideas it has already. DR. STOCKMANN. You say that right out! BURGOMASTER. Yes, I must speak frankly to you for once. Hitherto I have tried to avoid it, for I know how irritable you are; but now I must tell you the truth, Thomas. You have no conception how much you injure yourself by your officiousness. You complain of the authorities, ay, of the Government itself—you cry them down and maintain that you have been slighted, persecuted. But what else can you expect, with your impossible disposition? DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, indeed! So I am impossible, am I? BURGOMASTER. Yes, Thomas, you are an impossible man to work with. I know that from experience. You have no consideration for any one or any thing; you seem quite to forget that you have me to thank for your position as medical officer of the Baths—— DR. STOCKMANN. It was mine by right! Mine, and no one else’s! I was the first to discover the town’s capabilities as a watering-place; I saw them, and, at that time, I alone. For years I fought single-handed for this idea of mine; I wrote and wrote—— BURGOMASTER. No doubt; but then the right time had not come. Of course, in that out-of-the-world corner, you could not judge of that. As soon as the propitious moment arrived, I—and others—took the matter in hand—— DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, and you went and bungled the whole of my glorious plan. Oh, we see now what a set of wiseacres you were! BURGOMASTER. All _I_ can see is that you are again seeking an outlet for your pugnacity. You want to make an onslaught on your superiors—that is an old habit of yours. You cannot endure any authority over you; you look askance at any one who holds a higher post than your own; you regard him as a personal enemy—and then you care nothing what kind of weapon you use against him. But now I have shown you how much is at stake for the town, and consequently for me too. And therefore I warn you, Thomas, that I am inexorable in the demand I am about to make of you! DR. STOCKMANN. What demand? BURGOMASTER. As you have not had the sense to refrain from chattering to outsiders about this delicate business, which should have been kept an official secret, of course it cannot now be hushed up. All sorts of rumours will get abroad, and evil-disposed persons will invent all sorts of additions to them. It will therefore be necessary for you publicly to contradict these rumours. DR. STOCKMANN. I! How? I don’t understand you? BURGOMASTER. We expect that, after further investigation, you will come to the conclusion that the affair is not nearly so serious or pressing as you had at first imagined. DR. STOCKMANN. Aha! So you expect that? BURGOMASTER. Furthermore, we expect you to express your confidence that the Board of Directors will thoroughly and conscientiously carry out all measures for the remedying of any possible defects. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, but that you’ll never be able to do, so long as you go on tinkering and patching. I tell you that, Peter; and it’s my deepest, sincerest conviction—— BURGOMASTER. As an official, you have no right to hold any individual conviction. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Starting._] No right to——? BURGOMASTER. As an official, I say. In your private capacity, of course, it is another matter. But as a subordinate official of the Baths, you have no right to express any conviction at issue with that of your superiors. DR. STOCKMANN. This is too much! I, a doctor, a man of science, have no right to——! BURGOMASTER. The matter in question is not a purely scientific one; it is a complex affair; it has both a technical and an economic side. DR. STOCKMANN. What the devil do I care what it is! I will be free to speak my mind upon any subject under the sun! BURGOMASTER. As you please—so long as it does not concern the Baths. With them we forbid you to meddle. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Shouts._] You forbid——! You! A set of—— BURGOMASTER. _I_ forbid it—_I_, your chief; and when I issue an order, you have simply to obey. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Controlling himself._] Upon my word, Peter, if you weren’t my brother—— PETRA. [_Tears open the door._] Father, you shan’t submit to this! MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Following her._] Petra, Petra! BURGOMASTER. Ah! So we have been listening! MRS. STOCKMANN. The partition is so thin, we couldn’t help—— PETRA. I stood and listened on purpose. BURGOMASTER. Well, on the whole, I am not sorry—— DR. STOCKMANN. [_Coming nearer to him._] You spoke to me of forbidding and obeying—— BURGOMASTER. You have forced me to adopt that tone. DR. STOCKMANN. And am I to give myself the lie, in a public declaration? BURGOMASTER. We consider it absolutely necessary that you should issue a statement in the terms indicated. DR. STOCKMANN. And if I do not obey? BURGOMASTER. Then we shall ourselves put forth a statement to reassure the public. DR. STOCKMANN. Well and good; then I shall write against you. I shall stick to my point and prove that _I_ am right, and you wrong. And what will you do then? BURGOMASTER. Then I shall be unable to prevent your dismissal. DR. STOCKMANN. What——! PETRA. Father! Dismissal! MRS. STOCKMANN. Dismissal! BURGOMASTER. Your dismissal from the Baths. I shall be compelled to move that notice be given you at once, and that you have henceforth no connection whatever with the Baths. DR. STOCKMANN. You would dare to do that! BURGOMASTER. It is you who are playing the daring game. PETRA. Uncle, this is a shameful way to treat a man like father! MRS. STOCKMANN. Do be quiet, Petra! BURGOMASTER. [_Looking at PETRA._] Aha! We have opinions of our own already, eh? To be sure, to be sure! [_To MRS. STOCKMANN._] Sister-in-law, you are presumably the most rational member of this household. Use all your influence with your husband; try to make him realise what all this will involve both for his family—— DR. STOCKMANN. My family concerns myself alone! BURGOMASTER. ——both for his family, I say, and for the town he lives in. DR. STOCKMANN. It is I that have the real good of the town at heart! I want to lay bare the evils that, sooner or later, must come to light. Ah! You shall see whether I love my native town. BURGOMASTER. You, who, in your blind obstinacy, want to cut off the town’s chief source of prosperity! DR. STOCKMANN. That source is poisoned, man! Are you mad? We live by trafficking in filth and corruption! The whole of our flourishing social life is rooted in a lie! BURGOMASTER. Idle fancies—or worse. The man who scatters broadcast such offensive insinuations against his native place must be an enemy of society. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Going towards him._] You dare to——! MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Throwing herself between them._] Thomas! PETRA. [_Seizing her father’s arm._] Keep calm, father! BURGOMASTER. I will not expose myself to violence. You have had your warning now. Reflect upon what is due to yourself and to your family. Good-bye. [_He goes._ */ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Walking up and down._] And I must put up with such treatment! In my own house, Katrina! What do you say to that! MRS. STOCKMANN. Indeed, it’s a shame and a disgrace, Thomas—— PETRA. Oh, if I could only get hold of uncle——! DR. STOCKMANN. It’s my own fault. I ought to have stood up against them long ago—to have shown my teeth—and used them too!—And to be called an enemy of society! Me! I won’t bear it; by Heaven, I won’t! MRS. STOCKMANN. But my dear Thomas, after all, your brother has the power—— DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, but I have the right. MRS. STOCKMANN. Ah yes, right, right! What good does it do to have the right, if you haven’t any might? PETRA. Oh, mother—how can you talk so? DR. STOCKMANN. What! No good, in a free community, to have right on your side? What an absurd idea, Katrina! And besides—haven’t I the free and independent press before me—and the compact majority at my back? That is might enough, I should think! MRS. STOCKMANN. Why, good heavens, Thomas! you’re surely not thinking of——? DR. STOCKMANN. What am I not thinking of? MRS. STOCKMANN. ——of setting yourself up against your brother, I mean. DR. STOCKMANN. What the devil would you have me do, if not stick to what is right and true? PETRA. Yes, that’s what I should like to know? MRS. STOCKMANN. But it will be of no earthly use. If they won’t, they won’t. DR. STOCKMANN. Ho-ho, Katrina! just wait a while, and you shall see whether I can fight my battles to the end. MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, to the end of getting your dismissal; that is what will happen. DR. STOCKMANN. Well then, I shall at any rate have done my duty towards the public, towards society—I who am called an enemy of society! MRS. STOCKMANN. But towards your family, Thomas? Towards us at home? Do you think _that_ is doing your duty towards those who are dependent on you? PETRA. Oh, mother, don’t always think first of us. MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, it’s easy for you to talk; you can stand alone if need be.—But remember the boys, Thomas; and think a little of yourself too, and of me—— DR. STOCKMANN. You’re surely out of your senses, Katrina! If I were to be such a pitiful coward as to knuckle under to this Peter and his confounded crew—should I ever have another happy hour in all my life? MRS. STOCKMANN. I don’t know about that; but God preserve us from the happiness we shall all of us have if you persist in defying them. There you will be again, with nothing to live on, with no regular income. I should have thought we had had enough of that in the old days. Remember them, Thomas; think of what it all means. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Struggling with himself and clenching his hands._] And this is what these jacks-in-office can bring upon a free and honest man! Isn’t it revolting, Katrina? MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, no doubt they are treating you shamefully. But God knows there’s plenty of injustice one must just submit to in this world.—Here are the boys, Thomas. Look at them! What is to become of them? Oh no, no! you can never have the heart—— EILIF _and_ MORTEN, _with school-books, have meanwhile entered._ DR. STOCKMANN. The boys——! [_With a sudden access of firmness and decision._] Never, though the whole earth should crumble, will I bow my neck beneath the yoke. [_Goes towards his room._ MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Following him._] Thomas—what are you going to do? DR. STOCKMANN. [_At the door._] I must have the right to look my boys in the face when they have grown into free men. _Goes into his room._ MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Bursts into tears._] Ah, God help us all! PETRA. Father is true to the core. He will never give in! [_The boys ask wonderingly what it all means; PETRA signs to them to be quiet._ ----- Footnote 9: The word “mådehold,” in Norwegian, means both “moderation” and “temperance.” ACT THIRD. _The Editor’s Room of the “People’s Messenger.” In the background, to the left, an entrance-door—to the right another door, with glass panes, through which can be seen the composing-room. A door in the right-hand wall. In the middle of the room a large table covered with papers, newspapers, and books. In front, on the left, a window, and by it a desk with a high stool. A couple of arm-chairs beside the table; some other chairs along the walls. The room is dingy and cheerless, the furniture shabby, the arm-chairs dirty and torn. In the composing-room are seen a few compositors at work; further back, a hand-press in operation._ HOVSTAD _is seated at the desk, writing. Presently_ BILLING _enters from the right, with the_ DOCTOR’S _manuscript in his hand._ BILLING. Well, I must say——! HOVSTAD. [_Writing._] Have you read it through? BILLING. [_Laying the MS. on the desk._] Yes, I should think I had. HOVSTAD. Don’t you think the Doctor comes out strong? BILLING. Strong! Why, strike me dead if he isn’t crushing! Every word falls like a—well, like a sledge-hammer. HOVSTAD. Yes, but these fellows won’t collapse at the first blow. BILLING. True enough; but we’ll keep on hammering away, blow after blow, till the whole officialdom comes crashing down. As I sat in there reading that article, I seemed to hear the revolution thundering afar. HOVSTAD. [_Turning round._] Hush! Don’t let Aslaksen hear that. BILLING. [_In a lower voice._] Aslaksen’s a white-livered, cowardly fellow, without a spark of manhood in him. But this time you’ll surely carry your point? Eh? You’ll print the Doctor’s paper? HOVSTAD. Yes, if only the Burgomaster doesn’t give in—— BILLING. That would be deuced annoying. HOVSTAD. Well, whatever happens, fortunately we can turn the situation to account. If the Burgomaster won’t agree to the Doctor’s proposal, he’ll have all the small middle-class down upon him—all the House-owners' Association, and the rest of them. And if he does agree to it, he’ll fall out with the whole crew of big shareholders in the Baths, who have hitherto been his main support—— BILLING. Yes, of course; for no doubt they’ll have to fork out a lot of money—— HOVSTAD. You may take your oath of that. And then, don’t you see, when the ring is broken up, we’ll din it into the public day by day that the Burgomaster is incompetent in every respect, and that all responsible positions in the town, the whole municipal government in short, must be entrusted to men of liberal ideas. BILLING. Strike me dead if that isn’t the square truth! I see it—I see it: we are on the eve of a revolution! [_A knock at the door._ HOVSTAD. Hush! [_Calls._] Come in! DR. STOCKMANN _enters from the back, left._ HOVSTAD. [_Going towards him._] Ah, here is the Doctor. Well? DR. STOCKMANN. Print away, Mr. Hovstad! HOVSTAD. So it has come to that? BILLING. Hurrah! DR. STOCKMANN. Print away, I tell you. To be sure it has come to that. Since they will have it so, they must. War is declared, Mr. Billing! BILLING. War to the knife, say I! War to the death, Doctor! DR. STOCKMANN. This article is only the beginning. I have four or five others sketched out in my head already. But where do you keep Aslaksen? BILLING. [_Calling into the printing-room._] Aslaksen! just come here a moment. HOVSTAD. Four or five more articles, eh? On the same subject? DR. STOCKMANN. Oh no—not at all, my dear fellow. No; they will deal with quite different matters. But they’re all of a piece with the water-works and sewer question. One thing leads to another. It’s just like beginning to pick at an old house, don’t you know? BILLING. Strike me dead, but that’s true! You feel you can’t leave off till you’ve pulled the whole lumber-heap to pieces. ASLAKSEN. [_Enters from the printing-room._] Pulled to pieces! Surely the Doctor isn’t thinking of pulling the Baths to pieces? HOVSTAD. Not at all. Don’t be alarmed. DR. STOCKMANN. No, we were talking of something quite different. Well, what do you think of my article, Mr. Hovstad? HOVSTAD. I think it’s simply a masterpiece—— DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, isn’t it? I'm glad you think so—very glad. HOVSTAD. It’s so clear and to the point. One doesn’t in the least need to be a specialist to understand the gist of it. I am certain every intelligent man will be on your side. ASLAKSEN. And all the prudent ones too, I hope? BILLING. Both the prudent and imprudent—in fact, almost the whole town. ASLAKSEN. Then I suppose we may venture to print it. DR. STOCKMANN. I should think so! HOVSTAD. It shall go in to-morrow. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, plague take it, not a day must be lost. Look here, Mr. Aslaksen, this is what I wanted to ask you: won’t you take personal charge of the article? ASLAKSEN. Certainly I will. DR. STOCKMANN. Be as careful as if it were gold. No printers' errors; every word is important. I shall look in again presently; perhaps you’ll be able to let me see a proof.—Ah! I can’t tell you how I long to have the thing in print—to see it launched—— BILLING. Yes, like a thunderbolt! DR. STOCKMANN. ——and submitted to the judgment of every intelligent citizen. Oh, you have no idea what I have had to put up with to-day. I've been threatened with all sorts of things. I was to be robbed of my clearest rights as a human being—— BILLING. What! Your rights as a human being! DR. STOCKMANN. ——I was to humble myself, and eat the dust; I was to set my personal interests above my deepest, holiest convictions—— BILLING. Strike me dead, but that’s too outrageous! HOVSTAD. Oh, what can you expect from that quarter? DR. STOCKMANN. But they shall find they were mistaken in me; they shall learn that in black and white, I promise them! I shall throw myself into the breach every day in the _Messenger_, bombard them with one explosive article after another—— ASLAKSEN. Yes, but look here—— BILLING. Hurrah! It’s war! War! DR. STOCKMANN. I shall smite them to the earth, I shall crush them, I shall level their entrenchments to the ground in the eyes of all right-thinking men! That’s what I shall do! ASLAKSEN. But above all things be temperate, Doctor; bombard with moderation—— BILLING. Not at all, not at all! Don’t spare the dynamite! DR. STOCKMANN. [_Going on imperturbably._] For now it’s no mere question of water-works and sewers, you see. No, the whole community must be purged, disinfected—— BILLING. _There_ sounds the word of salvation! DR. STOCKMANN. All the old bunglers must be sent packing, you understand. And that in every possible department! Such endless vistas have opened out before me to-day. I am not quite clear about everything yet, but I shall see my way presently. It’s young and vigorous standard-bearers we must look for, my friends; we must have new captains at all the outposts. BILLING. Hear, hear! DR. STOCKMANN. And if only we hold together, it will go so smoothly, so smoothly! The whole revolution will glide off the stocks just like a ship. Don’t you think so? HOVSTAD. For my part, I believe we have now every prospect of placing our municipal affairs in the right hands. ASLAKSEN. And if only we proceed with moderation, I really don’t think there can be any danger. DR. STOCKMANN. Who the devil cares whether there’s danger or not! What I do, I do in the name of truth and for conscience' sake. HOVSTAD. You are a man to be backed up, Doctor. ASLAKSEN. Yes, there’s no doubt the Doctor is a true friend to the town; he’s what I call a friend of society. BILLING. Strike me dead if Dr. Stockmann isn’t a Friend of the People, Aslaksen! ASLAKSEN. I have no doubt the House-owners' Association will soon adopt that expression. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Shaking their hands, deeply moved._] Thanks, thanks, my dear, faithful friends; it does me good to hear you. My respected brother called me something very different. Never mind! Trust me to pay him back with interest! But I must be off now to see a poor devil of a patient. I shall look in again, though. Be sure you look after the article, Mr. Aslaksen; and, whatever you do, don’t leave out any of my notes of exclamation! Rather put in a few more! Well, good-bye for the present, good-bye, good-bye. [_Mutual salutations while they accompany him to the door. He goes out._ HOVSTAD. He will be invaluable to us. ASLAKSEN. Yes, so long as he confines himself to this matter of the Baths. But if he goes further, it will scarcely be advisable to follow him. HOVSTAD. H'm—that entirely depends on—— BILLING. You’re always so confoundedly timid, Aslaksen. ASLAKSEN. Timid? Yes, when it’s a question of attacking local authorities, I am timid, Mr. Billing; I have learnt caution in the school of experience, let me tell you. But start me on the higher politics, confront me with the Government itself, and then see if I'm timid. BILLING. No, you’re not; but that’s just where your inconsistency comes in. ASLAKSEN. The fact is, I am keenly alive to my responsibilities. If you attack the Government, you at least do society no harm; for the men attacked don’t care a straw, you see—they stay where they are all the same. But _local_ authorities can be turned out; and then we might get some incompetent set into power, to the irreparable injury both of house-owners and other people. HOVSTAD. But the education of citizens by self-government—do you never think of _that_? ASLAKSEN. When a man has solid interests to protect, he can’t think of everything, Mr. Hovstad. HOVSTAD. Then I hope I may never have solid interests to protect. BILLING. Hear, hear! ASLAKSEN. [_Smiling._] H'm! [_Points to the desk._] Governor Stensgård[10] sat in that editorial chair before you. BILLING. [_Spitting._] Pooh! A turncoat like that! HOVSTAD. I am no weathercock—and never will be. ASLAKSEN. A politician should never be too sure of anything on earth, Mr. Hovstad. And as for you, Mr. Billing, you ought to take in a reef or two, I should say, now that you are applying for the secretaryship to the Town Council. BILLING. I——! HOVSTAD. Is that so, Billing? BILLING. Well, yes—but, deuce take it, you understand, I'm only doing it to spite their high-mightinesses. ASLAKSEN. Well, that has nothing to do with me. But if I am to be accused of cowardice and inconsistency, I should just like to point out _this_: My political record is open to every one. I have not changed at all, except in becoming more moderate. My heart still belongs to the people; but I don’t deny that my reason inclines somewhat towards the authorities—the local ones, I mean. [_Goes into the printing-room._] BILLING. Don’t you think we should try to get rid of him, Hovstad? HOVSTAD. Do you know of any one else that will pay for our paper and printing? BILLING. What a confounded nuisance it is to have no capital! HOVSTAD. [_Sitting down by the desk._] Yes, if we only had that—— BILLING. Suppose you applied to Dr. Stockmann? HOVSTAD. [_Turning over his papers._] What would be the good? He hasn’t a rap. BILLING. No; but he has a good man behind him—old Morten Kiil—“The Badger,” as they call him. HOVSTAD. [_Writing._] Are you so sure he has money? BILLING. Yes, strike me dead if he hasn’t! And part of it must certainly go to Stockmann’s family. He’s bound to provide for—for the children at any rate. HOVSTAD. [_Half turning._] Are you counting on _that_? BILLING. Counting? How should I be counting on it? HOVSTAD. Best not! And that secretaryship you shouldn’t count on either; for I can assure you you won’t get it. BILLING. Do you think I don’t know that? A refusal is the very thing I want. Such a rebuff fires the spirit of opposition in you, gives you a fresh supply of gall, as it were; and that’s just what you need in a god-forsaken hole like this, where anything really stimulating so seldom happens. HOVSTAD. [_Writing._] Yes, yes. BILLING. Well—they shall soon hear from me!—Now I'll go and write the appeal to the House-owners' Association. _Goes into the room on the right._ HOVSTAD. [_Sits at his desk, biting his penholder, and says slowly_:] H'm—so that’s the way of it.—[_A knock at the door._] Come in. PETRA _enters from the back, left._ HOVSTAD. [_Rising._] What! Is it you? Here? PETRA. Yes; please excuse me—— HOVSTAD. [_Offering her an arm-chair._] Won’t you sit down? PETRA. No, thanks; I must go again directly. HOVSTAD. Perhaps you bring a message from your father——? PETRA. No, I have come on my own account. [_Takes a book from the pocket of her cloak._] Here is that English story. HOVSTAD. Why have you brought it back? PETRA. Because I won’t translate it. HOVSTAD. But you promised—— PETRA. Yes; but then I hadn’t read it. I suppose you have not read it either? HOVSTAD. No; you know I can’t read English; but—— PETRA. Exactly; and that’s why I wanted to tell you that you must find something else. [_Putting the_ _book on the table._] This will never do for the _Messenger_. HOVSTAD. Why not? PETRA. Because it flies in the face of all your convictions. HOVSTAD. Well, for that matter—— PETRA. You don’t understand me. It makes out that a supernatural power looks after the so-called good people in this world, and turns everything to their advantage at last; while all the so-called bad people are punished. HOVSTAD. Yes, but that’s all right. That’s the very thing the public like. PETRA. And would you supply the public with such stuff? You don’t believe a word of it yourself. You know well enough that things do not really happen like that. HOVSTAD. Of course not; but an editor can’t always do as he likes. He has often to humour people’s fancies in minor matters. After all, politics is the chief thing in life—at any rate for a newspaper; and if I want the people to follow me along the path of emancipation and progress, I mustn’t scare them away. If they find a moral story like this down in the cellar,[11] they are all the more ready to take in what we tell them above—they feel themselves safer. PETRA. For shame! You’re not such a hypocrite as to set traps like that for your readers. You’re not a spider. HOVSTAD. [_Smiling._] Thanks for your good opinion. It’s true that the idea is Billing’s, not mine. PETRA. Mr. Billing’s! HOVSTAD. Yes, at least he was talking in that strain the other day. It was Billing that was so anxious to get the story into the paper; I don’t even know the book. PETRA. But how can Mr. Billing, with his advanced views—— HOVSTAD. Well, Billing is many-sided. He’s applying for the secretaryship to the Town Council, I hear. PETRA. I don’t believe that, Mr. Hovstad. How could he descend to such a thing? HOVSTAD. That you must ask him. PETRA. I could never have thought it of Billing! HOVSTAD. [_Looking more closely at her._] No? Is it such a surprise to you? PETRA. Yes. And yet—perhaps not. Oh, I don’t know—— HOVSTAD. We journalists are not worth much, Miss Petra. PETRA. Do you really say that? HOVSTAD. I think so, now and then. PETRA. Yes, in the little every-day squabbles—that I can understand. But now that you have taken up a great cause—— HOVSTAD. You mean this affair of your father’s? PETRA. Of course. I should think you must feel yourself worth more than the general run of people now. HOVSTAD. Yes, to-day I do feel something of the sort. PETRA. Yes, surely you must. Oh, it’s a glorious career you have chosen! To be the pioneer of unrecognised truths and new and daring ways of thought!—even, if that were all, to stand forth fearlessly in support of an injured man—— HOVSTAD. Especially when the injured man is—I hardly know how to put it—— PETRA. You mean when he is so upright and true? HOVSTAD. [_In a low voice._] I mean—especially when he is your father. PETRA. [_Suddenly taken aback._] _That?_ HOVSTAD. Yes, Petra—Miss Petra. PETRA. So that is your chief thought, is it? Not the cause itself? Not the truth? Not father’s great, warm heart? HOVSTAD. Oh, that too, of course. PETRA. No, thank you; you said too much that time, Mr. Hovstad. Now I shall never trust you again, in anything. HOVSTAD. Can you be so hard on me because it’s mainly for your sake——? PETRA. What I blame you for is that you have not acted straightforwardly towards father. You have talked to him as if you cared only for the truth and the good of the community. You have trifled with both father and me. You are not the man you pretended to be. And that I will never forgive you—never. HOVSTAD. You shouldn’t say that so bitterly, Miss Petra—least of all now. PETRA. Why not now? HOVSTAD. Because your father cannot do without my help. PETRA. [_Measuring him from head to foot._] So you are capable of _that_, too? Oh, shame! HOVSTAD. No, no. I spoke without thinking. You mustn’t believe that of me. PETRA. I know what to believe. Good-bye. ASLAKSEN _enters from printing-room, hurriedly and mysteriously._ ASLAKSEN. What do you think, Mr. Hovstad—[_Seeing PETRA._] Ow, that’s awkward—— PETRA. Well, there is the book. You must give it to some one else. _Going towards the main door._ HOVSTAD. [_Following her._] But, Miss Petra—— PETRA. Good-bye. _She goes._ ASLAKSEN. I say, Mr. Hovstad! HOVSTAD. Well well; what is it? ASLAKSEN. The Burgomaster’s out there, in the printing-office. HOVSTAD. The Burgomaster? ASLAKSEN. Yes. He wants to speak to you; he came in by the back way—he didn’t want to be seen, you understand. HOVSTAD. What can be the meaning of this? Stop, I'll go myself—— [_Goes towards the printing-room, opens the door, bows and invites the BURGOMASTER to enter._ HOVSTAD. Keep a look-out, Aslaksen, that no one—— ASLAKSEN. I understand. _Goes into the printing-room._ BURGOMASTER. You didn’t expect to see me here, Mr. Hovstad. HOVSTAD. No, I cannot say that I did. BURGOMASTER. [_Looking about him._] You are very comfortably installed here—capital quarters. HOVSTAD. Oh—— BURGOMASTER. And here have I come, without with your leave or by your leave, to take up your time—— HOVSTAD. You are very welcome, Burgomaster; I am at your service. Let me take your cap and stick. [_He does so, and puts them on a chair._] And won’t you be seated? BURGOMASTER. [_Sitting down by the table._] Thanks. [HOVSTAD _also sits by the table._] I have been much—very much worried to-day, Mr. Hovstad. HOVSTAD. Really? Well, I suppose with all your various duties, Burgomaster—— BURGOMASTER. It is the Doctor that has been causing me annoyance to-day. HOVSTAD. Indeed! The Doctor? BURGOMASTER. He has written a sort of memorandum to the Directors about some alleged shortcomings in the Baths. HOVSTAD. Has he really? BURGOMASTER. Yes; hasn’t he told you? I thought he said—— HOVSTAD. Oh yes, by-the-bye, he did mention something—— ASLAKSEN. [_From the printing-office._] I've just come for the manuscript—— HOVSTAD. [_In a tone of vexation._] Oh!—there it is on the desk. ASLAKSEN. [_Finding it._] All right. BURGOMASTER. Why, _that_ is the very thing—— ASLAKSEN. Yes, this is the Doctor’s article, Burgomaster. HOVSTAD. Oh, is that what you were speaking of? BURGOMASTER. Precisely. What do you think of it? HOVSTAD. I have no technical knowledge of the matter, and I've only glanced through it. BURGOMASTER. And yet you are going to print it! HOVSTAD. I can’t very well refuse a signed communication—— ASLAKSEN. I have nothing to do with the editing of the paper, Burgomaster—— BURGOMASTER. Of course not. ASLAKSEN. I merely print what is placed in my hands. BURGOMASTER. Quite right, quite right. ASLAKSEN. So I must—— _Goes towards the printing-room._ BURGOMASTER. No, stop a moment, Mr. Aslaksen. With your permission, Mr. Hovstad—— HOVSTAD. By all means, Burgomaster. BURGOMASTER. You are a discreet and thoughtful man, Mr. Aslaksen. ASLAKSEN. I am glad you think so, Burgomaster. BURGOMASTER. And a man of very wide influence. ASLAKSEN. Well—chiefly among the lower middle-class. BURGOMASTER. The small taxpayers form the majority—here as everywhere. ASLAKSEN. That’s very true. BURGOMASTER. And I have no doubt that you know the general feeling among them. Am I right? ASLAKSEN. Yes, I think I may say that I do, Burgomaster. BURGOMASTER. Well—since our townsfolk of the poorer class appear to be so heroically eager to make sacrifices—— ASLAKSEN. How so? HOVSTAD. Sacrifices? BURGOMASTER. It is a pleasing evidence of public spirit—a most pleasing evidence. I admit it is more than I should quite have expected. But, of course, you know public feeling better than I do. ASLAKSEN. Yes but, Burgomaster—— BURGOMASTER. And assuredly it is no small sacrifice the town will have to make. HOVSTAD. The town? ASLAKSEN. But I don’t understand——. It’s the Baths—— BURGOMASTER. At a rough provisional estimate, the alterations the Doctor thinks desirable will come to two or three hundred thousand crowns. ASLAKSEN. That’s a lot of money; but—— BURGOMASTER. Of course we shall be obliged to raise a municipal loan. HOVSTAD. [_Rising._] You surely can’t mean that the town——? ASLAKSEN. Would you come upon the rates? Upon the scanty savings of the lower middle-class? BURGOMASTER. Why, my dear Mr. Aslaksen, where else are the funds to come from? ASLAKSEN. The proprietors of the Baths must see to that. BURGOMASTER. The proprietors are not in a position to go to any further expense. ASLAKSEN. Are you quite sure of that, Burgomaster? BURGOMASTER. I have positive information. So if these extensive alterations are called for, the town itself will have to bear the cost. ASLAKSEN. Oh, plague take it all—I beg your pardon!—but this is quite another matter, Mr. Hovstad. HOVSTAD. Yes, it certainly is. BURGOMASTER. The worst of it is, that we shall be obliged to close the establishment for a couple of years. HOVSTAD. To close it? Completely? ASLAKSEN. For two years! BURGOMASTER. Yes, the work will require that time—at least. ASLAKSEN. But, damn it all! we can’t stand that, Burgomaster. What are we house-owners to live on in the meantime? BURGOMASTER. It’s extremely difficult to say, Mr. Aslaksen. But what would you have us do? Do you think a single visitor will come here if we go about making them fancy that the water is poisoned, that the place is pestilential, that the whole town—— ASLAKSEN. And it’s all nothing but fancy? BURGOMASTER. With the best will in the world, I have failed to convince myself that it is anything else. ASLAKSEN. In that case it’s simply inexcusable of Dr. Stockmann—I beg your pardon, Burgomaster, but—— BURGOMASTER. I'm sorry to say you are only speaking the truth, Mr. Aslaksen. Unfortunately, my brother has always been noted for his rashness. ASLAKSEN. And yet you want to back him up in this, Mr. Hovstad! HOVSTAD. But who could possibly imagine that——? BURGOMASTER. I have drawn up a short statement of the facts, as they appear from a sober-minded standpoint; and I have intimated that any drawbacks that may possibly exist can no doubt be remedied by measures compatible with the finances of the Baths. HOVSTAD. Have you the article with you, Burgomaster? BURGOMASTER. [_Feeling in his pockets._] Yes; I brought it with me, in case you—— ASLAKSEN. [_Quickly._] Plague take it, there he is! BURGOMASTER. Who? My brother? HOVSTAD. Where? where? ASLAKSEN. He’s coming through the composing-room. BURGOMASTER. Most unfortunate! I don’t want to meet him here, and yet there are several things I want to talk to you about. HOVSTAD. [_Pointing to the door on the right._] Go in there for a moment. BURGOMASTER. But——? HOVSTAD. You’ll find nobody but Billing there. ASLAKSEN. Quick, quick, Burgomaster; he’s just coming. BURGOMASTER. Very well, then. But try to get rid of him quickly. [_He goes out by the door on the right, which ASLAKSEN opens, and closes behind him._ HOVSTAD. Pretend to be busy, Aslaksen. [_He sits down and writes. ASLAKSEN turns over a heap of newspapers on a chair, right._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Entering from the composing-room._] Here I am, back again. [_Puts down his hat and stick._] HOVSTAD. [_Writing._] Already, Doctor? Make haste with what we were speaking of, Aslaksen. We’ve no time to lose to-day. DR. STOCKMANN. [_To ASLAKSEN._] No proof yet, I hear. ASLAKSEN. [_Without turning round._] No; how could you expect it? DR. STOCKMANN. Of course not; but you understand my impatience. I can have no rest or peace until I see the thing in print. HOVSTAD. H'm; it will take a good while yet. Don’t you think so, Aslaksen? ASLAKSEN. I'm afraid it will. DR. STOCKMANN. All right, all right, my good friend; then I shall look in again. I'll look in twice if necessary. With so much at stake—the welfare of the whole town—one mustn’t grudge a little trouble. [_Is on the point of going but stops and comes back._] Oh, by the way—there’s one other thing I must speak to you about. HOVSTAD. Excuse me; wouldn’t some other time——? DR. STOCKMANN. I can tell you in two words. You see it’s this when people read my article in the paper tomorrow, and find I have spent the whole winter working quietly for the good of the town—— HOVSTAD. Yes but, Doctor—— DR. STOCKMANN. I know what you’re going to say. You don’t think it was a bit more than my duty—my simple duty as a citizen. Of course I know that, as well as you do. But you see, my fellow townsmen—good Lord! the poor souls think so much of me—— ASLAKSEN. Yes, the townspeople have hitherto thought very highly of you, Doctor. DR. STOCKMANN. That’s exactly why I'm afraid that—. What I wanted to say was this: when all this comes to them—especially to the poorer classes—as a summons to take the affairs of the town into their own hands for the future—— HOVSTAD. [_Rising._] H'm, Doctor, I won’t conceal from you—— DR. STOCKMANN. Aha! I thought there was something brewing! But I won’t hear of it. If they are getting up anything of that sort—— HOVSTAD. Of what sort? DR. STOCKMANN. Well, anything of any sort—a procession with banners, or a banquet, or a subscription for a testimonial, or whatever it may be—you must give me your solemn promise to put a stop to it. And you too, Mr. Aslaksen; do you hear? HOVSTAD. Excuse me, Doctor; we may as well tell you the whole truth first as last—— MRS. STOCKMANN _enters from the back, left._ MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Seeing the DOCTOR._] Ah! just as I thought. HOVSTAD. [_Going towards her._] Mrs. Stockmann, too? DR. STOCKMANN. What the devil do _you_ want here, Katrina? MRS. STOCKMANN. You know very well what I want. HOVSTAD. Won’t you sit down? Or perhaps—— MRS. STOCKMANN. Thanks, please don’t trouble. And you must forgive my following my husband here; remember, I am the mother of three children. DR. STOCKMANN. Stuff and nonsense! We all know that well enough. MRS. STOCKMANN. Well, it doesn’t look as if you thought very much about your wife and children to-day, or you wouldn’t be so ready to plunge us all into ruin. DR. STOCKMANN. Are you quite mad, Katrina! Has a man with a wife and children no right to proclaim the truth? Has he no right to be an active and useful citizen? Has he no right to do his duty by the town he lives in? MRS. STOCKMANN. Everything in moderation, Thomas! ASLAKSEN. That’s just what I say. Moderation in everything. MRS. STOCKMANN. You are doing us a great wrong, Mr. Hovstad, in enticing my husband away from house and home, and befooling him in this way. HOVSTAD. I am not befooling any one—— DR. STOCKMANN. Befooling! Do you think I should let myself be befooled? MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, that’s just what you do. I know very well that you are the cleverest man in the town; but you’re very easily made a fool of, Thomas. [_To HOVSTAD._] Remember that he loses his post at the Baths if you print what he has written—— ASLAKSEN. What! HOVSTAD. Well now, really, Doctor—— DR. STOCKMANN. [_Laughing._] Ha ha! just let them try—! No no, my dear, they’ll think twice about that. I have the compact majority behind me, you see! MRS. STOCKMANN. That’s just the misfortune, that you should have such a horrid thing behind you. DR. STOCKMANN. Nonsense, Katrina;—you go home and look after your house, and let me take care of society. How can you be in such a fright when you see me so confident and happy? [_Rubbing his hands and walking up and down._] Truth and the People must win the day; you may be perfectly sure of that. Oh! I can see all our free-souled citizens standing shoulder to shoulder like a conquering army——! [_Stopping by a chair._] Why, what the devil is _that_? ASLAKSEN. [_Looking at it._] Oh Lord! HOVSTAD. [_The same._] H'm— DR. STOCKMANN. Why, here’s the top-knot of authority! [_He takes the_ BURGOMASTER’S _official cap carefully between the tips of his fingers and holds it up._ MRS. STOCKMANN. The Burgomaster’s cap! DR. STOCKMANN. And here’s the staff of office, too! But how in the devil’s name did they——? HOVSTAD. Well then—— DR. STOCKMANN. Ah, I understand! He has been here to talk you over. Ha, ha! He reckoned without his host that time! And when he caught sight of me in the printing-room—[_Bursts out laughing._]—he took to his heels, eh, Mr. Aslaksen? ASLAKSEN. [_Hurriedly._] Exactly; he took to his heels, Doctor. DR. STOCKMANN. Made off without his stick and——. No, _that_ won’t do! Peter never left anything behind him. But where the devil have you stowed him? Ah—in here, of course. Now you shall see, Katrina! MRS. STOCKMANN. Thomas—I implore you——! ASLAKSEN. Take care, Doctor! [DR. STOCKMANN _has put on the_ BURGOMASTER’S _cap and grasped his stick; he now goes up to the door, throws it open, and makes a military salute._ _The_ BURGOMASTER _enters, red with anger. Behind him comes_ BILLING. BURGOMASTER. What is the meaning of these antics? DR. STOCKMANN. Respect, my good Peter! Now, it’s I that am in power in this town. [_He struts up and down._ MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Almost in tears._] Oh, Thomas! BURGOMASTER. [_Following him._] Give me my cap and stick! DR. STOCKMANN. [_As before._] You may be Chief of Police, but I am Burgomaster. I am master of the whole town I tell you! BURGOMASTER. Put down my cap, I say. Remember it is an official cap, as by law prescribed! DR. STOCKMANN. Pshaw! Do you think the awakening lion of the democracy will let itself be scared by a gold-laced cap? There’s to be a revolution in the town to-morrow, let me tell you. You threatened me with dismissal; but now _I_ dismiss _you_—dismiss you from all your offices of trust—. You think I can’t do it?—Oh, yes, I can! I have the irresistible forces of society on my side. Hovstad and Billing will thunder in the _People’s Messenger_, and Aslaksen will take the field at the head of the House-owners' Association—— ASLAKSEN. No, Doctor, I shall not. DR. STOCKMANN. Why, of course you will—— BURGOMASTER. Aha! Perhaps Mr. Hovstad would like to join the agitation after all? HOVSTAD. No, Burgomaster. ASLAKSEN. No, Mr. Hovstad isn’t such a fool as to ruin both himself and the paper for the sake of a delusion. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Looking about him._] What does all this mean? HOVSTAD. You have presented your case in a false light, Doctor; therefore I am unable to give you my support. BILLING. And after what the Burgomaster has been so kind as to explain to me, I—— DR. STOCKMANN. In a false light! Well, I am responsible for that. Just you print my article, and I promise you I shall prove it up to the hilt. HOVSTAD. I shall not print it. I cannot, and will not, and dare not print it. DR. STOCKMANN. You dare not? What nonsense is this? You are editor; and I suppose it’s the editor that controls a paper. ASLAKSEN. No, it’s the subscribers, Doctor. BURGOMASTER. Fortunately. ASLAKSEN. It’s public opinion, the enlightened majority, the house-owners and all the rest. It’s _they_ who control a paper. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Calmly._] And all these powers I have against me? ASLAKSEN. Yes, you have. It would mean absolute ruin for the town if your article were inserted. DR. STOCKMANN. So _that_ is the way of it! BURGOMASTER. My hat and stick! [DR. STOCKMANN _takes off the cap and lays it on the table along with the stick._ BURGOMASTER. [_Taking them both._] Your term of office has come to an untimely end. DR. STOCKMANN. The end is not yet. [_To_ HOVSTAD.] So you are quite determined not to print my article in the _Messenger_? HOVSTAD. Quite; for the sake of your family, if for no other reason. MRS. STOCKMANN. Oh, be kind enough to leave his family out of the question, Mr. Hovstad. BURGOMASTER. [_Takes a manuscript from his pocket._] When this appears, the public will be in possession of all necessary information; it is an authentic statement. I place it in your hands. HOVSTAD. [_Taking the MS._] Good. It shall appear in due course. DR. STOCKMANN. And not mine! You imagine you can kill me and the truth by a conspiracy of silence! But it won’t be so easy as you think. Mr. Aslaksen, will you be good enough to print my article at once, as a pamphlet? I'll pay for it myself, and be my own publisher. I'll have four hundred copies—no, five—six hundred. ASLAKSEN. No. If you offered me its weight in gold, I dare not lend my press to such a purpose, Doctor. I daren’t fly in the face of public opinion. You won’t get it printed anywhere in the whole town. DR. STOCKMANN. Then give it me back. HOVSTAD. [_Handing him the MS._] By all means. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Taking up his hat and cane._] It shall be made public all the same. I shall read it at a great mass meeting; all my fellow citizens shall hear the voice of truth! BURGOMASTER. Not a single society in the town would let you their hall for such a purpose. ASLAKSEN. Not one, I'm quite certain. BILLING. No, strike me dead if they would! MRS. STOCKMANN. That would be too disgraceful! Why do they turn against you like this, every one of them? DR. STOCKMANN. [_Irritated._] I'll tell you why. It’s because in this town all the men are old women—like you. They all think of nothing but their families, not of the general good. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Taking his arm._] Then I'll show them that an—an old woman can be a man for once in a way. For _now_ I'll stand by you, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. Bravely said, Katrina! I swear by my soul and conscience the truth shall out! If they won’t let me a hall, I'll hire a drum and march through the town with it; and I'll read my paper at every street corner. BURGOMASTER. You can scarcely be such a raving lunatic as that? DR. STOCKMANN. I am. ASLAKSEN. You would not get a single man in the whole town to go with you. BILLING. No, strike me dead if you would! MRS. STOCKMANN. Don’t give in, Thomas. I'll ask the boys to go with you. DR. STOCKMANN. That’s a splendid idea! MRS. STOCKMANN. Morten will be delighted; and Eilif will go too, I daresay. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, and so will Petra! And you yourself, Katrina! MRS. STOCKMANN. No no, not I. But I'll stand at the window and watch you—that I will. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Throwing his arms about her and kissing her._] Thank you for that! Now, my good sirs, we’re ready for the fight! Now we shall see whether your despicable tactics can stop the mouth of the patriot who wants to purge society! [_He and his wife go out together by the door in the back, left._ BURGOMASTER. [Shaking his head dubiously.] Now he has turned _her_ head too! ----- Footnote 10: It will be remembered that Aslaksen figures in _The League of Youth_, of which Stensgård is the central character. Stensgård, we see, has justified Lundestad’s prophecy by attaining the high administrative dignity of “Stiftamtmand,” here roughly translated “Governor.” Footnote 11: The reference is to the continental feuilleton at the foot of the page. ACT FOURTH. _A large old-fashioned room in CAPTAIN HORSTER’S house. An open folding-door in the background leads to an anteroom. In the wall on the left are three windows. About the middle of the opposite wall is a platform, and on it a small table, two candles, a water-bottle and glass, and a bell. For the rest, the room is lighted by sconces placed between the windows. In front, on the left, is a table with a candle on it, and by it a chair. In front, to the right, a door, and near it a few chairs._ _Large assemblage of all classes of townsfolk. In the crowd are a few women and schoolboys. More and more people gradually stream in from the back until the room is quite full._ FIRST CITIZEN. [_To another standing near him._] So you’re here too, Lamstad? SECOND CITIZEN. I never miss a public meeting. A BYSTANDER. _I_ suppose you’ve brought your whistle? SECOND CITIZEN. Of course I have; haven’t you? THIRD CITIZEN. I should think so. And Skipper Evensen said he’d bring a thumping big horn. SECOND CITIZEN. He’s a good ’un, is Evensen! [_Laughter in the group._ A FOURTH CITIZEN. [_Joining them._] I say, what’s it all about? What’s going on here to-night? SECOND CITIZEN. Why, it’s Dr. Stockmann that’s going to lecture against the Burgomaster. FOURTH CITIZEN. But the Burgomaster’s his brother. FIRST CITIZEN. That makes no difference. Dr. Stockmann’s not afraid of him. THIRD CITIZEN. But he’s all wrong; the _People’s Messenger_ says so. SECOND CITIZEN. Yes, he must be wrong this time; for neither the House-owners’ Association nor the Citizens' Club would let him have a hall. FIRST CITIZEN. They wouldn’t even lend him the hall at the Baths. SECOND CITIZEN. No, you may be sure they wouldn’t. A MAN. [_In another group._] Now, who’s the one to follow in this business, eh? ANOTHER MAN. [_In the same group._] Just keep your eye on Aslaksen, and do as he does. BILLING. [_With a portfolio under his arm, makes his way through the crowd._] Excuse me, gentlemen. Will you allow me to pass? I'm here to report for the _People’s Messenger_. Many thanks. [_Sits by the table on the left._ A WORKING-MAN. Who’s he? ANOTHER WORKING-MAN. Don’t you know him? It’s that fellow Billing, that writes for Aslaksen’s paper. CAPTAIN HORSTER _enters by the door in front on the right, escorting_ MRS. STOCKMANN _and_ PETRA. EILIF _and_ MORTEN _follow them._ HORSTER. This is where I thought you might sit: you can so easily slip out if anything should happen. MRS. STOCKMANN. Do you think there will be any disturbance? HORSTER. One can never tell—with such a crowd. But there’s no occasion for anxiety. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Sitting down._] How kind it was of you to offer Stockmann this room. HORSTER. Since no one else would, I—— PETRA. [_Who has also seated herself._] And it was brave too, Captain Horster. HORSTER. Oh, I don’t see where the bravery comes in. HOVSTAD _and_ ASLAKSEN _enter at the same moment, but make their way through the crowd separately._ ASLAKSEN. [_Going up to_ HORSTER.] Hasn’t the Doctor come yet? HORSTER. He’s waiting in there. [_A movement at the door in the background._ HOVSTAD. [_To BILLING._] There’s the Burgomaster! Look! BILLING. Yes, strike me dead if he hasn’t put in an appearance after all! BURGOMASTER STOCKMANN _makes his way blandly through the meeting, bowing politely to both sides, and takes his stand by the wall on the left. Soon afterwards,_ DR. STOCKMANN _enters by the door on the right. He wears a black frock-coat and white necktie. Faint applause, met by a subdued hissing. Then silence._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_In a low tone._] How do you feel, Katrina? MRS. STOCKMANN. Quite comfortable, thank you. [_In a low voice._] Now do keep your temper, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, I shall keep myself well in hand. [_Looks at his watch, ascends the platform, and bows._] It’s a quarter past the hour, so I shall begin—— [_Takes out his MS._ ASLAKSEN. But surely a chairman must be elected first. DR. STOCKMANN. No, that’s not at all necessary. SEVERAL GENTLEMEN. [_Shouting._] Yes, yes. BURGOMASTER. I should certainly say that a chairman ought to be elected. DR. STOCKMANN. But I've called this meeting to give a lecture, Peter! BURGOMASTER. Dr. Stockmann’s lecture may possibly lead to differences of opinion. SEVERAL VOICES IN THE CROWD. A chairman! A chairman! HOVSTAD. The general voice of the meeting seems to be for a chairman! DR. STOCKMANN. [_Controlling himself._] Very well then; let the meeting have its way. ASLAKSEN. Will not the Burgomaster take the chair? THREE GENTLEMEN. [_Clapping._] Bravo! Bravo! BURGOMASTER. For reasons you will easily understand, I must decline. But, fortunately, we have among us one whom I think we can all accept. I allude to the president of the House-owners' Association, Mr. Aslaksen. MANY VOICES. Yes, yes! Bravo Aslaksen! Hurrah for Aslaksen! [DR. STOCKMANN _takes his MS. and descends from the platform._ ASLAKSEN. Since my fellow citizens repose this trust in me, _I_ cannot refuse—— [_Applause and cheers._ ASLAKSEN _ascends the platform._ BILLING. [_Writing._] So—“Mr. Aslaksen was elected by acclamation——” ASLAKSEN. And now, as I have been called to the chair, I take the liberty of saying a few brief words. I am a quiet, peace-loving man; I am in favour of discreet moderation, and of—and of moderate discretion. Every one who knows me, knows that. MANY VOICES. Yes, yes, Aslaksen! ASLAKSEN. I have learnt in the school of life and of experience that moderation is the virtue in which the individual citizen finds his best advantage—— BURGOMASTER. Hear, hear! ASLAKSEN. ——and it is discretion and moderation, too, that best serve the community. I could therefore suggest to our respected fellow citizen, who has called this meeting, that he should endeavour to keep within the bounds of moderation. A MAN. [_By the door._] Three cheers for the Temperance Society! A VOICE. Go to the devil! VOICES. Hush! hush! ASLAKSEN. No interruptions, gentlemen!—Does any one wish to offer any observations? BURGOMASTER. Mr. Chairman! ASLAKSEN. Burgomaster Stockmann will address the meeting. BURGOMASTER. On account of my close relationship—of which you are probably aware—to the present medical officer of the Baths, I should have preferred not to speak here this evening. But my position as chairman of the Baths, and my care for the vital interests of this town, force me to move a resolution. I may doubtless assume that not a single citizen here present thinks it desirable that untrustworthy and exaggerated statements should get abroad as to the sanitary condition of the Baths and of our town. MANY VOICES. No, no, no! Certainly not! We protest! BURGOMASTER. I therefore beg to move, “That this meeting declines to hear the proposed lecture or speech on the subject by the medical officer of the Baths.” DR. STOCKMANN. [_Flaring up._] Declines to hear——! What do you mean? MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Coughing._] H'm! h’m! DR. STOCKMANN. [_Controlling himself._] So I am not to be heard? BURGOMASTER. In my statement in the _People’s Messenger_ I have made the public acquainted with the essential facts, so that all well-disposed citizens can easily form their own judgment. From that statement it will be seen that the medical officer’s proposal—besides amounting to a vote of censure upon the leading men of the town—at bottom only means saddling the ratepayers with an unnecessary outlay of at least a hundred thousand crowns. [_Sounds of protest and some hissing._ ASLAKSEN. [_Ringing the bell._] Order, gentlemen! I must beg leave to support the Burgomaster’s resolution. I quite agree with him that there is something beneath the surface of the Doctor’s agitation. In all his talk about the Baths, it is really a revolution he is aiming at; he wants to effect a redistribution of power. No one doubts the excellence of Dr. Stockmann’s intentions—of course there cannot be two opinions as to that. I, too, am in favour of self-government by the people, if only it doesn’t cost the ratepayers too much. But in this case it would do so; and therefore I'll be hanged if—excuse me—in short, I cannot go with Dr. Stockmann upon this occasion. You can buy even gold too dear; that’s my opinion. [_Loud applause on all sides._ HOVSTAD. I, too feel bound to explain my attitude. Dr. Stockmann’s agitation seemed at first to find favour in several quarters, and I supported it as impartially as I could. But it presently appeared that we had been misled by a false representation of the facts—— DR. STOCKMANN. False——! HOVSTAD. Well then, an untrustworthy representation. This the Burgomaster’s report has proved. I trust no one here present doubts my liberal principles; the attitude of the _Messenger_ on all great political questions is well known to you all. But I have learned from men of judgment and experience that in purely local matters a paper must observe a certain amount of caution. ASLAKSEN. I entirely agree with the speaker. HOVSTAD. And in the matter under discussion it is quite evident that Dr. Stockmann has public opinion against him. But, gentlemen, what is an editor’s clearest and most imperative duty? Is it not to work in harmony with his readers? Has he not in some sort received a tacit mandate to further assiduously and unweariedly the interests of his constituents? Or am I mistaken in this? MANY VOICES. No, no, no! Hovstad is right! HOVSTAD. It has cost me a bitter struggle to break with a man in whose house I have of late been a frequent guest—with a man who, up to this day, has enjoyed the unqualified goodwill of his fellow citizens—with a man whose only, or, at any rate, whose chief fault is that he consults his heart rather than his head. A FEW SCATTERED VOICES. That’s true! Hurrah for Dr. Stockmann! HOVSTAD. But my duty towards the community has constrained me to break with him. Then, too, there is another consideration that impels me to oppose him, and, if possible, to block the ill-omened path upon which he is entering: consideration for his family—— DR. STOCKMANN. Keep to the water-works and sewers! HOVSTAD. ——consideration for his wife and his unprotected[12] children. MORTEN. Is that us, mother? MRS. STOCKMANN. Hush! ASLAKSEN. I will now put the Burgomaster’s resolution to the vote. DR. STOCKMANN. You need not. I have no intention of saying anything this evening of all the filth at the Baths. No! You shall hear something quite different. BURGOMASTER. [_Half aloud._] What next, I wonder? A DRUNKEN MAN. [_At the main entrance._] I'm a ratepayer, so I've a right to my opinion! And it’s my full, firm, incomprehensible opinion that—— SEVERAL VOICES. Silence up there! OTHERS. He’s drunk! Turn him out! [_The drunken man is turned out._ DR. STOCKMANN. Can I speak? ASLAKSEN. [_Ringing the bell._] Dr. Stockmann will address the meeting. DR. STOCKMANN. A few days ago, I should have liked to see any one venture upon such an attempt to gag me as has been made here to-night! I would have fought like a lion for my sacred rights! But now I care little enough; for now I have more important things to speak of. [_The people crowd closer round him._ MORTEN KIIL _comes in sight among the bystanders._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Continuing._] I have been pondering a great many things during these last days—thinking such a multitude of thoughts, that at last my head was positively in a whirl—— BURGOMASTER. [_Coughing._] H'm——! DR. STOCKMANN. But presently things seemed to straighten themselves out, and I saw them clearly in all their bearings. That is why I stand here this evening. I am about to make great revelations, my fellow citizens! I am going to announce to you a far-reaching discovery, beside which the trifling fact that our water-works are poisoned, and that our health-resort is built on pestilential ground, sinks into insignificance. MANY VOICES. [_Shouting._] Don’t speak about the Baths! We won’t listen to that! No more of that! DR. STOCKMANN. I have said I would speak of the great discovery I have made within the last few days—the discovery that all our sources of spiritual life are poisoned, and that our whole society rests upon a pestilential basis of falsehood. SEVERAL VOICES. [_In astonishment and half aloud._] What’s he saying? BURGOMASTER. Such an insinuation——! ASLAKSEN. [_With his hand on the bell._] I must call upon the speaker to moderate his expressions. DR. STOCKMANN. I have loved my native town as dearly as any man can love the home of his childhood. I was young when I left our town, and distance, home-sickness and memory threw, as it were, a glamour over the place and its people. [_Some applause and cries of approval._ DR. STOCKMANN. Then for years I was imprisoned in a horrible hole, far away in the north. As I went about among the people scattered here and there over the stony wilderness, it seemed to me, many a time, that it would have been better for these poor famishing creatures to have had a cattle-doctor to attend them, instead of a man like me. [_Murmurs in the room._ BILLING. [_Laying down his pen._] Strike me dead if I've ever heard——! HOVSTAD. What an insult to an estimable peasantry! DR. STOCKMANN. Wait a moment!—I don’t think any one can reproach me with forgetting my native town up there. I sat brooding like an eider duck, and what I hatched was—the plan of the Baths. [_Applause and expressions of dissent._ DR. STOCKMANN. And when, at last, fate ordered things so happily that I could come home again—then, fellow citizens, it seemed to me that I hadn’t another desire in the world. Yes, one desire I had: an eager, constant, burning desire to be of service to my birthplace, and to its people. BURGOMASTER. [_Gazing into vacancy._] A strange method to select——! DR. STOCKMANN. So I went about revelling in my happy illusions. But yesterday morning—no, it was really two nights ago—my mind’s eyes were opened wide, and the first thing I saw was the colossal stupidity of the authorities—— [_Noise, cries, and laughter._ MRS. STOCKMANN _coughs repeatedly._ BURGOMASTER. Mr. Chairman! ASLAKSEN. [_Ringing his bell._] In virtue of my position——! DR. STOCKMANN. It’s petty to catch me up on a word, Mr. Aslaksen! I only mean that I became alive to the extraordinary muddle our leading men had been guilty of, down at the Baths. I cannot for the life of me abide leading men—I've seen enough of them in my time. They are like goats in a young plantation: they do harm at every point; they block the path of a free man wherever he turns—and I should be glad if we could exterminate them like other noxious animals—— [_Uproar in the room._ BURGOMASTER. Mr. Chairman, are such expressions permissible? ASLAKSEN. [_With his hand on the bell._] Dr. Stockmann—— DR. STOCKMANN. I can’t conceive how it is that I have only now seen through these gentry; for haven’t I had a magnificent example before my eyes here every day—my brother Peter—slow of understanding, tenacious in prejudice—— [_Laughter, noise, and whistling._ MRS. STOCKMANN _coughs._ ASLAKSEN _rings violently._ THE DRUNKEN MAN. [_Who has come in again._] Is it me you’re alluding to? Sure enough, my name’s Petersen; but devil take me if—— ANGRY VOICES. Out with that drunken man! Turn him out! [_The man is again turned out._ BURGOMASTER. Who is that person? A BYSTANDER. I don’t know him, Burgomaster. ANOTHER. He doesn’t belong to the town. A THIRD. I believe he’s a timber-dealer from—— [_The rest is inaudible._ ASLAKSEN. The man was evidently intoxicated.—Continue, Dr. Stockmann; but pray endeavour to be moderate. DR. STOCKMANN. Well, fellow citizens, I shall say no more about our leading men. If any one imagines, from what I have just said, that it’s these gentlemen I want to make short work of to-night, he is mistaken—altogether mistaken. For I cherish the comfortable conviction that these laggards, these relics of a decaying order of thought, are diligently cutting their own throats. They need no doctor to hasten their end. And it is not people of _that_ sort that constitute the real danger to society; it is not they who are most active in poisoning the sources of our spiritual life and making a plague-spot of the ground beneath our feet; it is not _they_ who are the most dangerous enemies of truth and freedom in our society. CRIES FROM ALL SIDES. Who, then? Who is it? Name, name! DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, you may be sure I shall name them! For _this_ is the great discovery I made yesterday: [_In a louder tone._] The most dangerous foe to truth and freedom in our midst is the compact majority. Yes, it’s the confounded, compact, liberal majority—that, and nothing else! There, I've told you. [_Immense disturbance in the room. Most of the audience are shouting, stamping, and whistling. Several elderly gentlemen exchange furtive glances and seem to be enjoying the scene._ MRS. STOCKMANN _rises in alarm._ EILIF _and_ MORTEN _advance threateningly towards the school-boys, who are making noises._ ASLAKSEN _rings the bell and calls for order._ HOVSTAD _and_ BILLING _both speak, but nothing can be heard. At last quiet is restored._ ASLAKSEN. I must request the speaker to withdraw his ill-considered expressions. DR. STOCKMANN. Never, Mr. Aslaksen! For it’s this very majority that robs me of my freedom, and wants to forbid me to speak the truth. HOVSTAD. The majority always has right on its side. BILLING. Yes, and truth too, strike me dead! DR. STOCKMANN. The majority never has right on its side. Never I say! That is one of the social lies that a free, thinking man is bound to rebel against. Who make up the majority in any given country? Is it the wise men or the fools? I think we must agree that the fools are in a terrible, overwhelming majority, all the wide world over. But how in the devil’s name can it ever be right for the fools to rule over the wise men? _Uproar and yells._ DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, yes, you can shout me down, but you cannot gainsay me. The majority has _might_—unhappily—but _right_ it has not. It is I, and the few, the individuals, that are in the right. The minority is always right. _Renewed uproar._ HOVSTAD. Ha ha! Dr. Stockmann has turned aristocrat since the day before yesterday! DR. STOCKMANN. I have said that I have no words to waste on the little, narrow-chested, short-winded crew that lie in our wake. Pulsating life has nothing more to do with them. I am speaking of the few, the individuals among us, who have made all the new, germinating truths their own. These men stand, as it were, at the outposts, so far in the van that the compact majority has not yet reached them—and _there_ they fight for truths that are too lately born into the world’s consciousness to have won over the majority. HOVSTAD. So the Doctor’s a revolutionist now! DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, by Heaven, I am, Mr. Hovstad! I am going to revolt against the lie that truth belongs exclusively to the majority. What sort of truths do the majority rally round? Truths so stricken in years that they are sinking into decrepitude. When a truth is so old as that, gentlemen, it’s in a fair way to become a lie. [_Laughter and jeers._ DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, yes, you may believe me or not, as you please; but truths are by no means the wiry Methusalehs some people think them. A normally-constituted truth lives—let us say—as a rule, seventeen or eighteen years; at the outside twenty; very seldom more. And truths so patriarchal as that are always shockingly emaciated; yet it’s not till then that the majority takes them up and recommends them to society as wholesome food. I can assure you there’s not much nutriment in that sort of fare; you may take my word as a doctor for that. All these majority-truths are like last year’s salt pork; they’re like rancid, mouldy ham, producing all the moral scurvy that devastates society. ASLAKSEN. It seems to me that the honourable speaker is wandering rather far from the subject. BURGOMASTER. I beg to endorse the Chairman’s remark. DR. STOCKMANN. Why you’re surely mad, Peter! I'm keeping as closely to my text as I possibly can; for my text is precisely this—that the masses, the majority, this devil’s own compact majority—it’s that, I say, that’s poisoning the sources of our spiritual life, and making a plague-spot of the ground beneath our feet. HOVSTAD. And you make this charge against the great, independent majority, just because they have the sense to accept only certain and acknowledged truths? DR. STOCKMANN. Ah, my dear Mr. Hovstad, don’t talk about certain truths! The truths acknowledged by the masses, the multitude, were certain truths to the vanguard in our grandfathers' days. We, the vanguard of to-day, don’t acknowledge them any longer; and I don’t believe there exists any other certain truth but this—that no society can live a healthy life upon truths so old and and marrowless. HOVSTAD. But instead of all this vague talk, suppose you were to give us some specimens of these old marrowless truths that we are living upon. [_Approval from several quarters._ DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, I could give you no end of samples from the rubbish-heap; but, for the present, I shall keep to one acknowledged truth, which is a hideous lie at bottom, but which Mr. Hovstad, and the _Messenger_, and all adherents of the _Messenger_, live on all the same. HOVSTAD. And that is——? DR. STOCKMANN. That is the doctrine you have inherited from your forefathers, and go on thoughtlessly proclaiming far and wide—the doctrine that the multitude, the vulgar herd, the masses, are the pith of the people—that they _are_ the people—that the common man, the ignorant, undeveloped member of society, has the same right to sanction and to condemn, to counsel and to govern, as the intellectually distinguished few. BILLING. Well, now, strike me dead——! HOVSTAD. [_Shouting at the same time._] Citizens, please note this! ANGRY VOICES. Ho-ho! Aren’t we the people? Is it only the grand folks that are to govern? A WORKING MAN. Out with the fellow that talks like that! OTHERS. Turn him out! A CITIZEN. [_Shouting._] Blow your horn, Evensen. [_The deep notes of a horn are heard; whistling, and terrific noise in the room._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_When the noise has somewhat subsided._] Now do be reasonable! Can’t you bear even for once in a way to hear the voice of truth? I don’t ask you all to agree with me on the instant. But I certainly should have expected Mr. Hovstad to back me up, as soon as he had collected himself a bit. Mr. Hovstad sets up to be a freethinker—— SEVERAL VOICES. [_Subdued and wondering._] Freethinker, did he say? What? Mr. Hovstad a freethinker? HOVSTAD. [_Shouting._] Prove it, Dr. Stockmann. When have I said so in print? DR. STOCKMANN. [_Reflecting._] No, upon my soul, you’re right there; you’ve never had the frankness to do that. Well, well, I won’t put you on the rack, Mr. Hovstad. Let me be the freethinker then. And now I'll make it clear to you all, and on scientific grounds too, that the _Messenger_ is leading you shamefully by the nose, when it tells you that you, the masses, the crowd, are the true pith of the people. I tell you that’s only a newspaper lie. The masses are nothing but the raw material that must be fashioned into a People. [_Murmurs, laughter, and disturbance in the room._ DR. STOCKMANN. Is it not so with all other living creatures? What a difference between a cultivated and an uncultivated breed of animals! Just look at a common barn-door hen. What meat do you get from such a skinny carcase? Not much, I can tell you! And what sort of eggs does she lay? A decent crow or raven can lay nearly as good. Then take a cultivated Spanish or Japanese hen, or take a fine pheasant or turkey—ah! then you’ll see the difference! And now look at the dog, our near relation. Think first of an ordinary vulgar cur—I mean one of those wretched, ragged, plebeian mongrels that haunt the gutters, and soil the sidewalks. Then place such a mongrel by the side of a poodle-dog, descended through many generations from an aristocratic stock, who have lived on delicate food, and heard harmonious voices and music. Do you think the brain of the poodle isn’t very differently developed from that of the mongrel? Yes, you may be sure it is! It’s well-bred poodle-pups like this that jugglers train to perform the most marvellous tricks. A common peasant-cur could never learn anything of the sort—not if he tried till doomsday. [_Noise and laughter are heard all round._ A CITIZEN. [_Shouting._] Do you want to make dogs of us now? ANOTHER MAN. We’re not animals, Doctor! DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, on my soul, but we _are_ animals, my good sir! We’re one and all of us animals, whether we like it or not. But truly there are few enough aristocratic animals among us. Oh, there’s a terrible difference between poodle-men and mongrel-men! And the ridiculous part of it is, that Mr. Hovstad quite agrees with me so long as it’s four-legged animals we’re talking of—— HOVSTAD. Oh, beasts are only beasts. DR. STOCKMANN. Well and good—but no sooner do I apply the law to two-legged animals, than Mr. Hovstad stops short; then he daren’t hold his own opinions, or think out his own thoughts; then he turns the whole principle upside down, and proclaims in the _People’s Messenger_ that the barn-door hen and the gutter-mongrel are precisely the finest specimens in the menagerie. But that’s always the way, so long as the commonness still lingers in your system, and you haven’t worked your way up to spiritual distinction. HOVSTAD. I make no pretence to any sort of distinction. I come of simple peasant folk, and I am proud that my root should lie deep down among the common people, who are here being insulted. WORKMEN. Hurrah for Hovstad. Hurrah! hurrah! DR. STOCKMANN. The sort of common people I am speaking of are not found among the lower classes alone; they crawl and swarm all around us—up to the very summits of society. Just look at your own smug, respectable Burgomaster! Why, my brother Peter belongs as clearly to the common people as any man that walks on two legs—— [_Laughter and hisses._ BURGOMASTER. I protest against such personalities. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Imperturbably._]——and that not because, like myself, he’s descended from a good-for-nothing old pirate from Pomerania, or thereabouts—for that’s our ancestry—— BURGOMASTER. An absurd tradition! Utterly groundless. DR. STOCKMANN. ——but he is so because he thinks the thoughts and holds the opinions of his official superiors. Men who do that, belong, intellectually-speaking, to the common people; and that is why my distinguished brother Peter is at bottom so undistinguished,—and consequently so illiberal. BURGOMASTER. Mr. Chairman——! HOVSTAD. So that the distinguished people in this country are the Liberals? That’s quite a new light on the subject. _Laughter._ DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, that is part of my new discovery. And _this_, too, follows: that liberality of thought is almost precisely the same thing as morality. Therefore I say it’s absolutely unpardonable of the _Messenger_ to proclaim, day out, day in, the false doctrine that it’s the masses, the multitude, the compact majority, that monopolise liberality and morality,—and that vice and corruption and all sorts of spiritual uncleanness ooze out of culture, as all that filth oozes down to the Baths from the Mill Dale tan-works! [_Noise and interruptions._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Goes on imperturbably, smiling in his eagerness._] And yet this same _Messenger_ can preach about elevating the masses and the multitude to a higher level of well-being! Why, deuce take it, if the _Messenger’s_ own doctrine holds good, the elevation of the masses would simply mean hurling them straight to perdition! But, happily, the notion that culture demoralises is nothing but an old traditional lie. No it’s stupidity, poverty, the ugliness of life, that do the devil’s work! In a house that isn’t aired and swept every day—my wife maintains that the floors ought to be scrubbed too, but perhaps that is going too far;—well,—in such a house, I say, within two or three years, people lose the power of thinking or acting morally. Lack of oxygen enervates the conscience. And there seems to be precious little oxygen in many and many a house in this town, since the whole compact majority is unscrupulous enough to want to found its future upon a quagmire of lies and fraud. ASLAKSEN. I cannot allow so gross an insult to be levelled against a whole community. A GENTLEMAN. I move that the Chairman order the speaker to sit down. EAGER VOICES. Yes, yes! That’s right! Sit down! Sit down! DR. STOCKMANN. [_Flaring up._] Then I shall proclaim the truth at every street corner! I shall write to newspapers in other towns! The whole country shall know how matters stand here! HOVSTAD. It almost seems as if the Doctor’s object were to ruin the town. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, so well do I love my native town that I would rather ruin it than see it flourishing upon a lie. ASLAKSEN. That’s plain speaking. [_Noise and whistling._ MRS. STOCKMANN _coughs in vain; the_ DOCTOR _no longer heeds her._ HOVSTAD. [_Shouting amid the tumult._] The man who would ruin a whole community must be an enemy to his fellow citizens! DR. STOCKMANN. [_With growing excitement._] What does it matter if a lying community is ruined! Let it be levelled to the ground, say I! All men who live upon a lie ought to be exterminated like vermin! You’ll end by poisoning the whole country; you’ll bring it to such a pass that the whole country will deserve to perish. And if ever it comes to that, I shall say, from the bottom of my heart: Perish the country! Perish all its people! A MAN. [_In the crowd._] Why, he talks like a regular enemy of the people! BILLING. Strike me dead but there spoke the people’s voice! THE WHOLE ASSEMBLY. [_Shouting._] Yes! yes! yes! He’s an enemy of the people! He hates his country! He hates the whole people! ASLAKSEN. Both as a citizen of this town and as a human being, I am deeply shocked at what it has been my lot to hear to-night. Dr. Stockmann has unmasked himself in a manner I should never have dreamt of. I must reluctantly subscribe to the opinion just expressed by some estimable citizens; and I think we ought to formulate this opinion in a resolution. I therefore beg to move, “That this meeting declares the medical officer of the Baths, Dr. Thomas Stockmann, to be an enemy of the people.” [_Thunders of applause and cheers. Many form a circle round the_ DOCTOR _and hoot at him._ MRS. STOCKMANN _and_ PETRA _have risen._ MORTEN _and_ EILIF _fight the other school-boys, who have also been hooting. Some grown-up persons separate them._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_To the people hooting._] Ah, fools that you are! I tell you that—— ASLAKSEN. [_Ringing._] The Doctor is out of order in speaking. A formal vote must be taken; but out of consideration for personal feelings, it will be taken in writing and without names. Have you any blank paper, Mr. Billing? BILLING. Here’s both blue and white paper—— ASLAKSEN. Capital; that will save time. Cut it up into slips. That’s it. [_To the meeting._] Blue means no, white means aye. I myself will go round and collect the votes. [_The_ BURGOMASTER _leaves the room._ ASLAKSEN _and a few others go round with pieces of paper in hats._ A GENTLEMAN. [_To HOVSTAD._] What can be the matter with the Doctor? What does it all mean? HOVSTAD. Why, you know what a hare-brained creature he is. ANOTHER GENTLEMAN. [_To BILLING._] I say, you’re often at his house. Have you ever noticed if the fellow drinks? BILLING. Strike me dead if I know what to say. The toddy’s always on the table when any one looks in. A THIRD GENTLEMAN. No, I should rather say he went off his head at times. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I wonder if there’s madness in the family? BILLING. I shouldn’t be surprised. A FOURTH GENTLEMAN. No, it’s pure malice. He wants to be revenged for something or other. BILLING. He was certainly talking about a rise in his salary the other day; but he didn’t get it. ALL THE GENTLEMEN. [_Together._] Aha! That explains everything. THE DRUNKEN MAN. [_In the crowd._] I want a blue one, I do! And I'll have a white one too. SEVERAL PEOPLE. There’s the tipsy man again! Turn him out. MORTEN KIIL. [_Approaching the DOCTOR._] Well, Stockmann, you see now what such monkey-tricks lead to? DR. STOCKMANN. I have done my duty. MORTEN KIIL. What was that you said about the Mill Dale tanneries? DR STOCKMANN. You heard what I said—that all the filth comes from them. MORTEN KIIL. From my tannery as well? DR. STOCKMANN. I'm sorry to say yours is the worst of all. MORTEN KIIL. Are you going to put _that_ in the papers, too? DR. STOCKMANN. I can’t gloze anything over. MORTEN KIIL. This may cost you dear, Stockmann! [_He goes out._ A FAT GENTLEMAN. [_Goes up to HORSTER, without bowing to the ladies._] Well, Captain, so you lend your house to enemies of the people. HORSTER. I suppose I can do as I please with my own property, Sir. THE GENTLEMAN. Then of course you can have no objection if I follow your example? HORSTER. What do you mean, Sir? THE GENTLEMAN. You shall hear from me to-morrow. [_Turns away and goes out._ PETRA. Wasn’t that the owner of your ship, Captain Horster? HORSTER. Yes, that was Mr. Vik. ASLAKSEN. [_With the voting papers in his hands, ascends the platform and rings._] Gentlemen! I have now to announce the result of the vote. All the voters, with one exception—— A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. That’s the tipsy man! ASLAKSEN. With the exception of one intoxicated person, this meeting of citizens unanimously declares the medical officer of the Baths, Dr. Thomas Stockmann, to be an enemy of the people. [_Cheers and applause._] Three cheers for our fine old municipality! [_Cheers._] Three cheers for our able and energetic Burgomaster, who has so loyally set family prejudice aside! [_Cheers._] The meeting is dissolved. [_He descends._] BILLING. Three cheers for the Chairman! ALL. Hurrah for Aslaksen. DR. STOCKMANN. My hat and coat, Petra. Captain, have you room for passengers to the new world? HORSTER. For you and yours, Doctor, we’ll make room. DR. STOCKMANN. [_While PETRA helps him to put on his coat._] Good. Come Katrina, come boys! [_He gives his wife his arm._ MRS. STOCKMANN. [_In a low voice._] Thomas, dear, let us go out by the back way. DR. STOCKMANN. No back ways, Katrina! [_In a loud voice._] You shall hear from the enemy of the people, before he shakes the dust from his feet! I am not so forbearing as a certain person; I don’t say: I forgive you, for you know not what you do. ASLAKSEN. [_Shouts._] That is a blasphemous comparison, Dr. Stockmann! BILLING. Strike me——! This is more than a serious man can stand! A COARSE VOICE. And he threatens us into the bargain! ANGRY CRIES. Let’s smash his windows! Duck him in the fiord! A MAN. [_In the crowd._] Blow your horn, Evensen! Blow man, blow! [_Horn-blowing, whistling, and wild shouting. The_ DOCTOR, _with his family, goes towards the door._ HORSTER _clears the way for them._ ALL. [_Yelling after them as they go out._] Enemy of the people! Enemy of the people! Enemy of the people! BILLING. Strike me dead if I'd care to drink toddy at Stockmann’s to-night! [_The people throng towards the door; the shouting is taken up by others outside; from the street are heard cries of “Enemy of the people! Enemy of the people!”_ ----- Footnote 12: Literally, “unprovided-for.” ACT FIFTH. DR. STOCKMANN’S _Study. Bookshelves and glass cases with various collections along the walls. In the back, a door leading to the hall; in front, on the left, a door to the sitting-room. In the wall to the right are two windows, all the panes of which are smashed. In the middle of the room is the_ DOCTOR’S _writing-table, covered with books and papers. The room is in disorder. It is forenoon._ DR. STOCKMANN, _in dressing-gown, slippers, and skull-cap, is bending down and raking with an umbrella under one of the cabinets; at last he rakes out a stone._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Speaking through the sitting-room doorway._] Katrina, I've found another! MRS. STOCKMANN. [_In the sitting-room._] Oh, I'm sure you’ll find plenty more. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Placing the stone on a pile of others on the table._] I shall keep these stones as sacred relics. Eilif and Morten shall see them every day, and when I die they shall be heirlooms. [_Raking under the bookcase._] Hasn’t—what the devil is her name?—the girl—hasn’t she been for the glazier yet? MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Coming in._] Yes, but he said he didn’t know whether he would be able to come to-day. DR. STOCKMANN. I believe, if the truth were told, he daren’t come. MRS. STOCKMANN. Well, Randina, too, had an idea he was afraid to come, because of the neighbours. [_Speaks through the sitting-room doorway._] What is it, Randina?—Very well. [_Goes out, and returns immediately._] Here is a letter for you, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. Let me see. [_Opens the letter and reads._] Aha! MRS. STOCKMANN. Who is it from? DR. STOCKMANN. From the landlord. He gives us notice. MRS. STOCKMANN. Is it possible? He is such a nice man—— DR. STOCKMANN. [_Looking at the letter._] He daren’t do otherwise, he says. He is very unwilling to do it; but he daren’t do otherwise—on account of his fellow citizens—out of respect for public opinion—is in a dependent position—doesn’t dare to offend certain influential men—— MRS. STOCKMANN. There, you see, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, yes, I see well enough; they are all cowards, every one of them, in this town; no one dares do anything for fear of all the rest. [_Throws the letter on the table._] But it’s all the same to us, Katrina. We will shape our course for the new world, and then—— MRS. STOCKMANN. But are you sure this idea of going abroad is altogether wise, Thomas? DR. STOCKMANN. Would you have me stay here, where they have pilloried me as an enemy of the people, branded me, smashed my windows! And look here, Katrina, they’ve torn a hole in my black trousers, too. MRS. STOCKMANN. Oh dear; and these are the best you have! DR. STOCKMANN. A man should never put on his best trousers when he goes out to battle for freedom and truth. Well, I don’t care so much about the trousers; them you can always patch up for me. But that the mob, the rabble, should dare to attack me as if they were my equals—_that_ is what I can’t, for the life of me, stomach! MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, they have behaved abominably to you here, Thomas; but is that any reason for leaving the country altogether? DR. STOCKMANN. Do you think the plebeians aren’t just as insolent in other towns? Oh yes, they are, my dear; it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. Well, never mind; let the curs yelp; _that’s_ not the worst; the worst is that every one, all over the country, is the slave of his party. Not that I suppose—very likely it’s no better in the free West either; the compact majority, and enlightened public opinion, and all the other devil’s trash is rampant there too. But you see the conditions are larger there than here; they may kill you, but they don’t slow-torture you; they don’t screw up a free soul in a vice, as they do at home here. And then, if need be, you can keep out of it all. [_Walks up and down._] If I only knew of any primeval forest, or a little South Sea island to be sold cheap—— MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, but the boys, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Comes to a standstill._] What an extraordinary woman you are, Katrina! Would you rather have the boys grow up in such a society as ours? Why, you could see for yourself yesterday evening that one half of the population is stark mad, and if the other half hasn’t lost its wits, that’s only because they are brute beasts who haven’t any wits to lose. MRS. STOCKMANN. But really, my dear Thomas, you do say such imprudent things. DR. STOCKMANN. What! Isn’t it the truth that I tell them? Don’t they turn all ideas upside down? Don’t they stir up right and wrong into one hotch-potch? Don’t they call lies everything that I know to be the truth? But the maddest thing of all is to see crowds of grown men, calling themselves Liberals, go about persuading themselves and others that they are friends of freedom! Did you ever hear anything like it, Katrina? MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, yes, no doubt. But—— PETRA _enters from the sitting-room._ MRS. STOCKMANN. Back from school already? PETRA. Yes; I have been dismissed. MRS. STOCKMANN. Dismissed? DR. STOCKMANN. You too! PETRA. Mrs. Busk gave me notice, and so I thought it best to leave there and then. DR. STOCKMANN. You did perfectly right! MRS. STOCKMANN. Who could have thought Mrs. Busk was such a bad woman! PETRA. Oh mother, Mrs. Busk isn’t bad at all; I saw clearly how sorry she was. But she dared not do otherwise, she said; and so I am dismissed. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Laughing and rubbing his hands._] She dared not do otherwise—just like the rest! Oh, it’s delicious. MRS. STOCKMANN. Oh well, after that frightful scene last night—— PETRA. It wasn’t only that. What do you think, father——? DR. STOCKMANN. Well? PETRA. Mrs. Busk showed me no fewer than three letters she had received this morning—— DR. STOCKMANN. Anonymous, of course? PETRA. Yes. DR. STOCKMANN. They never dare give their names, Katrina! PETRA. And two of them stated that a gentleman who is often at our house said at the club last night that I held extremely advanced opinions upon various things—— DR. STOCKMANN. Of course you didn’t deny it. PETRA. Of course not. You know Mrs. Busk herself is pretty advanced in her opinions when we’re alone together; but now that this has come out about me, she dared not keep me on. MRS. STOCKMANN. Some one that is often at our house, too. There, you see, Thomas, what comes of all your hospitality. DR. STOCKMANN. We won’t live any longer in such a pig-sty! Pack up as quickly as you can, Katrina; let’s get away—the sooner the better. MRS. STOCKMANN. Hush! I think there is some one in the passage. See who it is, Petra. PETRA. [_Opening the door._] Oh, is it you, Captain Horster? Please come in. HORSTER. [_From the hall._] Good morning. I thought I might just look in and ask how you are. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Shaking his hand._] Thanks; that’s very good of you. MRS. STOCKMANN. And thank you for helping us through the crowd last night, Captain Horster. PETRA. How did you ever get home again? HORSTER. Oh, that was all right. I am tolerably able-bodied, you know; and those fellows' bark is worse than their bite. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, isn’t it extraordinary, this piggish cowardice? Come here, and let me show you something! Look, here are all the stones they threw in at us. Only look at them? Upon my soul there aren’t more than two decent-sized lumps in the whole heap; the rest are nothing but pebbles—mere gravel. They stood down there, and yelled, and swore they’d half kill me;—but as for really doing it—no, there’s mighty little fear of _that_ in this town! HORSTER. You may thank your stars for that this time, Doctor. DR. STOCKMANN. So I do, of course. But it’s depressing all the same; for if ever it should come to a serious national struggle, you may be sure public opinion would be for taking to its heels, and the compact majority would scamper for their lives like a flock of sheep, Captain Horster. _That_ is what’s so melancholy to think of; it grieves me to the heart.—But deuce take it—it’s foolish of me to feel anything of the sort! They have called me an enemy of the people; well then, let me be an enemy of the people! MRS. STOCKMANN. That you’ll never be, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. You’d better not take your oath of it, Katrina. A bad name may act like a pin-scratch in the lung. And that confounded word—I can’t get rid of it; it has sunk deep into my heart; and there it lies gnawing and sucking like an acid. And no magnesia can cure me. PETRA. Pooh; you should only laugh at them, father. HORSTER. People will think differently yet, Doctor. MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, Thomas, that’s as certain as that you are standing here. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, perhaps, when it is too late. Well, as they make their bed so they must lie! Let them go on wallowing here in their pig-sty, and learn to repent having driven a patriot into exile. When do you sail, Captain Horster? HORSTER. Well—that’s really what I came to speak to you about—— DR. STOCKMANN. What? Anything wrong with the ship? HORSTER. No; but the fact is, I shan’t be sailing in her. PETRA. Surely you have not been dismissed? HORSTER. [_Smiling_.] Yes, I have. PETRA. You too! MRS. STOCKMANN. There, you see, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. And for the truth’s sake! Oh, if I could possibly have imagined such a thing—— HORSTER. You mustn’t be troubled about this; I shall soon find a berth with some other company, elsewhere. DR. STOCKMANN. And this is that man Vik! A wealthy man, independent of every one! Faugh! HORSTER. Oh, for that matter, he’s a very well-meaning man. He said himself he would gladly have kept me on if only he dared—— DR. STOCKMANN. But he didn’t dare? Of course not! HORSTER. It’s not so easy, he said, when you belong to a party—— DR. STOCKMANN. My gentleman has hit it there! A party is like a sausage-machine; it grinds all the brains together in one mash; and that’s why we see nothing but porridge-heads and pulp-heads all around! MRS. STOCKMANN. Now really, Thomas! PETRA. [_To HORSTER._] If only you hadn’t seen us home, perhaps it would not have come to this. HORSTER. I don’t regret it. PETRA. [_Gives him her hand._] Thank you for that! HORSTER. [_To DR. STOCKMANN._] And then, too, I wanted to tell you this: if you are really determined to go abroad, I've thought of another way—— DR. STOCKMANN. That’s good—if only we can get off quickly—— MRS. STOCKMANN. Hush! Isn’t that a knock? PETRA. I believe it is uncle. DR. STOCKMANN. Aha! [_Calls._] Come in! MRS. STOCKMANN. My dear Thomas, now do promise me—— _The BURGOMASTER enters from the hall._ BURGOMASTER. [_In the doorway._] Oh, you are engaged. Then I'd better—— DR. STOCKMANN. No no; come in. BURGOMASTER. But I wanted to speak to you alone. MRS. STOCKMANN. We can go into the sitting-room. HORSTER. And I shall look in again presently. DR. STOCKMANN. No no; go with the ladies, Captain Horster; I must hear more about—— HORSTER. All right, then I'll wait. [_He follows_ MRS. STOCKMANN _and_ PETRA _into the sitting-room. The_ BURGOMASTER _says nothing, but casts glances at the windows._ DR. STOCKMANN. I daresay you find it rather draughty here today? Put on your cap. BURGOMASTER. Thanks, if I may. [_Does so._] I fancy I caught cold yesterday evening. I stood there shivering—— DR. STOCKMANN. Really. On my soul, now, I found it quite warm enough. BURGOMASTER. I regret that it was not in my power to prevent these nocturnal excesses. DR. STOCKMANN. Have you anything else in particular to say to me? BURGOMASTER. [_Producing a large letter._] I have this document for you from the Directors of the Baths. DR. STOCKMANN. My dismissal? BURGOMASTER. Yes; dated from to-day. [_Places the letter on the table._] We are very sorry—but frankly, we dared not do otherwise, on account of public opinion. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Smiling._] Dared not? I've heard that phrase already to-day. BURGOMASTER. I beg you to realise your position clearly. For the future, you cannot count upon any sort of practice in the town. DR. STOCKMANN. Devil take the practice! But how can you be so sure of that? BURGOMASTER. The House-owners' Association is sending round a circular from house to house, in which all well-disposed citizens are called upon not to employ you; and I dare swear that not a single head of a family will venture to refuse his signature; he simply _dare_ not. DR. STOCKMANN. Well well; I don’t doubt that. But what then? BURGOMASTER. If I might advise, I would suggest that you should leave the town for a time—— DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, I've had some such idea in my mind already. BURGOMASTER. Good. And when you have had six months or so for mature deliberation, if you could make up your mind to acknowledge your error, with a few words of regret—— DR. STOCKMANN. I might perhaps be reinstated, you think? BURGOMASTER. Perhaps it’s not quite out of the question. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, but how about public opinion? You daren’t, on account of public opinion. BURGOMASTER. Opinion is extremely variable. And, to speak candidly, it is of the greatest importance for us to have such an admission under your own hand. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, I daresay it would be mightily convenient for you! But you remember what I've said to you before about such foxes' tricks! BURGOMASTER. At that time your position was infinitely more favourable; at that time you thought you had the whole town at your back—— DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, and now I have the whole town on my back——[_Flaring up._] But no—not if I had the devil and his dam on my back—! Never—never, I tell you! BURGOMASTER. The father of a family has no right[13] to act as you are doing. You have no right to do it, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. I have no right! There’s only one thing in the world that a free man has no right to do; and do you know what that is? BURGOMASTER. No. DR. STOCKMANN. Of course not; but _I_ will tell you. A free man has no right to wallow in filth like a cur; he has no right to act so that he ought to spit in his own face! BURGOMASTER. That sounds extremely plausible; and if there were not another explanation of your obstinacy—but we all know there is—— DR. STOCKMANN. What do you mean by that? BURGOMASTER. You understand well enough. But as your brother, and as a man who knows the world, I warn you not to build too confidently upon prospects and expectations that may very likely come to nothing. DR. STOCKMANN. Why, what on earth are you driving at? BURGOMASTER. Do you really want me to believe that you are ignorant of the terms of old Morten Kiil’s will? DR. STOCKMANN. I know that the little he has is to go to a home for old and needy artizans. But what has that got to do with me? BURGOMASTER. To begin with, “the little he has” is no trifle. Morten Kiil is a tolerably wealthy man. DR. STOCKMANN. I have never had the least notion of that! BURGOMASTER. H'm—really? Then I suppose you have no notion that a not inconsiderable part of his fortune is to go to your children, you and your wife having a life-interest in it. Has he not told you that? DR. STOCKMANN. No, I'll be hanged if he has! On the contrary, he has done nothing but grumble about being so preposterously over-taxed, But are you really sure of this, Peter? BURGOMASTER. I have it from a thoroughly trustworthy source. DR. STOCKMANN. Why, good heavens, then Katrina’s provided for—and the children too! Oh, I must tell her——[_Calls._] Katrina, Katrina! BURGOMASTER. [_Holding him back._] Hush! don’t say anything about it yet. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Opening the door._] What is it? DR. STOCKMANN. Nothing my dear; go in again. [MRS. STOCKMANN _closes the door._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Pacing up and down._] Provided for! Only think—all of them provided for! And for life! After all, it’s a grand thing to feel yourself secure! BURGOMASTER. Yes, but that is just what you are not. Morten Kiil can revoke his will any day or hour he chooses. DR. STOCKMANN. But he won’t, my good Peter. The Badger is only too delighted to see me fall foul of you and your wiseacre friends. BURGOMASTER. [_Starts and looks searchingly at him._] Aha! That throws a new light on a good many things. DR. STOCKMANN. What things? BURGOMASTER. So the whole affair has been a carefully-concocted intrigue. Your recklessly violent onslaught—in the name of truth—upon the leading men of the town—— DR. STOCKMANN. Well, what of it? BURGOMASTER. It was nothing but a preconcerted requital for that vindictive old Morten Kiil’s will. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Almost speechless._] Peter—you are the most abominable plebeian I have ever known in all my born days. BURGOMASTER. All is over between us. Your dismissal is irrevocable—for now we have a weapon against you. _He goes out._ DR. STOCKMANN. Shame! shame! shame! [_Calls._] Katrina! The floor must be scrubbed after him! Tell her to come here with a pail—what’s her name? confound it—the girl with the smudge on her nose—— MRS. STOCKMANN. [_In the sitting-room doorway._] Hush, hush Thomas! PETRA. [_Also in the doorway._] Father, here’s grandfather; he wants to know if he can speak to you alone. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, of course he can. [_By the door._] Come in, father-in-law. MORTEN KIIL _enters._ DR. STOCKMANN _closes the door behind him._ DR. STOCKMANN. Well, what is it? Sit down. MORTEN KIIL. I won’t sit down. [_Looking about him._] It looks cheerful here to-day, Stockmann. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, don’t you think so? MORTEN KIIL. Sure enough. And you’ve plenty of fresh air too; you’ve got your fill of that oxygen you were talking about yesterday. You must have a rare good conscience to-day, I should think. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, I have. MORTEN KIIL. So I should suppose. [_Tapping himself on the breast._] But do you know what _I_ have got here? DR. STOCKMANN. A good conscience too, I hope. MORTEN KIIL. Pooh! No; something far better than that. [_Takes out a large pocket-book, opens it, and shows_ STOCKMANN _a bundle of papers._ DR. STOCKMANN. [_Looking at him in astonishment._] Shares in the Baths! MORTEN KIIL. They weren’t difficult to get to-day. DR. STOCKMANN. And you’ve gone and bought these up——? MORTEN KIIL. All I had the money to pay for. DR. STOCKMANN. Why, my dear sir,—just when things are in such a desperate way at the Baths—— MORTEN KIIL. If you behave like a reasonable being, you can soon set the Baths all right again. DR. STOCKMANN. Well, you can see for yourself I'm doing all I can. But the people of this town are mad! MORTEN KIIL. You said yesterday that the worst filth came from my tannery. Now, if that’s true, then my grandfather, and my father before me, and I myself, have for ever so many years been poisoning the town with filth, like three destroying angels. Do you think I'm going to sit quiet under such a reproach? DR. STOCKMANN. Unfortunately, you can’t help it. MORTEN KIIL. No, thank you. I hold fast to my good name, I've heard that people call me “the Badger.” A badger’s a sort of a pig, I know; but I'm determined to give them the lie. I will live and die a clean man. DR. STOCKMANN. And how will you manage _that_? MORTEN KIIL. You shall make me clean, Stockmann. DR. STOCKMANN. I! MORTEN KIIL. Do you know what money I've used to buy these shares with? No, you can’t know; but now I'll tell you. It’s the money Katrina and Petra and the boys are to have after my death. For, you see, I've laid by something after all. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Flaring up._] And you’ve taken Katrina’s money and done _this_ with it! MORTEN KIIL. Yes; the whole of it is invested in the Baths now. And now I want to see if you’re really so stark, staring mad; after all, Stockmann. If you go on making out that these beasts and other abominations dribble down from my tannery, it’ll be just as if you were to flay broad stripes of Katrina’s skin—and Petra’s too, and the boys'. No decent father would ever do that—unless he were a madman. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Walking up and down._] Yes, but I _am_ a madman; I _am_ a madman! MORTEN KIIL. You surely can’t be so raving, ramping mad where your wife and children are concerned. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Stopping in front of him._] Why couldn’t you have spoken to me before you went and bought all that rubbish? MORTEN KIIL. What’s done can’t be undone. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Walking restlessly about._] If only I weren’t so certain about the affair——! But I am absolutely convinced that I'm right. MORTEN KIIL. [_Weighing the pocket book in his hand._] If you stick to this lunacy, these aren’t worth much. [_Puts the book into his pocket._ DR. STOCKMANN. But, deuce take it! surely science ought to be able to hit upon some antidote, some sort of prophylactic—— MORTEN KIIL. Do you mean something to kill the beasts? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, or at least to make them harmless. MORTEN KIIL. Couldn’t you try ratsbane? DR. STOCKMANN. Oh, nonsense, nonsense!—But since every one declares it’s nothing but fancy, why fancy let it be! Let them have it their own way! Haven’t the ignorant, narrow-hearted curs reviled me as an enemy of the people?—and weren’t they on the point of tearing the clothes off my back? MORTEN KIIL. And they’ve smashed all your windows for you too! DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, and then there’s one’s duty to one’s family! I must talk that over with Katrina; such things are more in her line. MORTEN KIIL. That’s right! You just follow the advice of a sensible woman. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Turning upon him angrily._] How could you act so preposterously! Risking Katrina’s money, and putting me to this horrible torture! When I look at you, I seem to see the devil himself——! MORTEN KIIL. Then I'd better be off. But I must, hear from you, yes or no, by two o’clock. If it’s no, all the shares go to the Hospital—and that this very day. DR. STOCKMANN. And what will Katrina get? MORTEN KIIL. Not a rap. [_The door leading to the hall opens. HOVSTAD and ASLAKSEN are seen outside it._ MORTEN KIIL. Hullo! look at these two. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Staring at them._] What! Do you actually venture to come here? HOVSTAD. Why, to be sure we do. ASLAKSEN. You see, we’ve something to discuss with you. MORTEN KIIL. [_Whispers._] Yes or no—by two o’clock. ASLAKSEN. [_With a glance at HOVSTAD._] Aha! [MORTEN KIIL _goes out._ DR. STOCKMANN. Well, what do you want with me? Be brief. HOVSTAD. I can quite understand that you resent our attitude at the meeting yesterday—— DR. STOCKMANN. Your attitude, you say? Yes, it was a pretty attitude! I call it the attitude of cowards—of old women——Shame upon you! HOVSTAD. Call it what you will; but we _could_ not act otherwise. DR. STOCKMANN. You _dared_ not, I suppose? Isn’t that so? HOVSTAD. Yes, if you like to put it so. ASLAKSEN. But why didn’t you just say a word to us beforehand? The merest hint to Mr. Hovstad or to me—— DR. STOCKMANN. A hint? What about? ASLAKSEN. About what was really behind it all. DR. STOCKMANN. I don’t in the least understand you? ASLAKSEN. [_Nods confidentially._] Oh yes, you do, Dr. Stockmann. HOVSTAD. It’s no good making a mystery of it any longer. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Looking from one to the other._] Why, what in the devil’s name——! ASLAKSEN. May I ask—isn’t your father-in-law going about the town buying up all the Bath stock? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, he has been buying Bath stock to-day but—— ASLAKSEN. It would have been more prudent to let somebody else do that—some one not so closely connected with you. HOVSTAD. And then you ought not to have appeared in the matter under your own name. No one need have known that the attack on the Baths came from you. You should have taken me into your counsels, Dr. Stockmann. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Stares straight in front of him; a light seems to break in upon him, and he says as though thunderstruck._] Is this possible? Can such things be? ASLAKSEN. [_Smiling._] It’s plain enough that they can. But they ought to be managed delicately, you understand. HOVSTAD. And there ought to be more people in it; for the responsibility always falls more lightly when there are several to share it. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Calmly._] In one word, gentlemen—what is it you want? ASLAKSEN. Mr. Hovstad can best—— HOVSTAD. No, you explain, Aslaksen. ASLAKSEN. Well, it’s this: now that we know how the matter really stands, we believe we can venture to place the _People’s Messenger_ at your disposal. DR. STOCKMANN. You can venture to _now_, eh? But how about public opinion? Aren’t you afraid of bringing down a storm upon us? HOVSTAD. We must manage to ride out the storm. ASLAKSEN. And you must be ready to put about quickly, Doctor. As soon as your attack has done its work—— DR. STOCKMANN. As soon as my father-in-law and I have bought up the shares at a discount, you mean? HOVSTAD. I presume it is mainly on scientific grounds that you want to take the management of the Baths into your own hands. DR. STOCKMANN. Of course; it was on scientific grounds that I got the old Badger to stand in with me. And then we’ll tinker up the water-works a little, and potter about a bit down at the beach, without its costing the town sixpence. That ought to do the business? Eh? HOVSTAD. I think so—if you have the _Messenger_ to back you up. ASLAKSEN. In a free community the press is a power, Doctor. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, indeed; and so is public opinion. And you, Mr. Aslaksen—I suppose you will answer for the House-owners' Association? ASLAKSEN. Both for the House-owners' Association and the Temperance Society. You may make your mind easy. DR. STOCKMANN. But, gentlemen—really I'm quite ashamed to mention such a thing—but—what return——? HOVSTAD. Of course, we should prefer to give you our support for nothing. But the _Messenger_ is not very firmly established; it’s not getting on as it ought to; and I should be very sorry to have to stop the paper just now, when there’s so much to be done in general politics. DR. STOCKMANN. Naturally; that would be very hard for a friend of the people like you. [_Flaring up._] But I—I am an enemy of the people! [_Striding about the room._] Where’s my stick? Where the devil is my stick? HOVSTAD. What do you mean? ASLAKSEN. Surely you wouldn’t—— DR. STOCKMANN. [_Standing still._] And suppose I don’t give you a single farthing out of all my shares? You must remember we rich folk don’t like parting with our money. HOVSTAD. And you must remember that this business of the shares can be represented in two ways. DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, you are the man for that; if I don’t come to the rescue of the _Messenger_, you’ll manage to put a vile complexion on the affair; you’ll hunt me down, I suppose—bait me—try to throttle me as a dog throttles a hare! HOVSTAD. That’s a law of nature—every animal fights for its own subsistence. ASLAKSEN. And must take its food where it can find it, you know. DR. STOCKMANN. Then see if you can’t find some out in the gutter; [_Striding about the room_] for now, by heaven! we shall see which is the strongest animal of us three. [_Finds his umbrella and brandishes it._] Now, look here——! HOVSTAD. You surely don’t mean to assault us! ASLAKSEN. I say, be careful with that umbrella! DR. STOCKMANN. Out at the window with you, Mr. Hovstad! HOVSTAD. [_By the hall door._] Are you utterly crazy? DR. STOCKMANN. Out at the window, Mr. Aslaksen! Jump I tell you! Be quick about it! ASLAKSEN. [_Running round the writing-table._] Moderation, Doctor; I'm not at all strong; I can’t stand much——[_Screams._] Help! help! MRS. STOCKMANN, PETRA, _and_ HORSTER _enter from sitting-room._ MRS. STOCKMANN. Good heavens, Thomas! what _can_ be the matter? DR. STOCKMANN. [_Brandishing the umbrella._] Jump, I tell you! Out into the gutter! HOVSTAD. An unprovoked assault! I call you to witness, Captain Horster. [_Rushes off through the hall._ ASLAKSEN. [_Bewildered._] If one only knew the local situation——![14] [_He slinks out by the sitting-room door._ MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Holding back the DOCTOR._] Now, do restrain yourself, Thomas! DR. STOCKMANN. [_Throwing down the umbrella._] I'll be hanged if they haven’t got off after all. MRS. STOCKMANN. Why, what can they have wanted with you? DR. STOCKMANN. I'll tell you afterwards; I have other things to think of now. [_Goes to the table and writes on a visiting-card._] Look here, Katrina: what’s written here? MRS. STOCKMANN. Three big _Noes_; what does that mean? DR. STOCKMANN. That I'll tell you afterwards, too. [_Handing the card._] There, Petra; let smudgy-face run to the Badger’s with this as fast as she can. Be quick! [PETRA _goes out through the hall with the card._ DR. STOCKMANN. Well, if I haven’t had visits to-day from all the emissaries of the devil! But now I'll sharpen my pen against them till it becomes a goad; I'll dip it in gall and venom; I'll hurl my inkstand straight at their skulls. MRS. STOCKMANN. You forget we are going away, Thomas. PETRA _returns._ DR. STOCKMANN. Well? PETRA. She has gone. DR. STOCKMANN. Good. Going away, do you say? No, I'll be damned if we do; we stay where we are, Katrina! PETRA. Stay! MRS. STOCKMANN. Here in the town? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, here; the field of battle is here; here the fight must be fought; here I will conquer! As soon as my trousers are mended, I shall go out into the town and look for a house; we must have a roof over our heads for the winter. HORSTER. That you can have in my house. DR. STOCKMANN. Can I? HORSTER. Yes, there’s no difficulty about that. I have room enough, and I'm hardly ever at home myself. MRS. STOCKMANN. Oh, how kind of you, Captain Horster. PETRA. Thank you! DR. STOCKMANN. [_Shaking his hand._] Thanks, thanks! So that is off my mind. And this very day I shall set to work in earnest. Oh, there’s no end of work to be done here, Katrina! It’s a good thing I shall have all my time at my disposal now; for you must know I've had notice from the Baths—— MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Sighing._] Oh yes, I was expecting that. DR. STOCKMANN. ——And now they want to take away my practice as well. But let them! The poor I shall keep anyhow—those that can’t pay; and, good Lord! it’s they that need me most. But by heaven! I'll make them listen to me; I'll preach to them in season and out of season, as the saying goes. MRS. STOCKMANN. My dear Thomas, I should have thought you had learnt what good preaching does. DR. STOCKMANN. You really are absurd, Katrina. Am I to let myself be beaten off the field by public opinion, and the compact majority, and all that sort of devilry? No, thank you! Besides, my point is so simple, so clear and straightforward. I only want to drive it into the heads of these curs that the Liberals are the craftiest foes free men have to face; that party-programmes wring the necks of all young and living truths; that considerations of expediency turn justice and morality upside down, until life here becomes simply unlivable. Come, Captain Horster, don’t you think I shall be able to make the people understand that? HORSTER. Maybe; I don’t know much about these things myself. DR. STOCKMANN. Well, you see—this is the way of it! It’s the party-leaders that must be exterminated. For a party-leader is just like a wolf, you see—like a ravening wolf; he must devour a certain number of smaller animals a year, if he’s to exist at all. Just look at Hovstad and Aslaksen! How many small animals they polish off—or at least mangle and maim, so that they’re fit for nothing else but to be house-owners and subscribers to the _People’s Messenger_! [_Sits on the edge of the table._] Just come here, Katrina—see how bravely the sun shines to-day! And how the blessed fresh spring air blows in upon me! MRS. STOCKMANN. Yes, if only we could live on sunshine and spring air, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. Well, you’ll have to pinch and save to eke them out—and then we shall get on all right. That’s what troubles me least. No, what does trouble me is that I don’t see any man free enough and high-minded enough to dare to take up my work after me. PETRA. Oh, don’t think about that, father; you have time enough before you.—Why, see, there are the boys already. EILIF _and_ MORTEN _enter from the sitting-room._ MRS. STOCKMANN. Have you a holiday to-day? MORTEN. No; but we had a fight with the other fellows in play-time—- EILIF. That’s not true; it was the other fellows that fought us. MORTEN. Yes, and then Mr. Rörlund said we had better stop at home for a few days. DR. STOCKMANN. [_Snapping his fingers and springing down from the table._] Now I have it! Now I have it, on my soul! You shall never set foot in school again! THE BOYS. Never go to school! MRS. STOCKMANN. Why, Thomas—— DR. STOCKMANN. Never, I say! I shall teach you myself—that’s to say, I won’t teach you any mortal thing—— MORTEN. Hurrah! DR. STOCKMANN. ——but I shall help you to grow into free, high-minded men.—Look here, you’ll have to help me, Petra. PETRA. Yes, father, you may be sure I will. DR. STOCKMANN. And we’ll have our school in the room where they reviled me as an enemy of the people. But we must have more pupils. I must have at least a dozen boys to begin with. MRS. STOCKMANN. You’ll never get them in this town. DR. STOCKMANN. We shall see. [_To the boys._] Don’t you know any street urchins—any regular ragamuffins——? MORTEN. Yes, father, I know lots! DR. STOCKMANN. That’s all right; bring me a few of them. I shall experiment with the street-curs for once in a way; there are sometimes excellent heads amongst them. MORTEN. But what are we to do when we’ve grown into free and high-minded men? DR. STOCKMANN. Drive all the wolves out to the far west, boys! [EILIF _looks rather doubtful;_ MORTEN _jumps about shouting “Hurrah!”_ MRS. STOCKMANN. If only the wolves don’t drive you out, Thomas. DR. STOCKMANN. Are you quite mad, Katrina! _Drive me out!_ Now that I am the strongest man in the town? MRS. STOCKMANN. The strongest—now? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, I venture to say this: that now I am one of the strongest men in the whole world. MORTEN. I say, what fun! DR. STOCKMANN. [_In a subdued voice._] Hush; you mustn’t speak about it yet; but I have made a great discovery. MRS. STOCKMANN. What, another? DR. STOCKMANN. Yes, of course! [_Gathers them about him, and speaks confidentially._] This is what I have discovered, you see: the strongest man in the world is he who stands most alone. MRS. STOCKMANN. [_Shakes her head, smiling._] Ah, Thomas dear——! PETRA. [_Grasping his hands cheerily._] Father! ----- Footnote 13: “Has no right” represents the Norwegian “tör ikke”—the phrase which, elsewhere in this scene, is translated “dare not.” The latter rendering should perhaps have been adhered to throughout; but in this passage the Norwegian words convey a shade of meaning which is best represented by “has no right.” Footnote 14: “De lokale forholde”—the local conditions, or the circumstances of the locality, a phrase constantly in Aslaksen’s mouth in _The League of Youth_. In the present context it is about equivalent to “the lie of the land.” THE END. THE WILD DUCK (1884) CHARACTERS. WERLE, _a merchant, manufacturer, etc._ GREGERS WERLE, _his son_. OLD EKDAL. HIALMAR EKDAL, _his son, a photographer_. GINA EKDAL, _Hialmar’s wife_. HEDVIG, _their daughter, a girl of fourteen_. MRS. SÖRBY, _Werle’s housekeeper_. RELLING, _a doctor_. MOLVIK, _ex-student of theology_. GRABERG, _Werle’s bookkeeper_. PETTERSEN, _Werle’s servant_. JENSEN, _a hired waiter_. A FLABBY GENTLEMAN. A THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. A SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN. _Six other gentlemen, guests at Werle’s dinner-party._ _Several hired waiters._ _The first act passes in Werle’s house, the remaining acts at Hialmar Ekdal’s._ _Pronunciation of Names_: Gregers Werle = Grayghers Verlë; Hialmar Ekdal = Yalmar Aykdal; Gina = Gheena; Graberg = Graberg; Jensen = Yensen. THE WILD DUCK. PLAY IN FIVE ACTS. ACT FIRST. _At_ WERLE’S _house. A richly and comfortably furnished study; bookcases and upholstered furniture; a writing-table, with papers and documents, in the centre of the room; lighted lamps with green shades, giving a subdued light. At the back, open folding-doors with curtains drawn back. Within is seen a large and handsome room, brilliantly lighted with lamps and branching candlesticks. In front, on the right (in the study), a small baize door leads into_ WERLE’S _office. On the left, in front, a fireplace with a glowing coal fire, and farther back a double door leading into the dining-room._ WERLE’S _servant,_ PETTERSEN, _in livery, and JENSEN, the hired waiter, in black, are putting the study in order. In the large room, two or three other hired waiters are moving about, arranging things and lighting more candles. From the dining-room, the hum of conversation and laughter of many voices are heard; a glass is tapped with a knife; silence follows, and a toast is proposed; shouts of “Bravo!” and then again a buzz of conversation._ PETTERSEN. [_Lights a lamp on the chimney-place and places a shade over it._] Hark to them, Jensen! now the old man’s on his legs holding a long palaver about Mrs. Sörby. JENSEN. [_Pushing forward an arm-chair._] Is it true, what folks say, that they’re—very good friends, eh? PETTERSEN. Lord knows. JENSEN. I've heard tell as he’s been a lively customer in his day. PETTERSEN. May be. JENSEN. And he’s giving this spread in honour of his son, they say. PETTERSEN. Yes. His son came home yesterday. JENSEN. This is the first time I ever heard as Mr. Werle _had_ a son. PETTERSEN. Oh yes, he has a son, right enough. But he’s a fixture, as you might say, up at the Höidal works. He’s never once come to town all the years I've been in service here. A WAITER. [_In the doorway of the other room._] Pettersen, here’s an old fellow wanting—— PETTERSEN. [_Mutters._] The devil—who’s this now? OLD EKDAL _appears from the right, in the inner room. He is dressed in a threadbare overcoat with a high collar; he wears woollen mittens, and carries in his hand a stick and a fur cap. Under his arm, a brown paper parcel. Dirty red-brown wig and small grey moustache._ PETTERSEN. [_Goes towards him._] Good Lord—what do you want here? EKDAL. [_In the doorway._] Must get into the office, Pettersen. PETTERSEN. The office was closed an hour ago, and—— EKDAL. So they told me at the front door. But Gråberg’s in there still. Let me slip in this way, Pettersen; there’s a good fellow. [_Points towards the baize door._] It’s not the first time I've come this way. PETTERSEN. Well, you may pass. [_Opens the door._] But mind you go out again the proper way, for we’ve got company. EKDAL. I know, I know—h’m! Thanks, Pettersen, good old friend! Thanks! [_Mutters softly._] Ass! [_He goes into the office;_ PETTERSEN _shuts the door after him._ JENSEN. Is _he_ one of the office people? PETTERSEN. No, he’s only an outside hand that does odd jobs of copying. But he’s been a tip-topper in his day, has old Ekdal. JENSEN. You can see he’s been through a lot. PETTERSEN. Yes; he was an army officer, you know. JENSEN. You don’t say so? PETTERSEN. No mistake about it. But then he went into the timber trade or something of the sort. They say he once played Mr. Werle a very nasty trick. They were partners in the Höidal works at the time. Oh, I know old Ekdal well, I do. Many a nip of bitters and bottle of ale we two have drunk at Madam Eriksen’s. JENSEN. He don’t look as if he’d much to stand treat with. PETTERSEN. Why, bless you, Jensen, it’s me that stands treat. I always think there’s no harm in being a bit civil to folks that have seen better days. JENSEN. Did he go bankrupt then? PETTERSEN. Worse than that. He went to prison. JENSEN. To prison! PETTERSEN. Or perhaps it was the Penitentiary. [_Listens._] Sh! They’re leaving the table. _The dining-room door is thrown open from within, by a couple of waiters._ MRS. SÖRBY _comes out conversing with two gentlemen. Gradually the whole company follows, amongst them_ WERLE. _Last come_ HIALMAR EKDAL _and_ GREGERS WERLE. MRS. SÖRBY. [_In passing, to the servant._] Tell them to serve the coffee in the music-room, Pettersen. PETTERSEN. Very well, Madam. [_She goes with the two Gentlemen into the inner room, and thence out to the right._ PETTERSEN _and_ JENSEN _go out the same way._ A FLABBY GENTLEMAN. [_To a THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN._] Whew! What a dinner!—It was no joke to do it justice! THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. Oh, with a little good-will one can get through a lot in three hours. THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. Yes, but afterwards, afterwards, my dear Chamberlain! A THIRD GENTLEMAN. I hear the coffee and maraschino are to be served in the music-room. THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. Bravo! Then perhaps Mrs. Sörby will play us something. THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. [_In a low voice._] I hope Mrs. Sörby mayn’t play us a tune we don’t like, one of these days! THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. Oh no, not she! Bertha will never turn against her old friends. [_They laugh and pass into the inner room._ WERLE. [_In a low voice, dejectedly._] I don’t think anybody noticed it, Gregers. GREGERS. [_Looks at him._] Noticed what? WERLE. Did you not notice it either? GREGERS. What do you mean? WERLE. We were thirteen at table. GREGERS. Indeed? Were there thirteen of us? WERLE. [_Glances towards HIALMAR EKDAL._] Our usual party is twelve. [_To the others._] This way, gentlemen! [WERLE _and the others, all except_ HIALMAR _and_ GREGERS, _go out by the back, to the right._ HIALMAR. [_Who has overheard the conversation._] You ought not to have invited me, Gregers. GREGERS. What! Not ask my best and only friend to a party supposed to be in my honour——? HIALMAR. But I don’t think your father likes it. You see I am quite outside his circle. GREGERS. So I hear. But I wanted to see you and have a talk with you, and I certainly shan’t be staying long.—Ah, we two old schoolfellows have drifted far apart from each other. It must be sixteen or seventeen years since we met. HIALMAR. Is it so long? GREGERS. It is indeed. Well, how goes it with you? You look well. You have put on flesh, and grown almost stout. HIALMAR. Well, “stout” is scarcely the word; but I daresay I look a little more of a man than I used to. GREGERS. Yes, you do; your outer man is in first-rate condition. HIALMAR. [_In a tone of gloom._] Ah, but the inner man! That is a very different matter, I can tell you! Of course you know of the terrible catastrophe that has befallen me and mine since last we met. GREGERS. [_More softly._] How are things going with your father now? HIALMAR. Don’t let us talk of it, old fellow. Of course my poor unhappy father lives with me. He hasn’t another soul in the world to care for him. But you can understand that this is a miserable subject for me. —Tell me, rather, how you have been getting on up at the works. GREGERS. I have had a delightfully lonely time of it—plenty of leisure to think and think about things. Come over here; we may as well make ourselves comfortable. [_He seats himself in an arm-chair by the fire and draws_ HIALMAR _down into another alongside of it._ HIALMAR. [_Sentimentally._] After all, Gregers, I thank you for inviting me to your father’s table; for I take it as a sign that you have got over your feeling against me. GREGERS. [_Surprised._] How could you imagine I had any feeling against you? HIALMAR. You had at first, you know. GREGERS. How at first? HIALMAR. After the great misfortune. It was natural enough that you should. Your father was within an ace of being drawn into that—well, that terrible business. GREGERS. Why should that give me any feeling against you? Who can have put that into your head? HIALMAR. I know it did, Gregers; your father told me so himself. GREGERS. [_Starts._] My father! Oh indeed. H'm.—Was that why you never let me hear from you?—not a single word. HIALMAR. Yes. GREGERS. Not even when you made up your mind to become a photographer? HIALMAR. Your father said I had better not write to you at all, about anything. GREGERS. [_Looking straight before him._] Well well, perhaps he was right.—But tell me now, Hialmar: are you pretty well satisfied with your present position? HIALMAR. [_With a little sigh._] Oh yes, I am; I have really no cause to complain. At first, as you may guess, I felt it a little strange. It was such a totally new state of things for me. But of course my whole circumstances were totally changed. Father’s utter, irretrievable ruin,—the shame and disgrace of it, Gregers—— GREGERS. [_Affected._] Yes, yes; I understand. HIALMAR. I couldn’t think of remaining at college; there wasn’t a shilling to spare; on the contrary, there were debts—mainly to your father I believe—— GREGERS. H'm——— HIALMAR. In short, I thought it best to break, once for all, with my old surroundings and associations. It was your father that specially urged me to it; and since he interested himself so much in me——— GREGERS. My father did? HIALMAR. Yes, you surely knew that, didn’t you? Where do you suppose I found the money to learn photography, and to furnish a studio and make a start? All that costs a pretty penny, I can tell you. GREGERS. And my _father_ provided the money? HIALMAR. Yes, my dear fellow, didn’t you know? I understood him to say he had written to you about it. GREGERS. Not a word about _his_ part in the business. He must have forgotten it. Our correspondence has always been purely a business one. So it was my father that——! HIALMAR. Yes, certainly. He didn’t wish it to be generally known; but he it was. And of course it was he, too, that put me in a position to marry. Don’t you—don’t you know about that either? GREGERS. No, I haven’t heard a word of it. [_Shakes him by the arm._] But, my dear Hialmar, I can’t tell you what pleasure all this gives me—pleasure, and self-reproach. I have perhaps done my father injustice after all—in some things. This proves that he has a heart. It shows a sort of compunction—— HIALMAR. Compunction——? GREGERS. Yes, yes—whatever you like to call it. Oh, I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear this of father.—So you are a married man, Hialmar! That is further than I shall ever get. Well, I hope you are happy in your married life? HIALMAR. Yes, thoroughly happy. She is as good and capable a wife as any man could wish for. And she is by no means without culture. GREGERS. [_Rather surprised._] No, of course not. HIALMAR. You see, life is itself an education. Her daily intercourse with me—— And then we know one or two rather remarkable men, who come a good deal about us. I assure you, you would hardly know Gina again. GREGERS. Gina? HIALMAR. Yes; had you forgotten that her name was Gina? GREGERS. Whose name? I haven’t the slightest idea—— HIALMAR. Don’t you remember that she used to be in service here? GREGERS. [_Looks at him._] Is it Gina Hansen——? HIALMAR. Yes, of course it is Gina Hansen. GREGERS. ——who kept house for us during the last year of my mother’s illness? HIALMAR. Yes, exactly. But, my dear friend, I'm quite sure your father told you that I was married. GREGERS. [_Who has risen._] Oh yes, he mentioned it; but not that—— [_Walking about the room._] Stay—perhaps he did—now that I think of it. My father always writes such short letters. [_Half seats himself on the arm of the chair._] Now, tell me, Hialmar—this is interesting—how did you come to know Gina—your wife? HIALMAR. The simplest thing in the world. You know Gina did not stay here long; everything was so much upset at that time, owing to your mother’s illness and so forth, that Gina was not equal to it all; so she gave notice and left. That was the year before your mother died—or it may have been the same year. GREGERS. It was the same year. I was up at the works then. But afterwards——? HIALMAR. Well, Gina lived at home with her mother, Madam Hansen, an excellent hard-working woman, who kept a little eating-house. She had a room to let too; a very nice comfortable room. GREGERS. And I suppose you were lucky enough to secure it? HIALMAR. Yes; in fact, it was your father that recommended it to me. So it was there, you see, that I really came to know Gina. GREGERS. And then you got engaged? HIALMAR. Yes. It doesn’t take young people long to fall in love——; h’m—— GREGERS. [_Rises and moves about a little._] Tell me: was it after your engagement—was it then that my father—I mean was it then that you began to take up photography? HIALMAR. Yes, precisely. I wanted to make a start, and to set up house as soon as possible; and your father and I agreed that this photography business was the readiest way. Gina thought so too. Oh, and there was another thing in its favour, by-the-bye: it happened, luckily, that Gina had learnt to retouch. GREGERS. That chimed in marvellously. HIALMAR. [_Pleased, rises._] Yes, didn’t it? Don’t you think it was a marvellous piece of luck? GREGERS. Oh, unquestionably. My father seems to have been almost a kind of providence for you. HIALMAR. [_With emotion._] He did not forsake his old friend’s son in the hour of his need. For he _has_ a heart, you see. MRS. SÖRBY. [_Enters, arm-in-arm with WERLE._] Nonsense, my dear Mr. Werle; you mustn’t stop there any longer staring at all the lights. It’s very bad for you. WERLE. [_Lets go her arm and passes his hand over his eyes._] I daresay you are right. [PETTERSEN _and_ JENSEN _carry round refreshment trays._] MRS. SÖRBY. [_To the Guests in the other room._] This way, if you please, gentlemen. Whoever wants a glass of punch must be so good as to come in here. THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. [_Comes up to MRS. SÖRBY._] Surely, it isn’t possible that you have suspended our cherished right to smoke? MRS. SÖRBY. Yes. No smoking here, in Mr. Werle’s sanctum, Chamberlain. THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. When did you enact these stringent amendments on the cigar law, Mrs. Sörby? MRS. SÖRBY. After the last dinner, Chamberlain, when certain persons permitted themselves to overstep the mark. THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. And may one never overstep the mark a little bit, Madame Bertha? Not the least little bit? MRS. SÖRBY. Not in any respect whatsoever, Mr. Balle. [_Most of the Guests have assembled in the study; servants hand round glasses of punch._ WERLE. [_To HIALMAR, who is standing beside a table._] What are you studying so intently, Ekdal? HIALMAR. Only an album, Mr. Werle. THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. [_Who is wandering about._] Ah, photographs! They are quite in your line of course. THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. [_In an arm-chair._] Haven’t you brought any of your own with you? HIALMAR. No, I haven’t. THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. You ought to have; it’s very good for the digestion to sit and look at pictures. THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. And it contributes to the entertainment, you know. THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN. And all contributions are thankfully received. MRS. SÖRBY. The Chamberlains think that when one is invited out to dinner, one ought to exert oneself a little in return, Mr. Ekdal. THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. Where one dines so well, that duty becomes a pleasure. THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. And when it’s a case of the struggle for existence, you know—— MRS. SÖRBY. I quite agree with you! [_They continue the conversation, with laughter and joking._ GREGERS. [_Softly._] You must join in, Hialmar. HIALMAR. [_Writhing._] What am I to talk about? THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. Don’t you think, Mr. Werle, that Tokay may be considered one of the more wholesome sorts of wine? WERLE. [_By the fire._] I can answer for the Tokay you had to-day, at any rate; it’s of one of the very finest seasons. Of course you would notice that. THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. Yes, it had a remarkably delicate flavour. HIALMAR. [_Shyly._] Is there any difference between the seasons? THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. [_Laughs._] Come! That’s good! WERLE. [_Smiles._] It really doesn’t pay to set fine wine before you. THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. Tokay is like photographs, Mr. Ekdal: they both need sunshine. Am I not right? HIALMAR. Yes, light is important no doubt. MRS. SÖRBY. And it’s exactly the same with Chamberlains—they, too, depend very much on sunshine,[15] as the saying is. THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. Oh fie! That’s a very threadbare sarcasm! THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN. Mrs. Sörby is coming out—— THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. ——and at our expense, too. [_Holds up his finger reprovingly._] Oh, Madame Bertha, Madame Bertha! MRS. SÖRBY. Yes, and there’s not the least doubt that the seasons differ greatly. The old vintages are the finest. THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN. Do you reckon me among the old vintages? MRS. SÖRBY. Oh, far from it. THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. There now! But me, dear Mrs. Sörby——? THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. Yes, and me? What vintage should you say that we belong to? MRS. SÖRBY. Why, to the sweet vintages, gentlemen. [_She sips a glass of punch. The gentlemen laugh and flirt with her._ WERLE. Mrs. Sörby can always find a loop-hole—when she wants to. Fill your glasses, gentlemen! Pettersen, will you see to it——! Gregers, suppose we have a glass together. [GREGERS _does not move._] Won’t you join us, Ekdal? I found no opportunity of drinking with you at table. [GRÅBERG, _the Bookkeeper, looks in at the baize door._ GRÅBERG. Excuse me, sir, but I can’t get out. WERLE. Have you been locked in again? GRÅBERG. Yes, and Flakstad has carried off the keys. WERLE. Well, you can pass out this way. GRÅBERG. But there’s some one else—— WERLE. All right; come through, both of you. Don’t be afraid. [GRÅBERG _and_ OLD EKDAL _come out of the office._ WERLE. [_Involuntarily._] Ugh! [_The laughter and talk among the Guests cease._ HIALMAR _starts at the sight of his father, puts down his glass, and turns towards the fireplace._ EKDAL. [_Does not look up, but makes little bows to both sides as he passes, murmuring._] Beg pardon, come the wrong way. Door locked—door locked. Beg pardon. [_He and_ GRÅBERG _go out by the back, to the right._ WERLE. [_Between his teeth._] That idiot Gråberg! GREGERS. [_Open-mouthed and staring, to HIALMAR._] Why surely that wasn’t——! THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. What’s the matter? Who was it? GREGERS. Oh, nobody, only the bookkeeper and some one with him. THE SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN. [_To HIALMAR._] Did _you_ know that man? HIALMAR. I don’t know—I didn’t notice—— THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. What the deuce has come over every one? [_He joins another group who are talking softly._ MRS. SÖRBY. [_Whispers to the Servant._] Give him something to take with him;—something good, mind. PETTERSEN. [_Nods._] I'll see to it. _Goes out._ GREGERS. [_Softly and with emotion, to HIALMAR._] So that was really he! HIALMAR. Yes. GREGERS. And you could stand there and deny that you knew him! HIALMAR. [_Whispers vehemently._] But how _could_ I——! GREGERS. ——acknowledge your own father? HIALMAR. [_With pain._] Oh, if you were in my place—— [_The conversation amongst the Guests, which has been carried on in a low tone, now swells into constrained joviality._] THE THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. [_Approaching HIALMAR and GREGERS in a friendly manner._] Aha! Reviving old college memories, eh? Don’t you smoke, Mr. Ekdal? May I give you a light? Oh, by-the-bye, we mustn’t—— HIALMAR. No, thank you, I won’t—— THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. Haven’t you a nice little poem you could recite to us, Mr. Ekdal? You used to recite so charmingly. HIALMAR. I am sorry I can’t remember anything. THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. Oh, that’s a pity. Well, what shall we do, Balle? [_Both Gentlemen move away and pass into the other room._ HIALMAR. [_Gloomily._] Gregers—I am going! When a man has felt the crushing hand of Fate, you see——Say good-bye to your father for me. GREGERS. Yes, yes. Are you going straight home? HIALMAR. Yes. Why? GREGERS. Oh, because I may perhaps look in on you later. HIALMAR. No, you mustn’t do that. You must not come to my home. Mine is a melancholy abode, Gregers; especially after a splendid banquet like this. We can always arrange to meet somewhere in the town. MRS. SÖRBY. [_Who has quietly approached._] Are you going, Ekdal? HIALMAR. Yes. MRS. SÖRBY. Remember me to Gina. HIALMAR. Thanks. MRS. SÖRBY. And say I am coming up to see her one of these days. HIALMAR. Yes, thank you. [_To GREGERS._] Stay here; I will slip out unobserved. [_He saunters away, then into the other room, and so out to the right._ MRS. SÖRBY. [_Softly to the Servant, who has come back._] Well, did you give the old man something? PETTERSEN. Yes; I sent him off with a bottle of cognac. MRS. SÖRBY. Oh, you might have thought of something better than that. PETTERSEN. Oh no, Mrs. Sörby; cognac is what he likes best in the world. THE FLABBY GENTLEMAN. [_In the doorway with a sheet of music in his hand._] Shall we play a duet, Mrs. Sörby? MRS. SÖRBY. Yes, suppose we do. THE GUESTS. Bravo, bravo! [_She goes with all the Guests through the back room, out to the right._ GREGERS _remains standing by the fire._ WERLE _is looking for something on the writing-table, and, appears to wish that_ GREGERS _would go; as_ GREGERS _does not move,_ WERLE _goes towards the door._ GREGERS. Father, won’t you stay a moment? WERLE. [_Stops._] What is it? GREGERS. I must have a word with you. WERLE. Can it not wait till we are alone? GREGERS. No, it cannot; for perhaps we shall never be alone together. WERLE. [_Drawing nearer._] What do you mean by that? [_During what follows, the pianoforte is faintly heard from the distant music-room._ GREGERS. How has that family been allowed to go so miserably to the wall? WERLE. You mean the Ekdals, I suppose. GREGERS. Yes, I mean the Ekdals. Lieutenant Ekdal was once so closely associated with you. WERLE. Much too closely; I have felt that to my cost for many a year. It is thanks to him that I—yes _I_—have had a kind of slur cast upon my reputation. GREGERS. [_Softly._] Are you sure that he alone was to blame? WERLE. Who else do you suppose——? GREGERS. You and he acted together in that affair of the forests—— WERLE. But was it not Ekdal that drew the map of the tracts we had bought—that fraudulent map! It was he who felled all that timber illegally on Government ground. In fact, the whole management was in his hands. I was quite in the dark as to what Lieutenant Ekdal was doing. GREGERS. Lieutenant Ekdal himself seems to have been very much in the dark as to what he was doing. WERLE. That may be. But the fact remains that he was found guilty and I acquitted. GREGERS. Yes, I know that nothing was proved against you. WERLE. Acquittal is acquittal. Why do you rake up these old miseries that turned my hair grey before its time? Is that the sort of thing you have been brooding over up there, all these years? I can assure you, Gregers, here in the town the whole story has been forgotten long ago—so far as _I_ am concerned. GREGERS. But that unhappy Ekdal family. WERLE. What would you have had me do for the people? When Ekdal came out of prison he was a broken-down being, past all help. There are people in the world who dive to the bottom the moment they get a couple of slugs in their body, and never come to the surface again. You may take my word for it, Gregers, I have done all I could without positively laying myself open to all sorts of suspicion and gossip—— GREGERS. Suspicion——? Oh, I see. WERLE. I have given Ekdal copying to do for the office, and I pay him far, far more for it than his work is worth—— GREGERS. [_Without looking at him._] H'm; _that_ I don’t doubt. WERLE. You laugh? Do you think I am not telling you the truth? Well, I certainly can’t refer you to my books, for I never enter payments of that sort. GREGERS. [_Smiles coldly._] No, there are certain payments it is best to keep no account of. WERLE. [_Taken aback._] What do you mean by _that_? GREGERS. [_Mustering up courage._] Have you entered what it cost you to have Hialmar Ekdal taught photography? WERLE. I? How “entered” it? GREGERS. I have learnt that it was you who paid for his training. And I have learnt, too, that it was you who enabled him to set up house so comfortably. WERLE. Well, and yet you talk as though I had done nothing for the Ekdals! I can assure you these people have cost me enough in all conscience. GREGERS. Have you entered any of these expenses in your books? WERLE. Why do you ask? GREGERS. Oh, I have my reasons. Now tell me: when you interested yourself so warmly in your old friend’s son—it was just before his marriage, was it not? WERLE. Why, deuce take it—after all these years, how can I——? GREGERS. You wrote me a letter about that time—a business letter, of course; and in a postscript you mentioned—quite briefly—that Hialmar Ekdal had married a Miss Hansen. WERLE. Yes, that was quite right. That was her name. GREGERS. But you did not mention that this Miss Hansen was Gina Hansen—our former housekeeper. WERLE. [_With a forced laugh of derision._] No; to tell the truth, it didn’t occur to me that you were so particularly interested in our former housekeeper. GREGERS. No more I was. But [_lowers his voice_] there were others in this house who _were_ particularly interested in her. WERLE. What do you mean by that? [_Flaring up._] You are not alluding to me, I hope? GREGERS. [_Softly but firmly._] Yes, I am alluding to you. WERLE. And you dare——! You presume to——! How can that ungrateful hound—that photographer fellow—how dare he go making such insinuations! GREGERS. Hialmar has never breathed a word about this. I don’t believe he has the faintest suspicion of such a thing. WERLE. Then where have you got it from? Who can have put such notions in your head? GREGERS. My poor unhappy mother told me; and that the very last time I saw her. WERLE. Your mother! I might have known as much! You and she—you always held together. It was she who turned you against me, from the first. GREGERS. No, it was all that she had to suffer and submit to, until she broke down and came to such a pitiful end. WERLE. Oh, she had nothing to suffer or submit to; not more than most people, at all events. But there’s no getting on with morbid, overstrained creatures—that I have learnt to my cost.—And you could go on nursing such a suspicion—burrowing into all sorts of old rumours and slanders against your own father! I must say, Gregers, I really think that at your age you might find something more useful to do. GREGERS. Yes, it is high time. WERLE. Then perhaps your mind would be easier than it seems to be now. What can be your object in remaining up at the works, year out and year in, drudging away like a common clerk, and not drawing a farthing more than the ordinary monthly wage? It is downright folly. GREGERS. Ah, if I were only sure of _that_. WERLE. I understand you well enough. You want to be independent; you won’t be beholden to me for anything. Well, now there happens to be an opportunity for you to become independent, your own master in everything. GREGERS. Indeed? In what way——? WERLE. When I wrote you insisting on your coming to town at once—h’m—— GREGERS. Yes, what is it you really want of me? I have been waiting all day to know. WERLE. I want to propose that you should enter the firm, as partner. GREGERS. I! Join your firm? As partner? WERLE. Yes. It would not involve our being constantly together. You could take over the business here in town, and I should move up to the works. GREGERS. _You_ would? WERLE. The fact is, I am not so fit for work as I once was. I am obliged to spare my eyes, Gregers; they have begun to trouble me. GREGERS. They have always been weak. WERLE. Not as they are now. And besides, circumstances might possibly make it desirable for me to live up there—for a time, at any rate. GREGERS. That is certainly quite a new idea to me. WERLE. Listen, Gregers: there are many things that stand between us; but we are father and son after all. We ought surely to be able to come to some sort of understanding with each other. GREGERS. Outwardly, you mean, of course? WERLE. Well, even that would be something. Think it over, Gregers. Don’t you think it ought to be possible? Eh? GREGERS. [_Looking at him coldly._] There is something behind all this. WERLE. How so? GREGERS. You want to make use of me in some way. WERLE. In such a close relationship as ours, the one can always be useful to the other. GREGERS. Yes, so people say. WERLE. I want very much to have you at home with me for a time. I am a lonely man Gregers; I have always felt lonely, all my life through; but most of all now that I am getting up in years. I feel the need of some one about me—— GREGERS. You have Mrs. Sörby. WERLE. Yes, I have her; and she has become, I may say, almost indispensable to me. She is lively and even-tempered; she brightens up the house; and that is a very great thing for me. GREGERS. Well then, you have everything just as you wish it. WERLE. Yes, but I am afraid it can’t last. A woman so situated may easily find herself in a false position, in the eyes of the world. For that matter it does a man no good, either. GREGERS. Oh, when a man gives such dinners as you give, he can risk a great deal. WERLE. Yes, but how about the woman, Gregers? I fear she won’t accept the situation much longer; and even if she did—even if, out of attachment to me, she were to take her chance of gossip and scandal and all that——? Do you think, Gregers—you with your strong sense of justice—— GREGERS. [_Interrupts him._] Tell me in one word: are you thinking of marrying her? WERLE. Suppose I were thinking of it? What then? GREGERS. That’s what I say: what then? WERLE. Should you be inflexibly opposed to it? GREGERS. Not at all. Not by any means. WERLE. I was not sure whether your devotion to your mother’s memory—— GREGERS. I am not overstrained. WERLE. Well, whatever you may or may not be, at all events you have lifted a great weight from my mind. I am extremely pleased that I can reckon on your concurrence in this matter. GREGERS. [_Looking intently at him._] Now I see the use you want to put me to. WERLE. Use to put you to? What an expression! GREGERS. Oh, don’t let us be nice in our choice of words—not when we are alone together, at any rate. [_With a short laugh._] Well well! So this is what made it absolutely essential that I should come to town in person. For the sake of Mrs. Sörby, we are to get up a pretence at family life in the house—a tableau of filial affection! That will be something new indeed. WERLE. How dare you speak in that tone! GREGERS. Was there ever any family life here? Never since I can remember. But now, forsooth, your plans demand something of the sort. No doubt it will have an excellent effect when it is reported that the son has hastened home, on the wings of filial piety, to the grey-haired father’s wedding-feast. What will then remain of all the rumours as to the wrongs the poor dead mother had to submit to? Not a vestige. Her son annihilates them at one stroke. WERLE. Gregers—I believe there is no one in the world you detest as you do me. GREGERS. [_Softly._] I have seen you at too close quarters. WERLE. You have seen me with your mother’s eyes. [_Lowers his voice a little._] But you should remember that her eyes were—clouded now and then. GREGERS. [_Quivering._] I see what you are hinting at. But who was to blame for mother’s unfortunate weakness? Why you, and all those——! The last of them was this woman that you palmed off upon Hialmar Ekdal, when you were——Ugh! WERLE. [_Shrugs his shoulders._] Word for word as if it were your mother speaking! GREGERS. [_Without heeding._] And there he is now, with his great, confiding, childlike mind, compassed about with all this treachery—living under the same roof with such a creature, and never dreaming that what he calls his home is built upon a lie! [_Comes a step nearer._] When I look back upon your past, I seem to see a battle-field with shattered lives on every hand. WERLE. I begin to think the chasm that divides us is too wide. GREGERS. [_Bowing, with self-command._] So I have observed; and therefore I take my hat and go. WERLE. You are going! Out of the house? GREGERS. Yes. For at last I see my mission in life. WERLE. What mission? GREGERS. You would only laugh if I told you. WERLE. A lonely man doesn’t laugh so easily, Gregers. GREGERS. [_Pointing towards the background._] Look, father,—the Chamberlains are playing blind-man’s-buff with Mrs. Sörby.—Good-night and good-bye. [_He goes out by the back to the right. Sounds of laughter and merriment from the Company, who are now visible in the outer room._ WERLE. [_Muttering contemptuously after_ GREGERS.] Ha——! Poor wretch—and he says he is not over-strained! ACT SECOND. HIALMAR EKDAL’S _studio, a good-sized room, evidently in the top storey of the building. On the right, a sloping roof of large panes of glass, half-covered by a blue curtain. In the right-hand corner, at the back, the entrance door; farther forward, on the same side, a door leading to the sitting-room. Two doors on the opposite side, and between them an iron stove. At the back, a wide double sliding-door. The studio is plainly but comfortably fitted up and furnished. Between the doors on the right, standing out a little from the wall, a sofa with a table and some chairs; on the table a lighted lamp with a shade; beside the stove an old arm-chair. Photographic instruments and apparatus of different kinds lying about the room. Against the back wall, to the left of the double door, stands a bookcase containing a few books, boxes, and bottles of chemicals, instruments, tools, and other objects. Photographs and small articles, such as camel’s-hair pencils, paper, and so forth, lie on the table._ GINA EKDAL _sits on a chair by the table, sewing._ HEDVIG _is sitting on the sofa, with her hands shading her eyes and her thumbs in her ears, reading a book._ GINA. [_Glances once or twice at_ HEDVIG, _as if with secret anxiety; then says_:] Hedvig! HEDVIG. [_Does not hear._] GINA. [_Repeats more loudly._] Hedvig! HEDVIG. [_Takes away her hands and looks up._] Yes, mother? GINA. Hedvig dear, you mustn’t sit reading any longer now. HEDVIG. Oh mother, mayn’t I read a little more? Just a little bit? GINA. No no, you must put away your book now. Father doesn’t like it; he never reads hisself in the evening. HEDVIG. [_Shuts the book._] No, father doesn’t care much about reading. GINA. [_Puts aside her sewing and takes up a lead pencil and a little account-book from the table._] Can you remember how much we paid for the butter to-day? HEDVIG. It was one crown sixty-five. GINA. That’s right. [_Puts it down._] It’s terrible what a lot of butter we get through in this house. Then there was the smoked sausage, and the cheese—let me see—[_Writes_]—and the ham—[_Adds up._] Yes, that makes just—— HEDVIG. And then the beer. GINA. Yes, to be sure. [_Writes._] How it do mount up! But we can’t manage with no less. HEDVIG. And then you and I didn’t need anything hot for dinner, as father was out. GINA. No; that was so much to the good. And then I took eight crowns fifty for the photographs. HEDVIG. Really! So much as that? GINA. Exactly eight crowns fifty. [_Silence._ GINA _takes up her sewing again,_ HEDVIG _takes paper and pencil and begins to draw, shading her eyes with her left hand._ HEDVIG. Isn’t it jolly to think that father is at Mr. Werle’s big dinner-party? GINA. You know he’s not really Mr. Werle’s guest. It was the son invited him. [_After a pause._] We have nothing to do with that Mr. Werle. HEDVIG. I'm longing for father to come home. He promised to ask Mrs. Sörby for something nice for me. GINA. Yes, there’s plenty of good things going in _that_ house, I can tell you. HEDVIG. [_Goes on drawing._] And I believe I'm a little hungry too. [OLD EKDAL, _with the paper parcel under his arm and another parcel in his coat pocket, comes in by the entrance door._ GINA. How late you are to-day, grandfather! EKDAL. They had locked the office door. Had to wait in Gråberg’s room. And then they let me through—h’m. HEDVIG. Did you get some more copying to do, grandfather? EKDAL. This whole packet. Just look. GINA. That’s capital. HEDVIG. And you have another parcel in your pocket. EKDAL. Eh? Oh never mind, that’s nothing. [_Puts his stick away in a corner._] This work will keep me going a long time, Gina. [_Opens one of the sliding-doors in the back wall a little._] Hush! [_Peeps into the room for a moment, then pushes the door carefully to again._] Hee-hee! They’re fast asleep, all the lot of them. And she’s gone into the basket herself. Hee-hee! HEDVIG. Are you sure she isn’t cold in that basket, grandfather? EKDAL. Not a bit of it! Cold? With all that straw? [_Goes towards the farther door on the left._] There are matches in here, I suppose. GINA. The matches is on the drawers. [EKDAL _goes into his room._ HEDVIG. It’s nice that grandfather has got all that copying. GINA. Yes, poor old father; it means a bit of pocket-money for him. HEDVIG. And he won’t be able to sit the whole forenoon down at that horrid Madam Eriksen’s. GINA. No more he won’t. [_Short silence._ HEDVIG. Do you suppose they are still at the dinner-table? GINA. Goodness knows; as like as not. HEDVIG. Think of all the delicious things father is having to eat! I'm certain he’ll be in splendid spirits when he comes. Don’t you think so, mother? GINA. Yes; and if only we could tell him that we’d got the room let—— HEDVIG. But we don’t need that this evening. GINA. Oh, we’d be none the worse of it, I can tell you. It’s no use to us as it is. HEDVIG. I mean we don’t need it this evening, for father will be in a good humour at any rate. It is best to keep the letting of the room for another time. GINA. [_Looks across at her._] You like having some good news to tell father when he comes home in the evening? HEDVIG. Yes; for then things are pleasanter somehow. GINA. [_Thinking to herself._] Yes, yes, there’s something in that. [OLD EKDAL _comes in again and is going out by the foremost door to the left._ GINA. [_Half turning in her chair._] Do you want something out of the kitchen, grandfather? EKDAL. Yes, yes, I do. Don’t you trouble. _Goes out._ GINA. He’s not poking away at the fire, is he? [_Waits a moment._] Hedvig, go and see what he’s about. [EKDAL _comes in again with a small jug of steaming hot water._ HEDVIG. Have you been getting some hot water, grandfather? EKDAL. Yes, hot water. Want it for something. Want to write, and the ink has got as thick as porridge.—h’m. GINA. But you’d best have your supper, first, grandfather. It’s laid in there. EKDAL. Can’t be bothered with supper, Gina. Very busy, I tell you. No one’s to come to my room. No one—h’m. [_He goes into his room;_ GINA _and_ HEDVIG _look at each other._ GINA. [_Softly._] Can you imagine where he’s got money from? HEDVIG. From Gråberg, perhaps. GINA. Not a bit of it. Gråberg always sends the money to me. HEDVIG. Then he must have got a bottle on credit somewhere. GINA. Poor grandfather, who’d give him credit? HIALMAR EKDAL, _in an overcoat and grey felt hat, comes in from the right._ GINA. [_Throws down her sewing and rises._] Why, Ekdal. Is that you already? HEDVIG. [_At the same time jumping up._] Fancy your coming so soon, father! HIALMAR. [_Taking off his hat._] Yes, most of the people were coming away. HEDVIG. So early? HIALMAR. Yes, it was a dinner-party, you know. [_Is taking off his overcoat._ GINA. Let me help you. HEDVIG. Me too. [_They draw off his coat;_ GINA _hangs it up on the back wall._ HEDVIG. Were there many people there, father? HIALMAR. Oh no, not many. We were about twelve or fourteen at table. GINA. And you had some talk with them all? HIALMAR. Oh yes, a little; but Gregers took me up most of the time. GINA. Is Gregers as ugly as ever? HIALMAR. Well, he’s not very much to look at. Hasn’t the old man come home? HEDVIG. Yes, grandfather is in his room, writing. HIALMAR. Did he say anything? GINA. No, what should he say? HIALMAR. Didn’t he say anything about——? I heard something about his having been with Gråberg. I'll go in and see him for a moment. GINA. No, no, better not. HIALMAR. Why not? Did he say he didn’t want me to go in? GINA. I don’t think he wants to see _nobody_ this evening—— HEDVIG. [_Making signs._] H'm—h’m! GINA. [_Not noticing._]——he has been in to fetch hot water—— HIALMAR. Aha! Then he’s—— GINA. Yes, I suppose so. HIALMAR. Oh God! my poor old white-haired father!—Well, well; there let him sit and get all the enjoyment he can. [OLD EKDAL, _in an indoor coat and with a lighted pipe, comes from his room._ EKDAL. Got home? Thought it was you I heard talking. HIALMAR. Yes, I have just come. EKDAL. You didn’t see me, did you? HIALMAR. No; but they told me you had passed through—so I thought I would follow you. EKDAL. H'm, good of you, Hialmar.—Who were they, all those fellows? HIALMAR. Oh, all sorts of people. There was Chamberlain Flor, and Chamberlain Balle, and Chamberlain Kaspersen, and Chamberlain—this, that, and the other—I don’t know who all—— EKDAL. [_Nodding._] Hear that, Gina! Chamberlains every one of them! GINA. Yes, I hear as they’re terrible genteel in that house nowadays. HEDVIG. Did the Chamberlains sing, father? Or did they read aloud? HIALMAR. No, they only talked nonsense. They wanted _me_ to recite something for them; but I knew better than that. EKDAL. You weren’t to be persuaded, eh? GINA. Oh, you might have done it. HIALMAR. No; one mustn’t be at everybody’s beck and call. [_Walks about the room._] That’s not _my_ way, at any rate. EKDAL. No no; Hialmar’s not to be had for the asking, he isn’t. HIALMAR. I don’t see why _I_ should bother myself to entertain people on the rare occasions when I go into society. Let the others exert themselves. These fellows go from one great dinner-table to the next and gorge and guzzle day out and day in. It’s for them to bestir themselves and do something in return for all the good feeding they get. GINA. But you didn’t say that? HIALMAR. [_Humming._] Ho-ho-ho——; faith, I gave them a bit of my mind. EKDAL. Not the Chamberlains? HIALMAR. Oh, why not? [_Lightly._] After that, we had a little discussion about Tokay. EKDAL. Tokay! There’s a fine wine for you! HIALMAR. [_Comes to a standstill._] It _may_ be a fine wine. But of course you know the vintages differ; it all depends on how much sunshine the grapes have had. GINA. Why, you know everything, Ekdal. EKDAL. And did they dispute that? HIALMAR. They tried to; but they were requested to observe that it was just the same with Chamberlains—that with them, too, different batches were of different qualities. GINA. What things you do think of! EKDAL. Hee-hee! So they got that in their pipes too? HIALMAR. Right in their teeth. EKDAL. Do you hear that, Gina? He said it right in the very teeth of all the Chamberlains. GINA. Fancy——! Right in their teeth! HIALMAR. Yes, but I don’t want it talked about. One doesn’t speak of such things. The whole affair passed off quite amicably of course. They were nice, genial fellows; I didn’t want to wound them—not I! EKDAL. Right in their teeth, though——! HEDVIG. [_Caressingly._] How nice it is to see you in a dress-coat! It suits you so well, father. HIALMAR. Yes, don’t you think so? And this one really sits to perfection. It fits almost as if it had been made for me;—a little tight in the arm-holes perhaps;—help me, Hedvig. [_Takes off the coat._] I think I'll put on my jacket. Where is my jacket, Gina? GINA. Here it is. [_Brings the jacket and helps him._] HIALMAR. That’s it! Don’t forget to send the coat back to Molvik first thing to-morrow morning. GINA. [_Laying it away._] I'll be sure and see to it. HIALMAR. [_Stretching himself._] After all, there’s a more homely feeling about this. A free-and-easy indoor costume suits my whole personality better. Don’t you think so, Hedvig? HEDVIG. Yes, father. HIALMAR. When I loosen my necktie into a pair of flowing ends—like this—eh? HEDVIG. Yes, that goes so well with your moustache and the sweep of your curls. HIALMAR. I should not call them curls exactly; I should rather say locks. HEDVIG. Yes, they are too big for curls. HIALMAR. Locks describes them better. HEDVIG. [_After a pause, twitching his jacket._] Father. HIALMAR. Well, what is it? HEDVIG. Oh, you know very well. HIALMAR. No, really I don’t—— HEDVIG. [_Half laughing, half whimpering._] Oh yes, father, now don’t tease me any longer! HIALMAR. Why, what do you mean? HEDVIG. [_Shaking him._] Oh what nonsense; come, where are they, father? All the good things you promised me, you know? HIALMAR. Oh—if I haven’t forgotten all about them! HEDVIG. Now you’re only teasing me, father! Oh, it’s too bad of you! Where have you put them? HIALMAR. No, I positively forgot to get anything. But wait a little! I have something else for you, Hedvig. [_Goes and searches in the pockets of the coat._ HEDVIG. [_Skipping and clapping her hands._] Oh mother, mother! GINA. There, you see; if you only give him time—— HIALMAR. [_With a paper._] Look, here it is. HEDVIG. That? Why, that’s only a paper. HIALMAR. That is the bill of fare, my dear; the whole bill of fare. Here you see: “Menu ”—that means bill of fare. HEDVIG. Haven’t you anything else? HIALMAR. I forgot the other things, I tell you. But you may take my word for it, these dainties are very unsatisfying. Sit down at the table and read the bill of fare, and then I'll describe to you how the dishes taste. Here you are, Hedvig. HEDVIG. [_Gulping down her tears._] Thank you. [_She seats herself, but does not read;_ GINA _makes signs to her;_ HIALMAR _notices it._ HIALMAR. [_Pacing up and down the room._] It’s monstrous what absurd things the father of a family is expected to think of; and if he forgets the smallest trifle, he is treated to sour faces at once. Well, well, one gets used to that too. [_Stops near the stove, by the old man’s chair._] Have you peeped in there this evening, father? EKDAL. Yes, to be sure I have. She’s gone into the basket. HIALMAR. Ah, she _has_ gone into the basket. Then she’s beginning to get used to it. EKDAL. Yes; just as I prophesied. But you know there are still a few little things—— HIALMAR. A few improvements, yes. EKDAL. They’ve _got_ to be made, you know. HIALMAR. Yes, let us have a talk about the improvements, father. Come, let us sit on the sofa. EKDAL. All right. H'm—think I'll just fill my pipe first. Must clean it out, too. H'm. [_He goes into his room._ GINA. [_Smiling to HIALMAR._] His pipe! HIALMAR. Oh yes yes, Gina; let him alone—the poor shipwrecked old man.—Yes, these improvements—we had better get them out of hand to-morrow. GINA. You’ll hardly have time to-morrow, Ekdal. HEDVIG. [_Interposing._] Oh yes he will, mother! GINA. ——for remember them prints that has to be retouched; they’ve sent for them time after time. HIALMAR. There now! those prints again! I shall get them finished all right! Have any new orders come in? GINA. No, worse luck; to-morrow I have nothing but those two sittings, you know. HIALMAR. Nothing else? Oh no, if people won’t set about things with a will—— GINA. But what more can I do? Don’t I advertise in the papers as much as we can afford? HIALMAR. Yes, the papers, the papers; you see how much good _they_ do. And I suppose no one has been to look at the room either? GINA. No, not yet. HIALMAR. That was only to be expected. If people won’t keep their eyes open——. Nothing can be done without a real effort, Gina! HEDVIG. [_Going towards him._] Shall I fetch you the flute, father? HIALMAR. No; no flute for me; _I_ want no pleasures in this world. [_Pacing about._] Yes, indeed I will work to-morrow; you shall see if I don’t. You may be sure I shall work as long as my strength holds out. GINA. But my dear good Ekdal, I didn’t mean it in _that_ way. HEDVIG. Father, mayn’t I bring in a bottle of beer? HIALMAR. No, certainly not. I require nothing, nothing——[_Comes to a standstill._] Beer? Was it beer you were talking about? HEDVIG. [_Cheerfully._] Yes, father; beautiful fresh beer. HIALMAR. Well—since you insist upon it, you may bring in a bottle. GINA. Yes, do; and we’ll be nice and cosy. [HEDVIG _runs towards the kitchen door._ HIALMAR. [_By the stove, stops her, looks at her, puts his arm round her neck and presses her to him._] Hedvig, Hedvig! HEDVIG. [_With tears of joy._] My dear, kind father! HIALMAR. No, don’t call me that. Here have I been feasting at the rich man’s table,—battening at the groaning board——! And I couldn’t even——! GINA. [_Sitting at the table._] Oh nonsense, nonsense, Ekdal. HIALMAR. It’s not nonsense! And yet you mustn’t be too hard upon me. You know that I love you for all that. HEDVIG. [_Throwing her arms round him._] And we love you, oh so dearly, father! HIALMAR. And if I am unreasonable once in a while,—why then—you must remember that I am a man beset by a host of cares. There, there! [_Dries his eyes._] No beer at such a moment as this. Give me the flute. [HEDVIG _runs to the bookcase and fetches it._ HIALMAR. Thanks! That’s right. With my flute in my hand and you two at my side—ah——! [HEDVIG _seats herself at the table near_ GINA: HIALMAR _paces backwards and forwards, pipes up vigorously, and plays a Bohemian peasant dance, but in a slow plaintive tempo, and with sentimental expression._ HIALMAR. [_Breaking off the melody, holds out his left hand to GINA, and says with emotion_:] Our roof may be poor and humble, Gina; but it is home. And with all my heart I say: here dwells my happiness. [_He begins to play again; almost immediately after, a knocking is heard at the entrance door._ GINA. [_Rising._] Hush, Ekdal,—I think there’s some one at the door. HIALMAR. [_Laying the flute on the bookcase._] There! Again! [GINA _goes and opens the door._ Gregers Werle. [_In the passage._] Excuse me—— GINA. [_Starting back slightly._] Oh! GREGERS. ——does not Mr. Ekdal, the photographer, live here? GINA. Yes, he does. HIALMAR. [_Going towards the door._] Gregers! You here after all? Well, come in then. GREGERS. [_Coming in._] I told you I would come and look you up. HIALMAR. But this evening——? Have you left the party? GREGERS. I have left both the party and my father’s house.—Good evening, Mrs. Ekdal. I don’t know whether you recognise me? GINA. Oh yes; it’s not difficult to know young Mr. Werle again. GREGERS. No, I am like my mother; and no doubt you remember her. HIALMAR. Left your father’s house, did you say? GREGERS. Yes, I have gone to a hotel. HIALMAR. Indeed. Well, since you’re here, take off your coat and sit down. GREGERS. Thanks. [_He takes off his overcoat. He is now dressed in a plain grey suit of a countrified cut._ HIALMAR. Here, on the sofa. Make yourself comfortable. [GREGERS _seats himself on the sofa;_ HIALMAR _takes a chair at the table._ GREGERS. [_Looking around him._] So these are your quarters, Hialmar—this is your home. HIALMAR. This is the studio, as you see—— GINA. But it’s the largest of our rooms, so we generally sit here. HIALMAR. We used to live in a better place; but this flat has one great advantage: there are such capital outer rooms—— GINA. And we have a room on the other side of the passage that we can let. GREGERS. [_To HIALMAR._] Ah—so you have lodgers too? HIALMAR. No, not yet. They’re not so easy to find, you see; you have to keep your eyes open. [_To_ HEDVIG.] What about that beer, eh? [HEDVIG _nods and goes out into the kitchen._ GREGERS. So that is your daughter? HIALMAR. Yes, that is HEDVIG. GREGERS. And she is your only child? HIALMAR. Yes, the only one. She is the joy of our lives, and—[_lowering his voice_]—at the same time our deepest sorrow, Gregers. GREGERS. What do you mean? HIALMAR. She is in serious danger of losing her eyesight. GREGERS. Becoming blind? HIALMAR. Yes. Only the first symptoms have appeared as yet, and she may not feel it much for some time. But the doctor has warned us. It is coming, inexorably. GREGERS. What a terrible misfortune! How do you account for it? HIALMAR. [_Sighs._] Hereditary, no doubt. GREGERS. [_Starting._] Hereditary? GINA. Ekdal’s mother had weak eyes. HIALMAR. Yes, so my father says; I can’t remember her. GREGERS. Poor child! And how does she take it? HIALMAR. Oh, you can imagine we haven’t the heart to tell her of it. She dreams of no danger. Gay and careless and chirping like a little bird, she flutters onward into a life of endless night. [_Overcome._] Oh, it is cruelly hard on me, Gregers. [HEDVIG _brings a tray with beer and glasses, which she sets upon the table._ HIALMAR. [_Stroking her hair._] Thanks, thanks, Hedvig. [HEDVIG _puts her arm round his neck and whispers in his ear._ HIALMAR. No, no bread and butter just now. [_Looks up._] But perhaps you would like some, Gregers. GREGERS. [_With a gesture of refusal._] No, no thank you. HIALMAR. [_Still melancholy._] Well, you can bring in a little all the same. If you have a crust, that is all I want. And plenty of butter on it, mind. [HEDVIG _nods gaily and goes out into the kitchen again._ GREGERS. [_Who has been following her with his eyes._] She seems quite strong and healthy otherwise. GINA. Yes. In other ways there’s nothing amiss with her, thank goodness. GREGERS. She promises to be very like you, Mrs. Ekdal. How old is she now? GINA. Hedvig is close on fourteen; her birthday is the day after to-morrow. GREGERS. She is pretty tall for her age, then. GINA. Yes, she’s shot up wonderful this last year. GREGERS. It makes one realise one’s own age to see these young people growing up.—How long is it now since you were married? GINA. _We’ve_ been married—let me see—just on fifteen years. GREGERS. Is it so long as that? GINA. [_Becomes attentive; looks at him._] Yes, it is indeed. HIALMAR. Yes, so it is. Fifteen years all but a few months. [_Changing his tone._] They must have been long years for you, up at the works, Gregers. GREGERS. They seemed long while I was living them; now they are over, I hardly know how the time has gone. [OLD EKDAL _comes from his room without his pipe, but with his old-fashioned uniform cap on his head; his gait is somewhat unsteady._ EKDAL. Come now, Hialmar, let’s sit down and have a good talk about this—h’m—what was it again? HIALMAR. [_Going towards him._] Father, we have a visitor here—Gregers Werle.—I don’t know if you remember him. EKDAL. [_Looking at GREGERS, who has risen._] Werle? Is that the son? What does he want with me? HIALMAR. Nothing; it’s me he has come to see. EKDAL. Oh! Then there’s nothing wrong? HIALMAR. No, no, of course not. EKDAL. [_With a large gesture._] Not that I'm afraid, you know; but—— GREGERS. [_Goes over to him._] I bring you a greeting from your old hunting-grounds, Lieutenant Ekdal. EKDAL. Hunting-grounds? GREGERS. Yes, up in Höidal, about the works, you know. EKDAL. Oh, up there. Yes, I knew all those places well in the old days. GREGERS. You were a great sportsman then. EKDAL. So I was, I don’t deny it. You’re looking at my uniform cap. I don’t ask anybody’s leave to wear it in the house. So long as I don’t go out in the streets with it—— [HEDVIG _brings a plate of bread and butter, which she puts upon the table._ HIALMAR. Sit down, father, and have a glass of beer. Help yourself, Gregers. [EKDAL _mutters and stumbles over to the sofa._ GREGERS _seats himself on the chair nearest to him,_ HIALMAR _on the other side of_ GREGERS. GINA _sits a little way from the table, sewing;_ HEDVIG _stands beside her father._ GREGERS. Can you remember, Lieutenant Ekdal, how Hialmar and I used to come up and visit you in the summer and at Christmas? EKDAL. Did you? No, no, no; I don’t remember it. But sure enough I've been a tidy bit of a sportsman in my day. I've shot bears too. I've shot nine of 'em, no less. GREGERS. [_Looking sympathetically at him._] And now you never get any shooting? EKDAL. Can’t just say that, sir. Get a shot now and then perhaps. Of course not in the old way. For the woods you see—the woods, the woods——! [_Drinks._] Are the woods fine up there now? GREGERS. Not so fine as in your time. They have been thinned a good deal. EKDAL. Thinned? [_More softly, and as if afraid._] It’s dangerous work that. Bad things come of it. The woods revenge themselves. HIALMAR. [_Filling up his glass._] Come—a little more, father. GREGERS. How can a man like you—such a man for the open air—live in the midst of a stuffy town, boxed within four walls? EKDAL. [_Laughs quietly and glances at HIALMAR._] Oh, it’s not so bad here. Not at all so bad. GREGERS. But don’t you miss all the things that used to be a part of your very being—the cool sweeping breezes, the free life in the woods and on the uplands, among beasts and birds——? EKDAL. [_Smiling._] Hialmar, shall we let him see it? HIALMAR. [_Hastily and a little embarrassed._] Oh no no, father; not this evening. GREGERS. What does he want to show me? HIALMAR. Oh, it’s only something—you can see it another time. GREGERS. [_Continues, to the old man._] You see I have been thinking, Lieutenant Ekdal, that you should come up with me to the works; I am sure to be going back soon. No doubt you could get some copying there too. And here, you have nothing on earth to interest you—nothing to liven you up. EKDAL. [_Stares in astonishment at him._] Have _I_ nothing on earth to——! GREGERS. Of course you have Hialmar; but then he has his own family. And a man like you, who has always had such a passion for what is free and wild—— EKDAL. [_Thumps the table._] Hialmar, he _shall_ see it! HIALMAR. Oh, do you think it’s worth while, father? It’s all dark. EKDAL. Nonsense; it’s moonlight. [_Rises._] He _shall_ see it, I tell you. Let me pass! Come and help me, Hialmar. HEDVIG. Oh yes, do, father! HIALMAR. [_Rising._] Very well then. GREGERS. [_To_ GINA.] What is it? GINA. Oh, nothing so very wonderful, after all. [EKDAL _and_ HIALMAR _have gone to the back wall and are each pushing back a side of the sliding door;_ HEDVIG _helps the old man;_ GREGERS _remains standing by the sofa;_ GINA _sits still and sews. Through the open doorway a large, deep irregular garret is seen with odd nooks and corners; a couple of stove-pipes running through it, from rooms below. There are sky-lights through which clear moonbeams shine in on some parts of the great room; others lie in deep shadow._ EKDAL. [_To GREGERS._] You may come close up if you like. GREGERS. [_Going over to them._] Why, what is it? EKDAL. Look for yourself. H'm. HIALMAR. [_Somewhat embarrassed._] This belongs to father, you understand. GREGERS. [_At the door, looks into the garret._] Why, you keep poultry, Lieutenant Ekdal. EKDAL. Should think we _did_ keep poultry. They’ve gone to roost now. But you should just see our fowls by daylight, sir! HEDVIG. And there’s a—— EKDAL. Sh—sh! don’t say anything about it yet. GREGERS. And you have pigeons too, I see. EKDAL. Oh yes, haven’t we just got pigeons! They have their nest-boxes up there under the roof-tree; for pigeons like to roost high, you see. HIALMAR. They aren’t all common pigeons. EKDAL. Common! Should think not indeed! We have tumblers, and a pair of pouters, too. But come here! Can you see that hutch down there by the wall? GREGERS. Yes; what do you use it for? EKDAL. That’s where the rabbits sleep, sir. GREGERS. Dear me; so you have rabbits too? EKDAL. Yes, you may take my word for it, we have rabbits! He wants to know if we have rabbits, Hialmar! H'm! But now comes the thing, let me tell you! Here we have it! Move away, Hedvig. Stand here; that’s right,—and now look down there.—Don’t you see a basket with straw in it? GREGERS. Yes. And I can see a fowl lying in the basket. EKDAL. H’m—“a fowl”—— GREGERS. Isn’t it a duck? EKDAL. [_Hurt._] Why, of course it’s a duck. HIALMAR. But what _kind_ of duck, do you think? HEDVIG. It’s not just a common duck—— EKDAL. Sh! GREGERS. And it’s not a Muscovy duck either. EKDAL. No, Mr.—Werle; it’s not a Muscovy duck; for it’s a wild duck! GREGERS. Is it really? A wild duck? EKDAL. Yes, that’s what it is. That “fowl” as you call it—is the wild duck. It’s our wild duck, sir. HEDVIG. _My_ wild duck. It belongs to me. GREGERS. And can it live up here in the garret? Does it thrive? EKDAL. Of course it has a trough of water to splash about in, you know. HIALMAR. Fresh water every other day. GINA. [_Turning towards HIALMAR._] But my dear Ekdal, it’s getting icy cold here. EKDAL. H'm, we had better shut up then. It’s as well not to disturb their night’s rest, too. Close up, Hedvig. [HIALMAR _and_ HEDVIG _push the garret doors together._ EKDAL. Another time you shall see her properly. [_Seats himself in the arm-chair by the stove._] Oh, they’re curious things, these wild ducks, I can tell you. GREGERS. How did you manage to catch it, Lieutenant Ekdal? EKDAL. _I_ didn’t catch it. There’s a certain man in this town whom we have to thank for it. GREGERS. [_Starts slightly._] That man was not my father, was he? EKDAL. You’ve hit it. Your father and no one else. H'm. HIALMAR. Strange that you should guess that, Gregers. GREGERS. You were telling me that you owed so many things to my father; and so I thought perhaps—— GINA. But we didn’t get the duck from Mr. Werle himself—— EKDAL. It’s Håkon Werle we have to thank for her, all the same, Gina. [_To GREGERS._] He was shooting from a boat, you see, and he brought her down. But your father’s sight is not very good now. H'm; she was only wounded. GREGERS. Ah! She got a couple of slugs in her body, I suppose. HIALMAR. Yes, two or three. HEDVIG. She was hit under the wing, so that she couldn’t fly. GREGERS. And I suppose she dived to the bottom, eh? EKDAL. [_Sleepily, in a thick voice._] Of course. Always do that, wild ducks do. They shoot to the bottom as deep as they can get, sir—and bite themselves fast in the tangle and seaweed—and all the devil’s own mess that grows down there. And they never come up again. GREGERS. But _your_ wild duck came up again, Lieutenant Ekdal. EKDAL. He had such an amazingly clever dog, your father had. And that dog—he dived in after the duck and fetched her up again. GREGERS. [_Who has turned to HIALMAR._] And then she was sent to you here? HIALMAR. Not at once; at first your father took her home. But she wouldn’t thrive there; so Pettersen was told to put an end to her—— EKDAL. [_Half asleep._] H'm—yes—Pettersen—that ass—— HIALMAR. [_Speaking more softly._] That was how we got her, you see; for father knows Pettersen a little; and when he heard about the wild duck he got him to hand her over to us. GREGERS. And now she thrives as well as possible in the garret there? HIALMAR. Yes, wonderfully well. She has got fat. You see, she has lived in there so long now that she has forgotten her natural wild life; and it all depends on _that_. GREGERS. You are right there, Hialmar. Be sure you never let her get a glimpse of the sky and the sea——. But I mustn’t stay any longer; I think your father is asleep. HIALMAR. Oh, as for that—— GREGERS. But, by-the-bye—you said you had a room to let—a spare room? HIALMAR. Yes; what then? Do you know of anybody——? GREGERS. Can _I_ have that room? HIALMAR. You? GINA. Oh no, Mr. Werle, _you_—— GREGERS. May I have the room? If so, I'll take possession first thing to-morrow morning. HIALMAR. Yes, with the greatest pleasure—— GINA. But, Mr. Werle, I'm sure it’s not at all the sort of room for _you_. HIALMAR. Why, Gina! how can you say that? GINA. Why, because the room’s neither large enough nor light enough, and—— GREGERS. That really doesn’t matter, Mrs. Ekdal. HIALMAR. I call it quite a nice room, and not at all badly furnished either. GINA. But remember the pair of them underneath. GREGERS. What pair? GINA. Well, there’s one as has been a tutor—— HIALMAR. That’s Molvik—Mr. Molvik, B.A. GINA. And then there’s a doctor, by the name of Relling. GREGERS. Relling? I know him a little; he practised for a time up in Höidal. GINA. They’re a regular rackety pair, they are. As often as not, they’re out on the loose in the evenings; and then they come home at all hours, and they’re not always just—— GREGERS. One soon gets used to that sort of thing. I daresay I shall be like the wild duck—— GINA. H'm; I think you ought to sleep upon it first, anyway. GREGERS. You seem very unwilling to have me in the house, Mrs. Ekdal. GINA. Oh no! What makes you think _that_? HIALMAR. Well, you really behave strangely about it, Gina. [_To GREGERS._] Then I suppose you intend to remain in the town for the present? GREGERS. [_Putting on his overcoat._] Yes, now I intend to remain here. HIALMAR. And yet not at your father’s? What do you propose to do, then? GREGERS. Ah, if I only knew _that_, Hialmar, I shouldn’t be so badly off! But when one has the misfortune to be called Gregers—! “Gregers”—and then “Werle” after it; did you ever hear anything so hideous? HIALMAR. Oh, I don’t think so at all. GREGERS. Ugh! Bah! I feel I should like to spit upon the fellow that answers to such a name. But when a man is once for all doomed to be Gregers—Werle in this world, as I am—— HIALMAR. [_Laughs._] Ha ha! If you weren’t Gregers Werle, what would you like to be? GREGERS. If I could choose, I should like best to be a clever dog. GINA. A dog! HEDVIG. [_Involuntarily._] Oh no! GREGERS. Yes, an amazingly clever dog; one that goes to the bottom after wild ducks when they dive and bite themselves fast in tangle and sea-weed, down among the ooze. HIALMAR. Upon my word now, Gregers—I don’t in the least know what you’re driving at. GREGERS. Oh well, you might not be much the wiser if you did. It’s understood, then, that I move in early to-morrow morning. [_To GINA._] I won’t give you any trouble; I do everything for myself. [_To HIALMAR._] We can talk about the rest to-morrow.—Good-night, Mrs. Ekdal. [_Nods to HEDVIG._] Good-night. GINA. Good-night, Mr. Werle. HEDVIG. Good-night. HIALMAR. [_Who has lighted a candle._] Wait a moment; I must show you a light; the stairs are sure to be dark. [GREGERS _and_ HIALMAR _go out by the passage door._ GINA. [_Looking straight before her, with her sewing in her lap._] Wasn’t that queer-like talk about wanting to be a dog? HEDVIG. Do you know, mother—I believe he meant something quite different by that. GINA. Why, what _should_ he mean? HEDVIG. Oh, I don’t know; but it seemed to me he meant something different from what he said—all the time. GINA. Do you think so? Yes, it was sort of queer. HIALMAR. [_Comes back._] The lamp was still burning. [_Puts out the candle and sets it down._] Ah, now one can get a mouthful of food at last. [_Begins to eat the bread and butter._] Well, you see, Gina—if only you keep your eyes open—— GINA. How, keep your eyes open——? HIALMAR. Why, haven’t we at last had the luck to get the room let? And just think—to a person like Gregers—a good old friend. GINA. Well, I don’t know what to say about it. HEDVIG. Oh mother, you’ll see; it’ll be such fun! HIALMAR. You’re very strange. You were so bent upon getting the room let before; and now you don’t like it. GINA. Yes I do, Ekdal; if it had only been to some one else——But what do you suppose Mr. Werle will say? HIALMAR. Old Werle? It doesn’t concern him. GINA. But surely you can see that there’s something amiss between them again, or the young man wouldn’t be leaving home. You know very well those two can’t get on with each other. HIALMAR. Very likely not, but—— GINA. And now Mr. Werle may fancy it’s you that has egged him on—— HIALMAR. Let him fancy so, then! Mr. Werle has done a great deal for me; far be it from me to deny it. But that doesn’t make me everlastingly dependent upon him. GINA. But, my dear Ekdal, maybe grandfather’ll suffer for it. He may loose the little bit of work he gets from Gråberg. HIALMAR. I could almost say: so much the better! Is it not humiliating for a man like me to see his grey-haired father treated as a pariah? But now I believe the fulness of time is at hand. [_Takes a fresh piece of bread and butter._] As sure as I have a mission in life, I mean to fulfil it now! HEDVIG. Oh yes, father, do! GINA. Hush! Don’t wake him! HIALMAR. [_More softly._] I will fulfil it, I say. The day shall come when——And that is why I say it’s a good thing we have let the room; for that makes me more independent. The man who has a mission in life must be independent. [_By the, arm-chair, with emotion._] Poor old white-haired father! Rely on your Hialmar. He has broad shoulders—strong shoulders, at any rate. You shall yet wake up some fine day and——[_To GINA._] Do you not believe it? GINA. [_Rising._] Yes, of course I do; but in the meantime suppose we see about getting him to bed. HIALMAR. Yes, come. [_They take hold of the old man carefully._ ----- Footnote 15: The “sunshine” of Court favour. ACT THIRD. HIALMAR EKDAL’S _studio. It is morning: the daylight shines through the large window in the slanting roof; the curtain is drawn back._ HIALMAR _is sitting at the table, busy retouching a photograph; several others lie before him. Presently_ GINA, _wearing her hat and cloak, enters by the passage door; she has a covered basket on her arm._ HIALMAR. Back already, Gina? GINA. Oh yes, one can’t let the grass grow under one’s feet. [_Sets her basket on a chair, and takes off her things._ HIALMAR. Did you look in at Gregers' room? GINA. Yes, that I did. It’s a rare sight, I can tell you; he’s made a pretty mess to start off with. HIALMAR. How so? GINA. He was determined to do everything for himself, he said; so he sets to work to light the stove, and what must he do but screw down the damper till the whole room is full of smoke. Ugh! There was a smell fit to—— HIALMAR. Well, really! GINA. But that’s not the worst of it; for then he thinks he’ll put out the fire, and goes and empties his water-jug into the stove, and so makes the whole floor one filthy puddle. HIALMAR. How annoying! GINA. I've got the porter’s wife to clear up after him, pig that he is! But the room won’t be fit to live in till the afternoon. HIALMAR. What’s he doing with himself in the meantime? GINA. He said he was going out for a little while. HIALMAR. I looked in upon him too, for a moment—after you had gone. GINA. So I heard. You’ve asked him to lunch. HIALMAR. Just to a little bit of early lunch, you know. It’s his first day—we can hardly do less. You’ve got something in the house, I suppose? GINA. I shall have to find something or other. HIALMAR. And don’t cut it too fine, for I fancy Relling and Molvik are coming up too. I just happened to meet Relling on the stairs, you see; so I had to—— GINA. Oh, are we to have those two as well? HIALMAR. Good Lord—a couple more or less can’t make any difference. OLD EKDAL. [_Opens his door and looks in._] I say, Hialmar——[_Sees GINA._] Oh! GINA. Do you want anything, grandfather? EKDAL. Oh no, it doesn’t matter. H'm! [_Retires again._ GINA. [_Takes up the basket._] Be sure you see that he doesn’t go out. HIALMAR. All right, all right. And, Gina, a little herring-salad wouldn’t be a bad idea; Relling and Molvik were out on the loose again last night. GINA. If only they don’t come before I'm ready for them—— HIALMAR. No, of course they won’t; take your own time. GINA. Very well; and meanwhile you can be working a bit. HIALMAR. Well, I am working! I am working as hard as I can! GINA. Then you’ll have that job off your hands, you see. [_She goes out to the kitchen with her basket._ [HIALMAR _sits for a time pencilling away at the photograph, in an indolent and listless manner._ EKDAL. [_Peeps in, looks round the studio, and says softly_:] Are you busy? HIALMAR. Yes I'm toiling at these wretched pictures—— EKDAL. Well well, never mind,—since you’re so busy——h’m! [_He goes out again; the door stands open._ HIALMAR. [_Continues for some time in silence; then he lays down his brush and goes over to the door._] Are _you_ busy, father? EKDAL. [_In a grumbling tone, within._] If you’re busy, I'm busy too. H'm! HIALMAR. Oh, very well, then. _Goes to his work again._ EKDAL. [_Presently, coming to the door again._] H'm; I say, Hialmar, I'm not so _very_ busy, you know. HIALMAR. I thought you were writing. EKDAL. Oh, devil take it! can’t Gråberg wait a day or two? After all, it’s not a matter of life and death. HIALMAR. No; and you’re not his slave either. EKDAL. And about that other business in there—— HIALMAR. Just what I was thinking of. Do you want to go in. Shall I open the door for you? EKDAL. Well, it wouldn’t be a bad notion. HIALMAR. [_Rises._] Then we’d have _that_ off our hands. EKDAL. Yes, exactly. It’s got to be ready first thing to-morrow. It is to-morrow, isn’t it? H'm? HIALMAR. Yes, of course it’s to-morrow. [HIALMAR _and_ EKDAL _push aside each his half of the sliding door. The morning sun is shining in through the skylights; some doves are flying about; others sit cooing, upon the perches; the hens are heard clucking now and then, further back in the garret._ HIALMAR. There; now you can get to work, father. EKDAL. [_Goes in._] Aren’t you coming too? HIALMAR. Well really, do you know——; I almost think——[_Sees GINA at the kitchen door._] I? No; I haven’t time; I must work.—But now for our new contrivance—— [_He pulls a cord, a curtain slips down inside, the lower part consisting of a piece of old sailcloth, the upper part of a stretched fishing net. The floor of the garret is thus no longer visible._ HIALMAR. [_Goes to the table._] So! Now, perhaps I can sit in peace for a little while. GINA. Is he rampaging in there again? HIALMAR. Would you rather have had him slip down to Madam Eriksen’s. [_Seats himself._] Do you want anything? You know you said—— GINA. I only wanted to ask if you think we can lay the table for lunch here? HIALMAR. Yes; we have no early appointment, I suppose? GINA. No, I expect no one to day except those two sweethearts that are to be taken together. HIALMAR. Why the deuce couldn’t they be taken together another day! GINA. Don’t you know, I told them to come in the afternoon, when you are having your nap. HIALMAR. Oh, that’s capital. Very well, let us have lunch here then. GINA. All right; but there’s no hurry about laying the cloth; you can have the table for a good while yet. HIALMAR. Do you think I am not sticking at my work? I'm at it as hard as I can! GINA. Then you’ll be free later on, you know. [_Goes out into the kitchen again. Short pause._ EKDAL. [_In the garret doorway, behind the net._] Hialmar! HIALMAR. Well? EKDAL. Afraid we shall have to move the water-trough, after all. HIALMAR. What else have I been saying all along? EKDAL. H'm—h’m—h’m. [_Goes away from the door again._ [HIALMAR _goes on working a little; glances towards the garret and half rises._ HEDVIG _comes in from the kitchen._ HIALMAR. [_Sits down again hurriedly._] What do you want? HEDVIG. I only wanted to come in beside you, father. HIALMAR. [_After a pause._] What makes you go prying around like that? Perhaps you are told off to watch me? HEDVIG. No, no. HIALMAR. What is your mother doing out there? HEDVIG. Oh, mother’s in the middle of making the herring-salad. [_Goes to the table._] Isn’t there any little thing I could help you with, father? HIALMAR. Oh no. It is right that I should bear the whole burden—so long as my strength holds out. Set your mind at rest, Hedvig; if only your father keeps his health—— HEDVIG. Oh no, father! You mustn’t talk in that horrid way. [_She wanders about a little, stops by the doorway and looks into the garret._ HIALMAR. Tell me, what is he doing? HEDVIG. I think he’s making a new path to the water-trough. HIALMAR. He can never manage _that_ by himself! And here am I doomed to sit——! HEDVIG. [_Goes to him._] Let me take the brush, father; I _can_ do it, quite well. HIALMAR. Oh nonsense; you will only hurt your eyes. HEDVIG. Not a bit. Give me the brush. HIALMAR. [_Rising._] Well, it won’t take more than a minute or two. HEDVIG. Pooh, what harm can it do then? [_Takes the brush._] There! [_Seats herself._] I can begin upon this one. HIALMAR. But mind you don’t hurt your eyes! Do you hear? _I_ won’t be answerable; you do it on your own responsibility—understand that. HEDVIG. [_Retouching._] Yes yes, I understand. HIALMAR. You are quite clever at it, Hedvig. Only a minute or two, you know. [_He slips through by the edge of the curtain into the garret._ HEDVIG _sits at her work._ HIALMAR _and_ EKDAL _are heard disputing inside._ HIALMAR. [_Appears behind the net._] I say, Hedvig—give me those pincers that are lying on the shelf. And the chisel. [_Turns away inside._] Now you shall see, father. Just let me show you first what I mean! [HEDVIG _has fetched the required tools from the shelf, and hands them to him through the net._ HIALMAR. Ah, thanks. I didn’t come a moment too soon. [_Goes back from the curtain again; they are heard carpentering and talking inside._ HEDVIG _stands looking in at them. A moment later there is a knock at the passage door; she does not notice it._ GREGERS WERLE. [_Bareheaded, in indoor dress, enters and slops near the door._] H'm——! HEDVIG. [_Turns and goes towards him._] Good morning. Please come in. GREGERS. Thank you. [_Looking towards the garret._] You seem to have workpeople in the house. HEDVIG. No, it is only father and grandfather. I'll tell them you are here. GREGERS. No no, don’t do that; I would rather wait a little. [_Seats himself on the sofa._ HEDVIG. It looks so untidy here—— [_Begins to clear away the photographs._ GREGERS. Oh, don’t take them away. Are those prints that have to be finished off? HEDVIG. Yes, they are a few I was helping father with. GREGERS. Please don’t let me disturb you. HEDVIG. Oh no. [_She gathers the things to her and sits down to work;_ GREGERS _looks at her, meanwhile, in silence._ GREGERS. Did the wild duck sleep well last night? HEDVIG. Yes, I think so, thanks. GREGERS. [_Turning towards the garret._] It looks quite different by day from what it did last night in the moonlight. HEDVIG. Yes, it changes ever so much. It looks different in the morning and in the afternoon; and it’s different on rainy days from what it is in fine weather. GREGERS. Have you noticed that? HEDVIG. Yes, how could I help it? GREGERS. Are you, too, fond of being in there with the wild duck? HEDVIG. Yes, when I can manage it—— GREGERS. But I suppose you haven’t much spare time; you go to school, no doubt. HEDVIG. No, not now; father is afraid of my hurting my eyes. GREGERS. Oh; then he reads with you himself? HEDVIG. Father has promised to read with me; but he has never had time yet. GREGERS. Then is there nobody else to give you a little help? HEDVIG. Yes, there is Mr. Molvik; but he is not always exactly—quite—— GREGERS. Sober? HEDVIG. Yes, I suppose that’s it! GREGERS. Why, then you must have any amount of time on your hands. And in there I suppose it is a sort of world by itself? HEDVIG. Oh yes, quite. And there are such lots of wonderful things. GREGERS. Indeed? HEDVIG. Yes, there are big cupboards full of books; and a great many of the books have pictures in them. GREGERS. Aha! HEDVIG. And there’s an old bureau with drawers and flaps, and a big clock with figures that go out and in. But the clock isn’t going now. GREGERS. So time has come to a standstill in there—in the wild duck’s domain. HEDVIG. Yes. And then there’s an old paint-box and things of that sort; and all the books. GREGERS. And you read the books, I suppose? HEDVIG. Oh yes, when I get the chance. Most of them are English though, and I don’t understand English. But then I look at the pictures.—There is one great big book called “Harrison’s History of London.”[16] It must be a hundred years old; and there are such heaps of pictures in it. At the beginning there is Death with an hour-glass and a woman. I think that is horrid. But then there are all the other pictures of churches, and castles, and streets, and great ships sailing on the sea. GREGERS. But tell me, where did all those wonderful things come from? HEDVIG. Oh, an old sea captain once lived here, and he brought them home with him. They used to call him “The Flying Dutchman.” That was curious, because he wasn’t a Dutchman at all. GREGERS. Was he not? HEDVIG. No. But at last he was drowned at sea; and so he left all those things behind him. GREGERS. Tell me now—when you are sitting in there looking at the pictures, don’t you wish you could travel and see the real world for yourself? HEDVIG. Oh no! I mean always to stay at home and help father and mother. GREGERS. To retouch photographs? HEDVIG. No, not only that. I should love above everything to learn to engrave pictures like those in the English books. GREGERS. H'm. What does your father say to that? HEDVIG. I don’t think father likes it; father is strange about such things. Only think, he talks of my learning basket-making, and straw-plaiting! But I don’t think _that_ would be much good. GREGERS. Oh no, I don’t think so either. HEDVIG. But father was right in saying that if I had learnt basket-making I could have made the new basket for the wild duck. GREGERS. So you could; and it was you that ought to have done it, wasn’t it? HEDVIG. Yes, for it’s _my_ wild duck. GREGERS. Of course it is. HEDVIG. Yes, it belongs to _me_. But I lend it to father and grandfather as often as they please. GREGERS. Indeed? What do they do with it? HEDVIG. Oh, they look after it, and build places for it, and so on. GREGERS. I see; for no doubt the wild duck is by far the most distinguished inhabitant of the garret? HEDVIG. Yes, indeed she is; for she is a _real_ wild fowl, you know. And then she is so much to be pitied; she has no one to care for, poor thing. GREGERS. She has no family, as the rabbits have—— HEDVIG. No. The hens too, many of them, were chickens together; but she has been taken right away from all her friends. And then there is so much that is strange about the wild duck. Nobody knows her, and nobody knows where she came from either. GREGERS. And she has been down in the depths of the sea. HEDVIG. [_With a quick glance at him, represses a smile and asks_:] Why do you say “the depths of the sea”? GREGERS. What else should I say? HEDVIG. You could say “the bottom of the sea.”[17] GREGERS. Oh, mayn’t I just as well say the depths of the sea? HEDVIG. Yes; but it sounds so strange to me when other people speak of the depths of the sea. GREGERS. Why so? Tell me why? HEDVIG. No, I won’t; it’s so stupid. GREGERS. Oh no, I am sure it’s not. Do tell me why you smiled. HEDVIG. Well, this is the reason: whenever I come to realise suddenly—in a flash—what is in there, it always seems to me that the whole room and everything in it should be called “the depths of the sea.”—But that is so stupid. GREGERS. You mustn’t say that. HEDVIG. Oh yes, for you know it is only a garret. GREGERS. [_Looks fixedly at her._] Are you so sure of that? HEDVIG. [_Astonished._] That it’s a garret? GREGERS. Are you quite certain of it? [HEDVIG _is silent, and looks at him open-mouthed._ GINA _comes in from the kitchen with the table things._ GREGERS. [_Rising._] I have come in upon you too early. GINA. Oh, you must be somewhere; and we’re nearly ready now, anyway. Clear the table, Hedvig. [HEDVIG _clears away her things; she and_ GINA _lay the cloth during what follows._ GREGERS _seats himself in the arm-chair, and turns over an album._ GREGERS. I hear you can retouch, Mrs. Ekdal. GINA. [_With a side glance._] Yes, I can. GREGERS. That was exceedingly lucky. GINA. How—lucky? GREGERS. Since Ekdal took to photography, I mean. HEDVIG. Mother can take photographs too. GINA. Oh, yes; I was bound to learn _that_. GREGERS. So it is really you that carry on the business, I suppose? GINA. Yes, when Ekdal hasn’t time himself—— GREGERS. He is a great deal taken up with his old father, I daresay. GINA. Yes; and then you can’t expect a man like Ekdal to do nothing but take car-de-visits of Dick, Tom and Harry. GREGERS. I quite agree with you; but having once gone in for the thing—— GINA. You can surely understand, Mr. Werle, that Ekdal’s not like one of your common photographers. GREGERS. Of course not; but still—— [_A shot fired within the garret._ GREGERS. [_Starting up._] What’s that? GINA. Ugh! now they’re firing again! GREGERS. Have they firearms in there? HEDVIG. They are out shooting. GREGERS. What! [_At the door of the garret._] Are you shooting, Hialmar? HIALMAR. [_Inside the net._] Are you there? I didn’t know; I was so taken up——[_To HEDVIG._] Why did you not let us know? [_Comes into the studio._ GREGERS. Do you go shooting in the garret? HIALMAR. [_Showing a double-barrelled pistol._] Oh, only with this thing. GINA. Yes, you and grandfather will do yourselves a mischief some day with that there pigstol. HIALMAR. [_With irritation._] I believe I have told you that this kind of firearm is called a _pistol_. GINA. Oh, that doesn’t make it much better, that I can see. GREGERS. So you have become a sportsman too, Hialmar. HIALMAR. Only a little rabbit-shooting now and then. Mostly to please father, you understand. GINA. Men are strange beings; they must always have something to pervert theirselves with. HIALMAR. [_Snappishly._] Just so; we must always have something to _divert_ ourselves with. GINA. Yes, that’s just what I say. HIALMAR. H'm. [_To GREGERS._] You see the garret is fortunately so situated that no one can hear us shooting. [_Lays the pistol on the top shelf of the bookcase._] Don’t touch the pistol, Hedvig! One of the barrels is loaded; remember that. GREGERS. [_Looking through the net._] You have a fowling-piece too, I see. HIALMAR. That is father’s old gun. It’s of no use now; something has gone wrong with the lock. But it’s fun to have it all the same; for we can take it to pieces now and then, and clean and grease it, and screw it together again.—Of course, it’s mostly father that fiddle-faddles with all that sort of thing. HEDVIG. [_Beside GREGERS._] Now you can see the wild duck properly. GREGERS. I was just looking at her. One of her wings seems to me to droop a bit. HEDVIG. Well, no wonder; her wing was broken, you know. GREGERS. And she trails one foot a little. Isn’t that so? HIALMAR. Perhaps a very little bit. HEDVIG. Yes, it was by that foot the dog took hold of her. HIALMAR. But otherwise she hasn’t the least thing the matter with her; and that is simply marvellous for a creature that has a charge of shot in her body, and has been between a dog’s teeth—— GREGERS. [_With a glance at_ HEDVIG]——and that has lain in the depths of the sea—so long. HEDVIG. [_Smiling._] Yes. GINA. [_Laying the table._] That blessëd wild duck! What a lot of fuss you do make over her. HIALMAR. H'm;—will lunch soon be ready? GINA. Yes, directly. Hedvig, you must come and help me now. [GINA _and_ HEDVIG _go out into the kitchen._ HIALMAR. [_In a low voice._] I think you had better not stand there looking in at father; he doesn’t like it. [GREGERS _moves away from the garret door._] Besides I may as well shut up before the others come. [_Claps his hands to drive the fowls back._] Shh—shh, in with you! [_Draws up the curtain and pulls the doors together._] All the contrivances are my own invention. It’s really quite amusing to have things of this sort to potter with, and to put to rights when they get out of order. And it’s absolutely necessary, too; for Gina objects to having rabbits and fowls in the studio. GREGERS. To be sure; and I suppose the studio is your wife’s special department? HIALMAR. As a rule, I leave the everyday details of business to her; for then I can take refuge in the parlour and give my mind to more important things. GREGERS. What things may they be, Hialmar? HIALMAR. I wonder you have not asked that question sooner. But perhaps you haven’t heard of the invention? GREGERS. The invention? No. HIALMAR. Really? Have you not? Oh no, out there in the wilds—— GREGERS. So you have invented something, have you? HIALMAR. It is not quite completed yet; but I am working at it. You can easily imagine that when I resolved to devote myself to photography, it wasn’t simply with the idea of taking likenesses of all sorts of commonplace people. GREGERS. No; your wife was saying the same thing just now. HIALMAR. I swore that if I consecrated my powers to this handicraft, I would so exalt it that it should become both an art and a science. And to that end I determined to make this great invention. GREGERS. And what is the nature of the invention? What purpose does it serve? HIALMAR. Oh, my dear fellow, you mustn’t ask for details yet. It takes time, you see. And you must not think that my motive is vanity. It is not for my own sake that I am working. Oh no; it is my life’s mission that stands before me night and day. GREGERS. What is your life’s mission? HIALMAR. Do you forget the old man with the silver hair? GREGERS. Your poor father? Well, but what can you do for him? HIALMAR. I can raise up his self-respect from the dead, by restoring the name of Ekdal to honour and dignity. GREGERS. Then that is your life’s mission? HIALMAR. Yes. I will rescue the shipwrecked man. For shipwrecked he was, by the very first blast of the storm. Even while those terrible investigations were going on, he was no longer himself. That pistol there—the one we use to shoot rabbits with—has played its part in the tragedy of the house of Ekdal. GREGERS. The pistol? Indeed? HIALMAR. When the sentence of imprisonment was passed—he had the pistol in his hand—— GREGERS. Had he——? HIALMAR. Yes; but he dared not use it. His courage failed him. So broken, so demoralised was he even then! Oh, can you understand it? He, a soldier; he, who had shot nine bears, and who was descended from two lieutenant-colonels—one after the other of course. Can you understand it, Gregers? GREGERS. Yes, I understand it well enough. HIALMAR. I cannot. And once more the pistol played a part in the history of our house. When he had put on the grey clothes and was under lock and key—oh, that was a terrible time for me, I can tell you. I kept the blinds drawn down over both my windows. When I peeped out, I saw the sun shining as if nothing had happened. I could not understand it. I saw people going along the street, laughing and talking about indifferent things. I could not understand it. It seemed to me that the whole of existence must be at a standstill—as if under an eclipse. GREGERS. I felt like that too, when my mother died. HIALMAR. It was in such an hour that Hialmar Ekdal pointed the pistol at his own breast. GREGERS. You too thought of——! HIALMAR. Yes. GREGERS. But you did not fire? HIALMAR. No. At the decisive moment I won the victory over myself. I remained in life. But I can assure you it takes some courage to choose life under circumstances like those. GREGERS. Well, that depends on how you look at it. HIALMAR. Yes, indeed, it takes courage. But I am glad I was firm: for now I shall soon perfect my invention; and Dr. Relling thinks, as I do myself, that father may be allowed to wear his uniform again. I will demand that as my sole reward. GREGERS. So _that_ is what he meant about his uniform——? HIALMAR. Yes, that is what he most yearns for. You can’t think how my heart bleeds for him. Every time we celebrate any little family festival—Gina’s and my wedding-day, or whatever it may be—in comes the old man in the lieutenant’s uniform of happier days. But if he only hears a knock at the door—for he daren’t show himself to strangers, you know—he hurries back to his room again as fast as his old legs can carry him. Oh, it’s heartrending for a son to see such things! GREGERS. How long do you think it will take you to finish your invention? HIALMAR. Come now, you mustn’t expect me to enter into particulars like that. An invention is not a thing completely under one’s own control. It depends largely on inspiration—on intuition—and it is almost impossible to predict when the inspiration may come. GREGERS. But it’s advancing? HIALMAR. Yes, certainly, it is advancing. I turn it over in my mind every day; I am full of it. Every afternoon, when I have had my dinner, I shut myself up in the parlour, where I can ponder undisturbed. But I can’t be goaded to it; it’s not a bit of good; Relling says so too. GREGERS. And you don’t think that all that business in the garret draws you off and distracts you too much? HIALMAR. No no no; quite the contrary. You mustn’t say that. I cannot be everlastingly absorbed in the same laborious train of thought. I must have something alongside of it to fill up the time of waiting. The inspiration, the intuition, you see—when it comes, it comes, and there’s an end of it. GREGERS. My dear Hialmar, I almost think you have something of the wild duck in you. HIALMAR. Something of the wild duck? How do you mean? GREGERS. You have dived down and bitten yourself fast in the undergrowth. HIALMAR. Are you alluding to the well-nigh fatal shot that has broken my father’s wing—and mine too? GREGERS. Not exactly to _that_. I don’t say that your wing has been broken; but you have strayed into a poisonous marsh, Hialmar; an insidious disease has taken hold of you, and you have sunk down to die in the dark. HIALMAR. I? To die in the dark? Look here, Gregers, you must really leave off talking such nonsense. GREGERS. Don’t be afraid; I shall find a way to help you up again. I too have a mission in life now; I found it yesterday. HIALMAR. That’s all very well; but you will please leave _me_ out of it. I can assure you that—apart from my very natural melancholy, of course—I am as contented as any one can wish to be. GREGERS. Your contentment is an effect of the marsh poison. HIALMAR. Now, my dear Gregers, pray do not go on about disease and poison; I am not used to that sort of talk. In my house nobody ever speaks to me about unpleasant things. GREGERS. Ah, _that_ I can easily believe. HIALMAR. It’s not good for me you see. And there _are_ no marsh poisons here, as you express it. The poor photographer’s roof is lowly, I know—and my circumstances are narrow. But I am an inventor, and I am the breadwinner of a family. That exalts me above my mean surroundings.—Ah, here comes lunch! GINA _and_ HEDVIG _bring bottles of ale, a decanter of brandy, glasses, etc. At the same time,_ RELLING _and_ MOLVIK _enter from the passage; they are both without hat or overcoat._ MOLVIK _is dressed in black._ GINA. [_Placing the things upon the table._] Ah, you two have come in the nick of time. RELLING. Molvik got it into his head that he could smell herring-salad, and then there was no holding him.—Good morning again, Ekdal. HIALMAR. Gregers, let me introduce you to Mr. Molvik. Doctor—— Oh, you know Relling, don’t you? GREGERS. Yes, slightly. RELLING. Oh, Mr. Werle, junior! Yes, we two have had one or two little skirmishes up at the Höidal works. You’ve just moved in? GREGERS. I moved in this morning. RELLING. Molvik and I live right under you; so you haven’t far to go for the doctor and the clergyman, if you should need anything in that line. GREGERS. Thanks, it’s not quite unlikely; for yesterday we were thirteen at table. HIALMAR. Oh, come now, don’t let us get upon unpleasant subjects again! RELLING. You may make your mind easy, Ekdal; I'll be hanged if the finger of fate points to you. HIALMAR. I should hope not, for the sake of my family. But let us sit down now, and eat and drink and be merry. GREGERS. Shall we not wait for your father? HIALMAR. No, his lunch will be taken in to him later. Come along! [_The men seat themselves at table, and eat and drink._ GINA _and_ HEDVIG _go in and out and wait upon them._ RELLING. Molvik was frightfully screwed yesterday, Mrs. Ekdal. GINA. Really? Yesterday again? RELLING. Didn’t you hear him when I brought him home last night? GINA. No, I can’t say I did. RELLING. That was a good thing, for Molvik was disgusting last night. GINA. Is that true, Molvik? MOLVIK. Let us draw a veil over last night’s proceedings. That sort of thing is totally foreign to my better self. RELLING. [_To_ GREGERS.] It comes over him like a sort of possession, and then I have to go out on the loose with him. Mr. Molvik is dæmonic, you see. GREGERS. Dæmonic? RELLING. Molvik is dæmonic, yes. GREGERS. H'm. RELLING. And dæmonic natures are not made to walk straight through the world; they must meander a little now and then.—Well, so you still stick up there at those horrible grimy works? GREGERS. I have stuck there until now. RELLING. And did you ever manage to collect that claim you went about presenting? GREGERS. Claim? [_Understands him._] Ah, I see. HIALMAR. Have you been presenting claims, Gregers? GREGERS. Oh, nonsense. RELLING. Faith, but he has, though! He went round to all the cottars' cabins presenting something he called “the claim of the ideal.” GREGERS. I was young then. RELLING. You’re right; you were very young. And as for the claim of the ideal—you never got it honoured while _I_ was up there. GREGERS. Nor since either. RELLING. Ah, then you’ve learnt to knock a little discount off, I expect. GREGERS. Never, when I have a true man to deal with. HIALMAR. No, I should think not, indeed. A little butter, Gina. RELLING. And a slice of bacon for Molvik. MOLVIK. Ugh! not bacon! _A knock at the garret door._ HIALMAR. Open the door, Hedvig; father wants to come out. [HEDVIG _goes over and opens the door a little way;_ EKDAL _enters with a fresh rabbit-skin; she closes the door after him._ EKDAL. Good morning, gentlemen! Good sport to-day. Shot a big one. HIALMAR. And you’ve gone and skinned it without waiting for _me_——! EKDAL. Salted it too. It’s good tender meat, is rabbit; it’s sweet; it tastes like sugar. Good appetite to you, gentlemen! _Goes into his room._ MOLVIK. [_Rising._] Excuse me——; I can’t——; I must get downstairs immediately—— RELLING. Drink some soda water, man! MOLVIK. [_Hurrying away._] Ugh—ugh! [_Goes out by the passage door._ RELLING. [_To_ HIALMAR.] Let us drain a glass to the old hunter. HIALMAR. [_Clinks glasses with him._] To the undaunted sportsman who has looked death in the face! RELLING. To the grey-haired—— [_Drinks._] By-the-bye, is his hair grey or white? HIALMAR. Something between the two, I fancy; for that matter, he has very few hairs left of any colour. RELLING. Well well, one can get through the world with a wig. After all, you are a happy man, Ekdal; you have your noble mission to labour for—— HIALMAR. And I do labour, I can tell you. RELLING. And then you have your excellent wife, shuffling quietly in and out in her felt slippers, with that see-saw walk of hers, and making everything cosy and comfortable about you. HIALMAR. Yes, Gina—[_Nods to her_]—you are a good helpmate on the path of life. GINA. Oh, don’t sit there cricketizing me. RELLING. And your Hedvig too, Ekdal! HIALMAR. [_Affected._] The child, yes! The child before everything! Hedvig, come here to me. [_Strokes her hair._] What day is it to-morrow, eh? HEDVIG. [_Shaking him._] Oh no, you’re not to say anything, father. HIALMAR. It cuts me to the heart when I think what a poor affair it will be; only a little festivity in the garret—— HEDVIG. Oh, but that’s just what I like! RELLING. Just you wait till the wonderful invention sees the light, Hedvig! HIALMAR. Yes indeed—then you shall see——! Hedvig, I have resolved to make your future secure. You shall live in comfort all your days. I will demand—something or other—on your behalf. _That_ shall be the poor inventor’s sole reward. HEDVIG. [_Whispering, with her arms round his neck._] Oh you dear, kind father! RELLING. [_To GREGERS._] Come now, don’t you find it pleasant, for once in a way, to sit at a well-spread table in a happy family circle? HIALMAR. Ah yes, I really prize these social hours. GREGERS. For my part, I don’t thrive in marsh vapours. RELLING. Marsh vapours? HIALMAR. Oh, don’t begin with that stuff again! GINA. Goodness knows there’s no vapours in _this_ house, Mr. Werle; I give the place a good airing every blessed day. GREGERS. [_Leaves the table._] No airing _you_ can give will drive out the taint I mean. HIALMAR. Taint! GINA. Yes, what do you say to that, Ekdal! RELLING. Excuse me—may it not be you yourself that have brought the taint from those mines up there? GREGERS. It is like you to call what I bring into this house a taint. RELLING. [_Goes up to him._] Look here, Mr Werle, junior: I have a strong suspicion that you are still carrying about that “claim of the ideal” large as life, in your coat-tail pocket. GREGERS. I carry it in my breast. RELLING. Well, wherever you carry it, I advise you not to come dunning us with it here, so long as _I_ am on the premises. GREGERS. And if I do so none the less? RELLING. Then you’ll go head-foremost down the stairs; now I've warned you. HIALMAR. [_Rising._] Oh, but Relling——! GREGERS. Yes, you may turn me out—— GINA. [_Interposing between them._] We can’t have that, Relling. But I must say, Mr. Werle, it ill becomes you to talk about vapours and taints, after all the mess you made with your stove. [_A knock at the passage door._ HEDVIG. Mother, there’s somebody knocking. HIALMAR. There now, we’re going to have a whole lot of people! GINA. I'll go—— [_Goes over and opens the door, starts, and draws back._] Oh—oh dear! WERLE, _in a fur coat, advances one step into the room._ WERLE. Excuse me; but I think my son is staying here. GINA. [_With a gulp._] Yes. HIALMAR. [_Approaching him._] Won’t you do us the honour to——? WERLE. Thank you, I merely wish to speak to my son. GREGERS. What is it? Here I am. WERLE. I want a few words with you, in your room. GREGERS. In my room? Very well—— _About to go._ GINA. No, no, your room’s not in a fit state—— WERLE. Well then, out in the passage here; I want to have a few words with you alone. HIALMAR. You can have them here, sir. Come into the parlour, Relling. [HIALMAR _and_ RELLING _go off to the right._ GINA _takes_ HEDVIG _with her into the kitchen._ GREGERS. [_After a short pause._] Well, now we are alone. WERLE. From something you let fall last evening, and from your coming to lodge with the Ekdals, I can’t help inferring that you intend to make yourself unpleasant to me, in one way or another. GREGERS. I intend to open Hialmar Ekdal’s eyes. He shall see his position as it really is—that is all. WERLE. Is _that_ the mission in life you spoke of yesterday? GREGERS. Yes. You have left me no other. WERLE. Is it I, then, that have crippled your mind, Gregers? GREGERS. You have crippled my whole life. I am not thinking of all that about mother—— But it’s thanks to you that I am continually haunted and harassed by a guilty conscience. WERLE. Indeed! It is your conscience that troubles you, is it? GREGERS. I ought to have taken a stand against you when the trap was set for Lieutenant Ekdal. I ought to have cautioned him; for I had a misgiving as to what was in the wind. WERLE. Yes, that was the time to have spoken. GREGERS. I did not dare to, I was so cowed and spiritless. I was mortally afraid of you—not only then, but long afterwards. WERLE. You have got over that fear now, it appears. GREGERS. Yes, fortunately. The wrong done to old Ekdal, both by me and by—others, can never be undone; but Hialmar I can rescue from all the falsehood and deception that are bringing him to ruin. WERLE. Do you think _that_ will be doing him a kindness? GREGERS. I have not the least doubt of it. WERLE. You think our worthy photographer is the sort of man to appreciate such friendly offices? GREGERS. Yes, I do. WERLE. H'm—we shall see. GREGERS. Besides, if I am to go on living, I must try to find some cure for my sick conscience. WERLE. It will never be sound. Your conscience has been sickly from childhood. That is a legacy from your mother, Gregers—the only one she left you. GREGERS. [_With a scornful half-smile._] Have you not yet forgiven her for the mistake you made in supposing she would bring you a fortune? WERLE. Don’t let us wander from the point.—Then you hold to your purpose of setting young Ekdal upon what you imagine to be the right scent? GREGERS. Yes, that is my fixed resolve. WERLE. Well, in that case I might have spared myself this visit; for of course it is useless to ask whether you will return home with me? GREGERS. Quite useless. WERLE. And I suppose you won’t enter the firm either? GREGERS. No. WERLE. Very good. But as I am thinking of marrying again, your share in the property will fall to you at once.[18] GREGERS. [_Quickly._] No, I do not want that. WERLE. You don’t want it? GREGERS. No, I dare not take it, for conscience' sake. WERLE. [_After a pause._] Are you going up to the works again? GREGERS. No; I consider myself released from your service. WERLE. But what are you going to do? GREGERS. Only to fulfil my mission; nothing more. WERLE. Well, but afterwards? What are you going to live upon? GREGERS. I have laid by a little out of my salary. WERLE. How long will _that_ last? GREGERS. I think it will last my time. WERLE. What do you mean? GREGERS. I shall answer no more questions. WERLE. Good-bye then, Gregers. GREGERS. Good-bye. WERLE _goes._ HIALMAR. [_Peeping in._] He’s gone, isn’t he? GREGERS. Yes. HIALMAR _and_ RELLING _enter; also_ GINA _and_ HEDVIG _from the kitchen._ RELLING. That luncheon-party was a failure. GREGERS. Put on your coat, Hialmar; I want you to come for a long walk with me. HIALMAR. With pleasure. What was it your father wanted? Had it anything to do with me? GREGERS. Come along. We must have a talk. I'll go and put on my overcoat. [_Goes out by the passage door._ GINA. You shouldn’t go out with him, Ekdal. RELLING. No, don’t you do it. Stay where you are. HIALMAR. [_Gets his hat and overcoat._] Oh, nonsense! When a friend of my youth feels impelled to open his mind to me in private—— RELLING. But devil take it—don’t you see that the fellow’s mad, cracked, demented! GINA. There, what did I tell you! His mother before him had crazy fits like that sometimes. HIALMAR. The more need for a friend’s watchful eye. [_To GINA._] Be sure you have dinner ready in good time. Good-bye for the present. [_Goes out by the passage door._ RELLING. It’s a thousand pities the fellow didn’t go to hell through one of the Höidal mines. GINA. Good Lord! what makes you say that? RELLING. [_Muttering._] Oh, I have my own reasons. GINA. Do you think young Werle is really mad? RELLING. No, worse luck; he’s no madder than most other people. But one disease he has certainly got in his system. GINA. What is it that’s the matter with him? RELLING. Well, I'll tell you, Mrs. Ekdal. He is suffering from an acute attack of integrity. GINA. Integrity? HEDVIG. Is that a kind of disease? RELLING. Yes, it’s a national disease; but it only appears sporadically. [_Nods to GINA._] Thanks for your hospitality. [_He goes out by the passage door._ GINA. [_Moving restlessly to and fro._] Ugh, that Gregers Werle—he was always a wretched creature. HEDVIG. [_Standing by the table, and looking searchingly at her._] I think all this is very strange. ----- Footnote 16: _A New and Universal History of the Cities of London and Westminster_, by Walter Harrison. London, 1775, folio. Footnote 17: Gregers here uses the old-fashioned expression “havsens bund,” while Hedvig would have him use the more commonplace “havets bund” or “havbunden.” Footnote 18: By Norwegian law, before a widower can marry again, a certain proportion of his property must be settled on his children by his former marriage. ACT FOURTH. HIALMAR EKDAL’S _studio. A photograph has just been taken; a camera with the cloth over it, a pedestal, two chairs, a folding table, etc., are standing out in the room. Afternoon light; the sun is going down; a little later it begins to grow dusk._ GINA _stands in the passage doorway, with a little box and a wet glass plate in her hand, and is speaking to somebody outside._ GINA. Yes, certainly. When I make a promise I keep it. The first dozen shall be ready on Monday. Good afternoon. [_Some one is heard going downstairs._ GINA _shuts the door, slips the plate into the box, and puts it into the covered camera._ HEDVIG. [_Comes in from the kitchen._] Are they gone? GINA. [_Tidying up._] Yes, thank goodness, I've got rid of them at last. HEDVIG. But can you imagine why father hasn’t come home yet? GINA. Are you sure he’s not down in Relling’s room? HEDVIG. No, he’s not; I ran down the kitchen stair just now and asked. GINA. And his dinner standing and getting cold, too. HEDVIG. Yes, I can’t understand it. Father’s always so careful to be home to dinner! GINA. Oh, he’ll be here directly, you’ll see. HEDVIG. I wish he would come; everything seems so queer to-day. GINA. [_Calls out._] There he is! HIALMAR EKDAL _comes in at the passage door._ HEDVIG. [_Going to him._] Father! Oh what a time we’ve been waiting for you! GINA. [_Glancing sidelong at him._] You’ve been out a long time, Ekdal. HIALMAR. [_Without looking at her._] Rather long, yes. [_He takes off his overcoat;_ GINA _and_ HEDVIG _go to help him; he motions them away._ GINA. Perhaps you’ve had dinner with Werle? HIALMAR. [_Hanging up his coat._] No. GINA. [_Going towards the kitchen door._] Then I'll bring some in for you. HIALMAR. No; let the dinner alone. I want nothing to eat. HEDVIG. [_Going nearer to him._] Are you not well, father? HIALMAR. Well? Oh yes, well enough. We have had a tiring walk, Gregers and I. GINA. You didn’t ought to have gone so far, Ekdal; you’re not used to it. HIALMAR. H'm; there’s many a thing a man must get used to in this world. [_Wanders about the room._] Has any one been here whilst I was out? GINA. Nobody but the two sweethearts. HIALMAR. No new orders? GINA. No, not to-day. HEDVIG. There will be some to-morrow, father, you’ll see. HIALMAR. I hope there will; for to-morrow I am going to set to work in real earnest. HEDVIG. To-morrow! Don’t you remember what day it is to-morrow? HIALMAR. Oh yes, by-the-bye——. Well, the day after, then. Henceforth I mean to do everything myself; I shall take all the work into my own hands. GINA. Why, what can be the good of that, Ekdal? It’ll only make your life a burden to you. I can manage the photography all right; and you can go on working at your invention. HEDVIG. And think of the wild duck, father,—and all the hens and rabbits and——! HIALMAR. Don’t talk to me of all that trash! From to-morrow I will never set foot in the garret again. HEDVIG. Oh but, father, you promised that we should have a little party—— HIALMAR. H'm, true. Well then, from the day after tomorrow. I should almost like to wring that cursëd wild duck’s neck! HEDVIG. [_Shrieks._] The wild duck! GINA. Well I never! HEDVIG. [_Shaking him._] Oh no, father; you know it’s _my_ wild duck! HIALMAR. That is why I don’t do it. I haven’t the heart to—for your sake, Hedvig. But in my inmost soul I feel that I ought to do it. I ought not to tolerate under my roof a creature that has been through _those_ hands. GINA. Why, good gracious, even if grandfather did get it from that poor creature, Pettersen—— HIALMAR. [_Wandering about._] There are certain claims—what shall I call them?—let me say claims of the ideal—certain obligations, which a man cannot disregard without injury to his soul. HEDVIG. [_Going after him._] But think of the wild duck,—the poor wild duck! HIALMAR. [_Stops._] I tell you I will spare it—for your sake. Not a hair of its head shall be—I mean, it shall be spared. There are greater problems than that to be dealt with. But you should go out a little now, Hedvig, as usual; it is getting dusk enough for you now. HEDVIG. No? I don’t care about going out now. HIALMAR. Yes do; it seems to me your eyes are blinking a great deal; all these vapours in here are bad for you. The air is heavy under this roof. HEDVIG. Very well then, I'll run down the kitchen stair and go for a little walk. My cloak and hat?—oh, they’re in my own room. Father—be sure you don’t do the wild duck any harm whilst I'm out. HIALMAR. Not a feather of its head shall be touched. [_Draws her to him._] You and I, Hedvig—we two——! Well, go along. [HEDVIG _nods to her parents and goes out through the kitchen._ HIALMAR. [_Walks about without looking up._] Gina. GINA. Yes? HIALMAR. From to-morrow—or, say, from the day after to-morrow—I should like to keep the household account-book myself. GINA. Do you want to keep the accounts too, now? HIALMAR. Yes; or to check the receipts at any rate. GINA. Lord help us! _that’s_ soon done. HIALMAR. One would hardly think so; at any rate you seem to make the money go a very long way. [_Stops and looks at her._] How do you manage it? GINA. It’s because me and Hedvig, we need so little. HIALMAR. Is it the case that father is very liberally paid for the copying he does for Mr. Werle? GINA. I don’t know as he gets anything out of the way. I don’t know the rates for that sort of work. HIALMAR. Well, what does he get, about? Let me hear! GINA. Oh, it varies; I daresay it’ll come to about as much as he costs us, with a little pocket-money over. HIALMAR. As much as he costs us! And you have never told me this before! GINA. No, how could I tell you? It pleased you so much to think he got everything from you. HIALMAR. And he gets it from Mr. Werle. GINA. Oh well, he has plenty and to spare, he has. HIALMAR. Light the lamp for me, please! GINA. [_Lighting the lamp._] And of course we don’t know as it’s Mr. Werle himself; it may be Gråberg—— HIALMAR. Why attempt such an evasion? GINA. I don’t know; I only thought—— HIALMAR. H'm! GINA. It wasn’t me that got grandfather that copying. It was Bertha, when she used to come about us. HIALMAR. It seems to me your voice is trembling. GINA. [_Putting the lamp-shade on._] Is it? HIALMAR. And your hands are shaking, are they not? GINA. [_Firmly._] Come right out with it, Ekdal. What has he been saying about me? HIALMAR. Is it true—_can_ it be true that—that there was an—an understanding between you and Mr. Werle, while you were in service there? GINA. That’s not true. Not at that time. Mr. Werle did come after me, that’s a fact. And his wife thought there was something in it, and then she made such a hocus-pocus and hurly-burly, and she hustled me and bustled me about so, that I left her service. HIALMAR. But afterwards, then? GINA. Well, then I went home. And mother—well, she wasn’t the woman you took her for, Ekdal; she kept on worrying and worrying at me about one thing and another—for Mr. Werle was a widower by that time. HIALMAR. Well, and then? GINA. I suppose you’ve got to know it. He gave me no peace until he’d had his way. HIALMAR. [_Striking his hands together._] And this is the mother of my child! How could you hide this from me? GINA. Yes, it was wrong of me; I ought certainly to have told you long ago. HIALMAR. You should have told me at the very first;—then I should have known the sort of woman you were. GINA. But would you have married me all the same? HIALMAR. How can you dream that I would? GINA. That’s just why I didn’t dare tell you anything, then. For I'd come to care for you so much, you see; and I couldn’t go and make myself utterly miserable—— HIALMAR. [_Walks about._] And this is my Hedvig’s mother. And to know that all I see before me—[_Kicks at a chair._]—all that I call my home—I owe to a favoured predecessor! Oh that scoundrel Werle! GINA. Do you repent of the fourteen—the fifteen years as we’ve lived together? HIALMAR. [_Placing himself in front of her._] Have you not every day, every hour, repented of the spider’s-web of deceit you have spun around me? Answer me that! How could you help writhing with penitence and remorse? GINA. Oh, my dear Ekdal, I've had all I could do to look after the house and get through the day’s work—— HIALMAR. Then you never think of reviewing your past? GINA. No; Heaven knows I'd almost forgotten those old stories. HIALMAR. Oh, this dull, callous contentment! To me there is something revolting about it. Think of it—never so much as a twinge of remorse! GINA. But tell me, Ekdal—what would have become of you if you hadn’t had a wife like me? HIALMAR. Like you——! GINA. Yes; for you know I've always been a bit more practical and wide-awake than you. Of course I'm a year or two older. HIALMAR. What would have become of me! GINA. You’d got into all sorts of bad ways when first you met me; that you can’t deny. HIALMAR. “Bad ways” do you call them? Little do you know what a man goes through when he is in grief and despair—especially a man of my fiery temperament. GINA. Well, well, that may be so. And I've no reason to crow over you, neither; for you turned a moral of a husband, that you did, as soon as ever you had a house and home of your own.—And now we’d got everything so nice and cosy about us; and me and Hedvig was just thinking we’d soon be able to let ourselves go a bit, in the way of both food and clothes. HIALMAR. In the swamp of deceit, yes. GINA. I wish to goodness that detestable being had never set his foot inside our doors! HIALMAR. And I, too, thought my home such a pleasant one. That was a delusion. Where shall I now find the elasticity of spirit to bring my invention into the world of reality? Perhaps it will die with me; and then it will be your past, Gina, that will have killed it. GINA. [_Nearly crying._] You mustn’t say such things, Ekdal. _Me_, that has only wanted to do the best I could for you, all my days! HIALMAR. I ask you, what becomes of the breadwinner’s dream? When I used to lie in there on the sofa and brood over my invention, I had a clear enough presentiment that it would sap my vitality to the last drop. I felt even then that the day when I held the patent in my hand—that day—would bring my—release. And then it was my dream that you should live on after me, the dead inventor’s well-to-do widow. GINA. [_Drying her tears._] No, you mustn’t talk like that, Ekdal. May the Lord never let me see the day I am left a widow! HIALMAR. Oh, the whole dream has vanished. It is all over now. All over! GREGERS WERLE _opens the passage door cautiously and looks in._ GREGERS. May I come in? HIALMAR. Yes, come in. GREGERS. [_Comes forward, his face beaming with satisfaction, and holds out both his hands to them._] Well, dear friends——! [_Looks from one to the other, and whispers to HIALMAR._] Have you not done it yet? HIALMAR. [_Aloud._] It is done. GREGERS. It is? HIALMAR. I have passed through the bitterest moments of my life. GREGERS. But also, I trust, the most ennobling. HIALMAR. Well, at any rate, we have got through it for the present. GINA. God forgive you, Mr. Werle. GREGERS. [_In great surprise._] But I don’t understand this. HIALMAR. What don’t you understand? GREGERS. After so great a crisis—a crisis that is to be the starting-point of an entirely new life—of a communion founded on truth, and free from all taint of deception—— HIALMAR. Yes yes, I know; I know that quite well. GREGERS. I confidently expected, when I entered the room, to find the light of transfiguration shining upon me from both husband and wife. And now I see nothing but dulness, oppression, gloom—— GINA. Oh, is that it? _Takes off the lamp-shade._ GREGERS. You will not understand me, Mrs. Ekdal. Ah well, _you_, I suppose, need time to——. But you, Hialmar? Surely you feel a new consecration after the great crisis. HIALMAR. Yes, of course I do. That is—in a sort of way. GREGERS. For surely nothing in the world can compare with the joy of forgiving one who has erred, and raising her up to oneself in love. HIALMAR. Do you think a man can so easily throw off the effects of the bitter cup I have drained? GREGERS. No, not a _common_ man, perhaps. But a man like _you_——! HIALMAR. Good God! I know that well enough. But you must keep me up to it, Gregers. It takes time, you know. GREGERS. You have _much_ of the wild duck in you, Hialmar. RELLING _has come in at the passage door._ RELLING. Oho! is the wild duck to the fore again? HIALMAR. Yes; Mr. Werle’s wing-broken victim. RELLING. Mr. Werle’s——? So it’s _him_ you are talking about? HIALMAR. Him and—ourselves. RELLING. [_In an undertone to GREGERS._] May the devil fly away with you! HIALMAR. What is that you are saying? RELLING. Only uttering a heartfelt wish that this quack-salver would take himself off. If he stays here, he is quite equal to making an utter mess of life, for both of you. GREGERS. These two will not make a mess of life, Mr. Relling. Of course I won’t speak of Hialmar—him we know. But she, too, in her innermost heart, has certainly something loyal and sincere—— GINA. [_Almost crying._] You might have let me alone for what I was, then. RELLING. [_To GREGERS._] Is it rude to ask what you really want in this house? GREGERS. To lay the foundations of a true marriage. RELLING. So you don’t think Ekdal’s marriage is good enough as it is? GREGERS. No doubt it is as good a marriage as most others, worse luck. But a _true_ marriage it has yet to become. HIALMAR. You have never had eyes for the claims of the ideal, Relling. RELLING. Rubbish, my boy!—But excuse me, Mr. Werle: how many—in round numbers—how many true marriages have you seen in the course of your life? GREGERS. Scarcely a single one. RELLING. Nor I either. GREGERS. But I have seen innumerable marriages of the opposite kind. And it has been my fate to see at close quarters what ruin such a marriage can work in two human souls. HIALMAR. A man’s whole moral basis may give away beneath his feet; _that_ is the terrible part of it. RELLING. Well, I can’t say I've ever been exactly married, so I don’t pretend to speak with authority. But this I know, that the _child_ enters into the marriage problem. And you must leave the child in peace. HIALMAR. Oh—Hedvig! my poor Hedvig! RELLING. Yes, you must be good enough to keep Hedvig outside of all this. You two are grown-up people; you are free, in God’s name, to make what mess and muddle you please of your life. But you must deal cautiously with Hedvig, I tell you; else you may do her a great injury. HIALMAR. An injury! RELLING. Yes, or she may do herself an injury—and perhaps others too. GINA. How can you know that, Relling? HIALMAR. Her sight is in no immediate danger, is it? RELLING. I am not talking about her sight. Hedvig is at a critical age. She may be getting all sorts of mischief into her head. GINA. That’s true—I've noticed it already! She’s taken to carrying on with the fire, out in the kitchen. She calls it playing at house-on-fire. I'm often scared for fear she really sets fire to the house. RELLING. You see; I thought as much. GREGERS. [_To RELLING._] But how do you account for that? RELLING. [_Sullenly._] Her constitution’s changing, sir. HIALMAR. So long as the child has _me_——! So long as _I_ am above ground——! _A knock at the door._ GINA. Hush, Ekdal; there’s some one in the passage. [_Calls out._] Come in! [MRS. SÖRBY, _in walking dress, comes in._ MRS. SÖRBY. Good evening. GINA. [_Going towards her_]. Is it really you, Bertha? MRS. SÖRBY. Yes, of course it is. But I'm disturbing you, I'm afraid? HIALMAR. No, not at all; an emissary from _that_ house—— MRS. SÖRBY. [_To GINA._] To tell the truth, I hoped your men-folk would be out at this time. I just ran up to have a little chat with you, and to say good-bye. GINA. Good-bye? Are you going away, then? MRS. SÖRBY. Yes, to-morrow morning,—up to Höidal. Mr. Werle started this afternoon. [_Lightly to GREGERS._] He asked me to say good-bye for him. GINA. Only fancy——! HIALMAR. So Mr. Werle has gone? And now you are going after him? MRS. SÖRBY Yes, what do you say to _that_, Ekdal? HIALMAR. I say: beware! GREGERS. I must explain the situation. My father and Mrs. Sörby are going to be married. HIALMAR. Going to be married! GINA. Oh Bertha! So it’s come to that at last! RELLING. [_His voice quivering a little._] This is surely not true? MRS. SÖRBY. Yes, my dear Relling, it’s true enough. RELLING. You are going to marry again? MRS. SÖRBY. Yes, it looks like it. Werle has got a special licence, and we are going to be married quite quietly, up at the works. GREGERS. Then I must wish you all happiness, like a dutiful stepson. MRS. SÖRBY. Thank you very much—if you mean what you say. I certainly hope it will lead to happiness, both for Werle and for me. RELLING. You have every reason to hope that. Mr. Werle never gets drunk—so far as I know; and I don’t suppose he’s in the habit of thrashing his wives, like the late lamented horse-doctor. MRS. SÖRBY. Come now, let Sörby rest in peace. He had his good points too. RELLING. Mr. Werle has better ones, I have no doubt. MRS. SÖRBY. He hasn’t frittered away all that was good in him, at any rate. The man who does that must take the consequences. RELLING. I shall go out with Molvik this evening. MRS. SÖRBY. You musn’t do that, Relling. Don’t do it—for my sake. RELLING. There’s nothing else for it. [_To HIALMAR._] If you’re going with us, come along. GINA. No, thank you. Ekdal doesn’t go in for _that_ sort of dissertation. HIALMAR. [_Half aloud, in vexation._] Oh, do hold your tongue! RELLING. Good-bye, Mrs.—Werle. [_Goes out through the passage door._ GREGERS. [_To MRS. SÖRBY._] You seem to know Dr. Relling pretty intimately. MRS. SÖRBY. Yes, we have known each other for many years. At one time it seemed as if things might have gone further between us. GREGERS. It was surely lucky for you that they did not. MRS. SÖRBY. You may well say that. But I have always been wary of acting on impulse. A woman can’t afford absolutely to throw herself away. GREGERS. Are you not in the least afraid that I may let my father know about this old friendship? MRS. SÖRBY. Why, of course I have told him all about it myself. GREGERS. Indeed? MRS. SÖRBY. Your father knows every single thing that can, with any truth, be said about me. I have told him all; it was the first thing I did when I saw what was in his mind. GREGERS. Then you have been franker than most people, I think. MRS. SÖRBY. I have always been frank. We women find that the best policy. HIALMAR. What do you say to that, Gina? GINA. Oh, we’re not all alike, us women aren’t. Some are made one way, some another. MRS. SÖRBY. Well, for my part, Gina, I believe it’s wisest to do as I've done. And Werle has no secrets either, on his side. That’s really the great bond between us, you see. Now he can talk to me as openly as a child. He has never had the chance to do that before. Fancy a man like him, full of health and vigour, passing his whole youth and the best years of his life in listening to nothing but penitential sermons! And very often the sermons had for their text the most imaginary offences—at least so I understand. GINA. That’s true enough. GREGERS. If you ladies are going to follow up this topic, I had better withdraw. MRS. SÖRBY. You can stay so far as that’s concerned. I shan’t say a word more. But I wanted you to know that I had done nothing secretly or in an underhand way. I may seem to have come in for a great piece of luck; and so I have, in a sense. But after all, I don’t think I am getting any more than I am giving. I shall stand by him always, and I can tend and care for him as no one else can, now that he is getting helpless. HIALMAR. Getting helpless? GREGERS. [_To MRS. SÖRBY._] Hush, don’t speak of that here. MRS. SÖRBY. There is no disguising it any longer, however much he would like to. He is going blind. HIALMAR. [_Starts._] Going blind? That’s strange. He too going blind! GINA. Lots of people do. MRS. SÖRBY. And you can imagine what _that_ means to a business man. Well, I shall try as well as I can to make my eyes take the place of his. But I musn’t stay any longer; I have such heaps of things to do.—Oh, by-the-bye, Ekdal, I was to tell you that if there is anything Werle can do for you, you must just apply to Gråberg. GREGERS. That offer I am sure Hialmar Ekdal will decline with thanks. MRS. SÖRBY. Indeed? I don’t think he used to be so—— GINA. No, Bertha, Ekdal doesn’t need anything from Mr. Werle now. HIALMAR. [_Slowly, and with emphasis._] Will you present my compliments to your future husband, and say that I intend very shortly to call upon Mr. Gråberg—— GREGERS. What! You don’t really mean that? HIALMAR. To call upon Mr. Gråberg, I say, and obtain an account of the sum I owe his principal. I will pay that debt of honour—ha ha ha! a debt of honour, let us call it! In any case, I will pay the whole, with five per cent. interest. GINA. But, my dear Ekdal, God knows we haven’t got the money to do it. HIALMAR. Be good enough to tell your future husband that I am working assiduously at my invention. Please tell him that what sustains me in this laborious task is the wish to free myself from a torturing burden of debt. That is my reason for proceeding with the invention. The entire profits shall be devoted to releasing me from my pecuniary obligations to your future husband. MRS. SÖRBY. Something has happened here. HIALMAR. Yes, you are right. MRS. SÖRBY. Well, good-bye. I had something else to speak to you about, Gina; but it must keep till another time. Good-bye. [HIALMAR _and_ GREGERS _bow silently._ GINA _follows_ MRS. SÖRBY _to the door._ HIALMAR. Not beyond the threshold, Gina! [MRS. SÖRBY _goes;_ GINA _shuts the door after her._ HIALMAR. There now, Gregers; I have got that burden of debt off my mind. GREGERS. You soon will, at all events. HIALMAR. I think my attitude may be called correct. GREGERS. You are the man I have always taken you for. HIALMAR. In certain cases, it is impossible to disregard the claim of the ideal. Yet, as the breadwinner of a family, I cannot but writhe and groan under it. I can tell you it is no joke for a man without capital to attempt the repayment of a long-standing obligation, over which, so to speak, the dust of oblivion had gathered. But it cannot be helped: the Man in me demands his rights. GREGERS. [_Laying his hand on HIALMAR’S shoulder._] My dear Hialmar—was it not a good thing I came? HIALMAR. Yes. GREGERS. Are you not glad to have had your true position made clear to you? HIALMAR. [_Somewhat impatiently._] Yes, of course I am. But there is one thing that is revolting to my sense of justice. GREGERS. And what is that? HIALMAR. It is that—but I don’t know whether I ought to express myself so unreservedly about your father. GREGERS. Say what you please, so far as I am concerned. HIALMAR. Well then, is it not exasperating to think that it is not I, but he, who will realise the true marriage? GREGERS. How can you say such a thing? HIALMAR. Because it is clearly the case. Isn’t the marriage between your father and Mrs. Sörby founded upon complete confidence, upon entire and unreserved candour on both sides? They hide nothing from each other, they keep no secrets in the background; their relation is based, if I may put it so, on mutual confession and absolution. GREGERS. Well, what then? HIALMAR. Well, is not that the whole thing? Did you not yourself say that this was precisely the difficulty that had to be overcome in order to found a true marriage? GREGERS. But this is a totally different matter, Hialmar. You surely don’t compare either yourself or your wife with those two——? Oh, you understand me well enough. HIALMAR. Say what you like, there is something in all this that hurts and offends my sense of justice. It really looks as if there were no just providence to rule the world. GINA. Oh no, Ekdal; for God’s sake don’t say such things. GREGERS. H'm; don’t let us get upon those questions. HIALMAR. And yet, after all, I cannot but recognise the guiding finger of fate. He is going blind. GINA. Oh, you can’t be sure of that. HIALMAR. There is no doubt about it. At all events there ought not to be; for in that very fact lies the righteous retribution. He has hoodwinked a confiding fellow creature in days gone by—— GREGERS. I fear he has hoodwinked many. HIALMAR. And now comes inexorable, mysterious Fate, and demands Werle’s own eyes. GINA. Oh, how dare you say such dreadful things! You make me quite scared. HIALMAR. It is profitable, now and then, to plunge deep into the night side of existence. HEDVIG, _in her hat and cloak, comes in by the passage door. She is pleasurably excited, and out of breath._ GINA. Are you back already? HEDVIG. Yes, I didn’t care to go any farther. It was a good thing, too; for I've just met some one at the door. HIALMAR. It must have been that Mrs. Sörby. HEDVIG. Yes. HIALMAR. [_Walks up and down._] I hope you have seen her for the last time. [_Silence._ HEDVIG, _discouraged, looks first at one and then at the other, trying to divine their frame of mind._ HEDVIG. [_Approaching, coaxingly._] Father. HIALMAR. Well—what is it, Hedvig? HEDVIG. Mrs. Sörby had something with her for me. HIALMAR. [_Stops._] For you? HEDVIG. Yes. Something for to-morrow. GINA. Bertha has always given you some little thing on your birthday. HIALMAR. What is it? HEDVIG. Oh, you mustn’t see it now. Mother is to give it to me to-morrow morning before I'm up. HIALMAR. What is all this hocus-pocus that I am to be kept in the dark about! HEDVIG. [_Quickly._] Oh no, you may see it if you like. It’s a big letter. [_Takes the letter out of her cloak pocket._ HIALMAR. A letter too? HEDVIG. Yes, it is only a letter. The rest will come afterwards, I suppose. But fancy—a letter! I've never had a letter before. And there’s “Miss” written upon it. [_Reads._] “Miss Hedvig Ekdal.” Only fancy—that’s me! HIALMAR. Let me see that letter. HEDVIG. [_Hands it to him._] There it is. HIALMAR. That is Mr. Werle’s hand. GINA. Are you sure of that, Ekdal? HIALMAR. Look for yourself. GINA. Oh, what do _I_ know about such-like things? HIALMAR. Hedvig, may I open the letter—and read it? HEDVIG. Yes, of course you may, if you want to. GINA. No, not to-night, Ekdal; it’s to be kept till to-morrow. HEDVIG. [_Softly._] Oh, can’t you let him read it! It’s sure to be something good; and then father will be glad, and everything will be nice again. HIALMAR. I may open it then? HEDVIG. Yes do, father. I'm so anxious to know what it is. HIALMAR. Well and good. [_Opens the letter, takes out a paper, reads it through, and appears bewildered._] What is this——! GINA. What does it say? HEDVIG. Oh yes, father—tell us! HIALMAR. Be quiet. [_Reads it through again; he has turned_ _pale, but says with self-control_:] It is a deed of gift, Hedvig. HEDVIG. Is it? What sort of gift am I to have? HIALMAR. Read for yourself. [HEDVIG _goes over and reads for a time by the lamp._ HIALMAR. [_Half-aloud, clenching his hands._] The eyes! The eyes—and then that letter! HEDVIG. [_Leaves off reading._] Yes, but it seems to me that it’s grandfather that’s to have it. HIALMAR. [_Takes the letter from her._] Gina—can you understand this? GINA. I know nothing whatever about it; tell me what’s the matter. HIALMAR. Mr. Werle writes to Hedvig that her old grandfather need not trouble himself any longer with the copying, but that he can henceforth draw on the office for a hundred crowns a month—— GREGERS. Aha! HEDVIG. A hundred crowns, mother! I read that. GINA. What a good thing for grandfather! HIALMAR. ——a hundred crowns a month so long as he needs it—that means, of course, so long as he lives. GINA. Well, so he’s provided for, poor dear. HIALMAR. But there is more to come. You didn’t read that, Hedvig. Afterwards this gift is to pass on to you. HEDVIG. To me! The whole of it? HIALMAR. He says that the same amount is assured to you for the whole of your life. Do you hear that, Gina? GINA. Yes, I hear. HEDVIG. Fancy—all that money for me! [_Shakes him._] Father, father, aren’t you glad——? HIALMAR. [_Eluding her._] Glad! [_Walks about._] Oh what vistas—what perspectives open up before me! It is Hedvig, Hedvig that he showers these benefactions upon! GINA. Yes, because it’s Hedvig’s birthday—— HEDVIG. And you’ll get it all the same, father! You know quite well I shall give all the money to you and mother. HIALMAR. To mother, yes! There we have it. GREGERS. Hialmar, this is a trap he is setting for you. HIALMAR. Do you think it’s another trap? GREGERS. When he was here this morning he said: Hialmar Ekdal is not the man you imagine him to be. HIALMAR. Not the man——! GREGERS. That you shall see, he said. HIALMAR. He meant you should see that I would let myself be bought off——! HEDVIG. Oh mother, what does all this mean? GINA. Go and take off your things. [HEDVIG _goes out by the kitchen door, half-crying._ GREGERS. Yes, Hialmar—now is the time to show who was right, he or I. HIALMAR. [_Slowly tears the paper across, lays both pieces on the table, and says_:] Here is my answer. GREGERS. Just what I expected. HIALMAR. [_Goes over to GINA, who stands by the stove, and says in a low voice_:] Now please make a clean breast of it. If the connection between you and him was quite over when you—came to care for me, as you call it—why did he place us in a position to marry? GINA. I suppose he thought as he could come and go in our house. HIALMAR. Only _that_? Was not he afraid of a possible contingency? GINA. I don’t know what you mean. HIALMAR. I want to know whether—your child has the right to live under my roof. GINA. [_Draws herself up; her eyes flash._] _You_ ask that! HIALMAR. You shall answer me this one question: Does Hedvig belong to me—or——? Well! GINA. [_Looking at him with cold defiance._] I don’t know. HIALMAR. [_Quivering a little._] You don’t know! GINA. How should _I_ know? A creature like _me_—— HIALMAR. [_Quietly turning away from her._] Then I have nothing more to do in this house. GREGERS. Take care, Hialmar! Think what you are doing! HIALMAR. [_Puts on his overcoat._] In this case, there is nothing for a man like me to think twice about. GREGERS. Yes indeed, there are endless things to be considered. You three must be together if you are to attain the true frame of mind for self-sacrifice and forgiveness. HIALMAR. I don’t want to attain it. Never, never! My hat! [_Takes his hat._] My home has fallen in ruins about me. [_Bursts into tears._] Gregers, I have no child! HEDVIG. [_Who has opened the kitchen door._] What is that you’re saying? [_Coming to him._] Father, father! GINA. There, you see! HIALMAR. Don’t come near me, Hedvig! Keep far away. I cannot bear to see you. Oh! those eyes——! Good-bye. _Makes for the door._ HEDVIG. [_Clinging close to him and screaming loudly._] No! no! Don’t leave me! GINA. [_Cries out._] Look at the child, Ekdal! Look at the child! HIALMAR. I will not! I cannot! I must get out—away from all this! [_He tears himself away from_ HEDVIG, _and goes out by the passage door._ HEDVIG. [_With despairing eyes._] He is going away from us, mother! He is going away from us! He will never come back again! GINA. Don’t cry, Hedvig. Father’s sure to come back again. HEDVIG. [_Throws herself sobbing on the sofa._] No, no, he’ll never come home to us any more. GREGERS. Do you believe I meant all for the best, Mrs. Ekdal? GINA. Yes, I daresay you did; but God forgive you, all the same. HEDVIG. [_Lying on the sofa._] Oh, this will kill me! What have I done to him? Mother, you must fetch him home again! GINA. Yes yes yes; only be quiet, and I'll go out and look for him. [_Puts on her outdoor things._] Perhaps he’s gone in to Relling’s. But you mustn’t lie there and cry. Promise me! HEDVIG. [_Weeping convulsively._] Yes, I'll stop, I'll stop; if only father comes back! GREGERS. [_To GINA, who is going._] After all, had you not better leave him to fight out his bitter fight to the end? GINA. Oh, he can do that afterwards. First of all, we must get the child quieted. [_Goes out by the passage door._ HEDVIG. [_Sits up and dries her tears._] Now you must tell me what all this means. Why doesn’t father want me any more? GREGERS. You mustn’t ask that till you are a big girl—quite grown-up. HEDVIG. [_Sobs._] But I can’t go on being as miserable as this till I'm grown-up.—I think I know what it is.—Perhaps I'm not really father’s child. GREGERS. [_Uneasily._] How could _that_ be? HEDVIG. Mother might have found me. And perhaps father has just got to know it; I've read of such things. GREGERS. Well, but if it were so—— HEDVIG. I think he might be just as fond of me for all that. Yes, fonder almost. We got the wild duck in a present, you know, and I love it so dearly all the same. GREGERS. [_Turning the conversation._] Ah, the wild duck, by-the-bye! Let us talk about the wild duck a little, HEDVIG. HEDVIG. The poor wild duck! He doesn’t want to see it any more either. Only think, he wanted to wring its neck! GREGERS. Oh, he won’t do that. HEDVIG. No; but he said he would like to. And I think it was horrid of father to say it; for I pray for the wild duck every night, and ask that it may be preserved from death and all that is evil. GREGERS. [_Looking at her._] Do you say your prayers every night? HEDVIG. Yes. GREGERS. Who taught you to do that? HEDVIG. I myself; one time when father was very ill, and had leeches on his neck, and said that death was staring him in the face. GREGERS. Well? HEDVIG. Then I prayed for him as I lay in bed; and since then I have always kept it up. GREGERS. And now you pray for the wild duck too? HEDVIG. I thought it was best to bring in the wild duck; for she was so weakly at first. GREGERS. Do you pray in the morning, too? HEDVIG. No, of course not. GREGERS. Why not in the morning as well? HEDVIG. In the morning it’s light, you know, and there’s nothing in particular to be afraid of. GREGERS. And your father was going to wring the neck of the wild duck that you love so dearly? HEDVIG. No; he said he ought to wring its neck, but he would spare it for my sake; and that was kind of father. GREGERS. [_Coming a little nearer._] But suppose you were to sacrifice the wild duck of your own free will for _his_ sake. HEDVIG. [_Rising._] The wild duck! GREGERS. Suppose you were to make a free-will offering, for his sake, of the dearest treasure you have in the world! HEDVIG. Do you think _that_ would do any good? GREGERS. Try it, Hedvig. HEDVIG. [_Softly, with flashing eyes._] Yes, I will try it. GREGERS. Have you really the courage for it, do you think? HEDVIG. I'll ask grandfather to shoot the wild duck for me. GREGERS. Yes, do. But not a word to your mother about it. HEDVIG. Why not? GREGERS. She doesn’t understand us. HEDVIG. The wild duck! I'll try it to-morrow morning! [GINA _comes in by the passage door._ HEDVIG. [_Going towards her._] Did you find him, mother? GINA. No, but I heard as he had called and taken Relling with him. GREGERS. Are you sure of that? GINA. Yes, the porter’s wife said so. Molvik went with them too, she said. GREGERS. This evening, when his mind so sorely needs to wrestle in solitude——! GINA. [_Takes off her things._] Yes, men are strange creatures, so they are. The Lord only knows where Relling has dragged him to! I ran over to Madam Eriksen’s, but they weren’t _there_. HEDVIG. [_Struggling to keep back her tears._] Oh, if he should never come home any more! GREGERS. He _will_ come home again. I shall have news to give him to-morrow; and then you shall see _how_ he comes home. You may rely upon that, Hedvig, and sleep in peace. Good-night. [_He goes out by the passage door._ HEDVIG. [_Throws herself sobbing on_ GINA’S _neck._] Mother, mother! GINA. [_Pats her shoulder and sighs._] Ah yes; Relling was right, he was. That’s what comes of it when crazy creatures go about presenting the claims of the—what-you-may-call-it. ACT FIFTH. HIALMAR EKDAL’S _studio. Cold, grey, morning light. Wet snow lies upon the large panes of the sloping roof-window._ GINA _comes from the kitchen with an apron and bib on, and carrying a dusting-brush and a duster; she goes towards the sitting-room door. At the same moment_ HEDVIG _comes hurriedly in from the passage._ GINA. [_Stops._] Well? HEDVIG. Oh, mother, I almost think he’s down at Relling’s—— GINA. There, you see! HEDVIG. ——because the porter’s wife says she could hear that Relling had two people with him when he came home last night. GINA. That’s just what I thought. HEDVIG. But it’s no use his being there, if he won’t come up to us. GINA. I'll go down and speak to him at all events. OLD EKDAL, _in dressing-gown and slippers, and with a lighted pipe, appears at the door of his room._ EKDAL. Hialmar—— Isn’t Hialmar at home? GINA. No, he’s gone out. EKDAL. So early? And in such a tearing snowstorm? Well well; just as he pleases; I can take my morning walk alone. [_He slides the garret door aside;_ HEDVIG _helps him; he goes in; she closes it after him._ HEDVIG. [_In an undertone._] Only think, mother, when poor grandfather hears that father is going to leave us. GINA. Oh, nonsense; grandfather mustn’t hear anything about it. It was a heaven’s mercy he wasn’t at home yesterday in all that hurly-burly. HEDVIG. Yes, but—— [GREGERS _comes in by the passage door._ GREGERS. Well, have you any news of him? GINA. They say he’s down at Relling’s. GREGERS. At Relling’s! Has he really been out with those creatures? GINA. Yes, like enough. GREGERS. When he ought to have been yearning for solitude, to collect and clear his thoughts—— GINA. Yes, you may well say so. RELLING _enters from the passage._ HEDVIG. [_Going to him._] Is father in your room? GINA. [_At the same time._] Is he there? RELLING. Yes, to be sure he is. HEDVIG. And you never let us know! RELLING. Yes; I'm a brute. But in the first place I had to look after the other brute; I mean our dæmonic friend, of course; and then I fell so dead asleep that—— GINA. What does Ekdal say to-day? RELLING. He says nothing whatever. HEDVIG. Doesn’t he speak? RELLING. Not a blessed word. GREGERS. No no; I can understand that very well. GINA. But what’s he doing then? RELLING. He’s lying on the sofa, snoring. GINA. Oh is he? Yes, Ekdal’s a rare one to snore. HEDVIG. Asleep? Can he sleep? RELLING. Well, it certainly looks like it. GREGERS. No wonder, after the spiritual conflict that has rent him—— GINA. And then he’s never been used to gadding about out of doors at night. HEDVIG. Perhaps it’s a good thing that he’s getting some sleep, mother. GINA. Of course it is; and we must take care we don’t wake him up too early. Thank you, RELLING. I must get the house cleaned up a bit now, and then—— Come and help me, Hedvig. [GINA _and_ HEDVIG _go into the sitting-room._ GREGERS. [_Turning to RELLING._] What is your explanation of the spiritual tumult that is now going on in Hialmar Ekdal? RELLING. Devil a bit of a spiritual tumult have _I_ noticed in him. GREGERS. What! Not at such a crisis, when his whole life has been placed on a new foundation——? How can you think that such an individuality as Hialmar’s——? RELLING. Oh, individuality—he! If he ever had any tendency to the abnormal developments you call individuality, I can assure you it was rooted out of him while he was still in his teens. GREGERS. That would be strange indeed,—considering the loving care with which he was brought up. RELLING. By those two high-flown, hysterical maiden aunts, you mean? GREGERS. Let me tell you that they were women who never forgot the claim of the ideal—but of course you will only jeer at me again. RELLING. No, I'm in no humour for that. I know all about those ladies; for he has ladled out no end of rhetoric on the subject of his “two soul-mothers.” But I don’t think he has much to thank them for. Ekdal’s misfortune is that in his own circle he has always been looked upon as a shining light—— GREGERS. Not without reason, surely. Look at the depth of his mind! RELLING. _I_ have never discovered it. That his father believed in it I don’t so much wonder; the old lieutenant has been an ass all his days. GREGERS. He has had a child-like mind all his days; that is what you cannot understand. RELLING. Well, so be it. But then, when our dear, sweet Hialmar went to college, he at once passed for the great light of the future amongst his comrades too! He was handsome, the rascal—red and white—a shop-girl’s dream of manly beauty; and with his superficially emotional temperament, and his sympathetic voice, and his talent for declaiming other people’s verses and other people’s thoughts—— GREGERS. [_Indignantly._] Is it Hialmar Ekdal you are talking about in this strain? RELLING. Yes, with your permission; I am simply giving you an inside view of the idol you are grovelling before. GREGERS. I should hardly have thought I was quite stone blind. RELLING. Yes you are—or not far from it. You are a sick man, too, you see. GREGERS. You are right there. RELLING. Yes. Yours is a complicated case. First of all there is that plaguy integrity-fever; and then—what’s worse—you are always in a delirium of hero-worship; you must always have something to adore, outside yourself. GREGERS. Yes, I must certainly seek it outside myself. RELLING. But you make such shocking mistakes about every new phœnix you think you have discovered. Here again you have come to a cotter’s cabin with your claim of the ideal; and the people of the house are insolvent. GREGERS. If you don’t think better than that of Hialmar Ekdal, what pleasure can you find in being everlastingly with him? RELLING. Well, you see, I'm supposed to be a sort of a doctor—save the mark! I can’t but give a hand to the poor sick folk who live under the same roof with me. GREGERS. Oh, indeed! Hialmar Ekdal is sick too, is he! RELLING. Most people are, worse luck. GREGERS. And what remedy are you applying in Hialmar’s case? RELLING. My usual one. I am cultivating the life-illusion[19] in him. GREGERS. Life—illusion? I didn’t catch what you said. RELLING. Yes, I said illusion. For illusion, you know, is the stimulating principle. GREGERS. May I ask with what illusion Hialmar is inoculated? RELLING. No, thank you; I don’t betray professional secrets to quacksalvers. You would probably go and muddle his case still more than you have already. But my method is infallible. I have applied it to Molvik as well. I have made him “dæmonic.” That’s the blister I have to put on his neck. GREGERS. Is he not really dæmonic then? RELLING. What the devil do you mean by dæmonic! It’s only a piece of gibberish I've invented to keep up a spark of life in him. But for that, the poor harmless creature would have succumbed to self-contempt and despair many a long year ago. And then the old lieutenant! But he has hit upon his own cure, you see. GREGERS. Lieutenant Ekdal? What of him? RELLING. Just think of the old bear-hunter shutting himself up in that dark garret to shoot rabbits! I tell you there is not a happier sportsman in the world than that old man pottering about in there among all that rubbish. The four or five withered Christmas-trees he has saved up are the same to him as the whole great fresh Höidal forest; the cock and the hens are big game-birds in the fir-tops; and the rabbits that flop about the garret floor are the bears he has to battle with—the mighty hunter of the mountains! GREGERS. Poor unfortunate old man! Yes; he has indeed had to narrow the ideals of his youth. RELLING. While I think of it, Mr. Werle, junior—don’t use that foreign word: ideals. We have the excellent native word: lies. GREGERS. Do you think the two things are related? RELLING. Yes, just about as closely as typhus and putrid fever. GREGERS. Dr. Relling, I shall not give up the struggle until I have rescued Hialmar from your clutches! RELLING. So much the worse for him. Rob the average man of his life-illusion, and you rob him of his happiness at the same stroke. [_To HEDVIG, who comes in from the sitting-room._] Well, little wild-duck-mother, I'm just going down to see whether papa is still lying meditating upon that wonderful invention of his. [_Goes out by the passage door._ GREGERS. [_Approaches HEDVIG._] I can see by your face that you have not yet done it. HEDVIG. What? Oh, that about the wild duck! No. GREGERS. I suppose your courage failed when the time came. HEDVIG. No, that wasn’t it. But when I awoke this morning and remembered what we had been talking about, it seemed so strange. GREGERS. Strange? HEDVIG. Yes, I don’t know——. Yesterday evening, at the moment, I thought there was something so delightful about it; but since I have slept and thought of it again, it somehow doesn’t seem worth while. GREGERS. Ah, I thought you could not have grown up quite unharmed in this house. HEDVIG. I don’t care about that, if only father would come up—— GREGERS. Oh, if only your eyes had been opened to that which gives life its value—if you possessed the true, joyous, fearless spirit of sacrifice, you would soon see _how_ he would come up to you.—But I believe in you still, Hedvig. [_He goes out by the passage door._ [HEDVIG _wanders about the room for a time; she is on the point of going into the kitchen when a knock is heard at the garret door._ HEDVIG _goes over and opens it a little; old_ EKDAL _comes out; she pushes the door to again._ EKDAL. H'm, it’s not much fun to take one’s morning walk alone. HEDVIG. Wouldn’t you like to go shooting, grandfather? EKDAL. It’s not the weather for it to-day. It’s so dark there, you can scarcely see where you’re going. HEDVIG. Do you never want to shoot anything besides the rabbits? EKDAL. Do you think the rabbits aren’t good enough? HEDVIG. Yes, but what about the wild duck? EKDAL. Ho-ho! are you afraid I shall shoot your wild duck? Never in the world. Never. HEDVIG. No, I suppose you couldn’t; they say it’s very difficult to shoot wild ducks. EKDAL. Couldn’t! Should rather think I could. HEDVIG. How would you set about it, grandfather?—I don’t mean with my wild duck, but with others? EKDAL. I should take care to shoot them in the breast, you know; that’s the surest place. And then you must shoot against the feathers, you see—not the way of the feathers. HEDVIG. Do they die then, grandfather? EKDAL. Yes, they die right enough—when you shoot properly. Well, I must go and brush up a bit. H'm—understand—h’m. _Goes into his room._ [HEDVIG _waits a little, glances towards the sitting-room door, goes over to the book-case, stands on tip-toe, takes the double-barrelled pistol down from the shelf, and looks at it._ GINA, _with brush and duster, comes from the sitting-room._ HEDVIG _hastily lays down the pistol, unobserved._ GINA. Don’t stand raking amongst father’s things, Hedvig. HEDVIG. [_Goes away from the bookcase._] I was only going to tidy up a little. GINA. You’d better go into the kitchen, and see if the coffee’s keeping hot; I'll take his breakfast on a tray, when I go down to him. [HEDVIG _goes out._ GINA _begins to sweep and clean up the studio. Presently the passage door is opened with hesitation, and_ HIALMAR EKDAL _looks in. He has on his overcoat, but not his hat; he is unwashed, and his hair is dishevelled and unkempt. His eyes are dull and heavy._ GINA. [_Standing with the brush in her hand, and looking at him._] Oh, there now, Ekdal—so you’ve come after all? HIALMAR. [_Comes in and answers in a toneless voice._] I come—only to depart again immediately. GINA. Yes, yes, I suppose so. But, Lord help us! what a sight you are! HIALMAR. A sight? GINA. And your nice winter coat too! Well, that’s done for. HEDVIG. [_At the kitchen door._] Mother, hadn’t I better——? [_Sees HIALMAR, gives a loud scream of joy, and runs to him._] Oh, father, father! HIALMAR. [_Turns away and makes a gesture of repulsion._] Away, away, away! [_To GINA._] Keep her away from me, I say! GINA. [_In a low tone._] Go into the sitting-room, Hedvig. [HEDVIG _does so without a word._ HIALMAR. [_Fussily pulls out the table-drawer._] I must have my books with me. Where are my books? GINA. Which books? HIALMAR. My scientific books, of course; the technical magazines I require for my invention. GINA. [_Searches in the bookcase._] Is it these here paper-covered ones? HIALMAR. Yes, of course. GINA. [_Lays a heap of magazines on the table._] Shan’t I get Hedvig to cut them for you? HIALMAR. I don’t require to have them cut for me. [_Short silence._ GINA. Then you’re still set on leaving us, Ekdal? HIALMAR. [_Rummaging amongst the books._] Yes, that is a matter of course, I should think. GINA. Well, well. HIALMAR. [_Vehemently._] How can I live here, to be stabbed to the heart every hour of the day? GINA. God forgive you for thinking such vile things of me. HIALMAR. Prove——! GINA. I think it’s _you_ as has got to prove. HIALMAR. After a past like yours? There are certain claims—I may almost call them claims of the ideal—— GINA. But what about grandfather? What’s to become of _him_, poor dear? HIALMAR. I know my duty; my helpless father will come with me. I am going out into the town to make arrangements——. H'm—[_hesitatingly_] has any one found my hat on the stairs? GINA. No. Have you lost your hat? HIALMAR. Of course I had it on when I came in last night; there’s no doubt about that; but I couldn’t find it this morning. GINA. Lord help us! where _have_ you been to with those two ne’er-do-weels? HIALMAR. Oh, don’t bother me about trifles. Do you suppose I am in the mood to remember details? GINA. If only you haven’t caught cold, Ekdal. [_Goes out into the kitchen._ HIALMAR. [_Talks to himself in a low tone of irritation, whilst he empties the table-drawer._] You’re a scoundrel, Relling!—You’re a low fellow!—Ah, you shameless tempter!—I wish I could get some one to stick a knife into you! [_He lays some old letters on one side, finds the torn document of yesterday, takes it up and looks at the pieces; puts it down hurriedly as_ GINA _enters._ GINA. [_Sets a tray with coffee, etc., on the table._] Here’s a drop of something hot, if you’d fancy it. And there’s some bread and butter and a snack of salt meat. HIALMAR. [_Glancing at the tray._] Salt meat? Never under this roof! It’s true I have not had a mouthful of solid food for nearly twenty-four hours; but no matter.—My memoranda! The commencement of my autobiography! What has become of my diary, and all my important papers? [_Opens the sitting-room door but draws back._] She is there too! GINA. Good Lord! the child must be _somewhere_! HIALMAR. Come out. [_He makes room,_ HEDVIG _comes, scared, into the studio._ HIALMAR. [_With his hand upon the door-handle, says to_ GINA:] In these, the last moments I spend in my former home, I wish to be spared from interlopers—— [_Goes into the room._ HEDVIG. [_With a bound towards her mother, asks softly, trembling._] Does that mean me? GINA. Stay out in the kitchen, Hedvig; or, no—you’d best go into your own room. [_Speaks to_ HIALMAR _as she goes in to him._] Wait a bit, Ekdal; don’t rummage so in the drawers; _I_ know where everything is. HEDVIG. [_Stands a moment immovable, in terror and perplexity, biting her lips to keep back the tears; then she clenches her hands convulsively, and says softly_:] The wild duck. [_She steals over and takes the pistol from the shelf, opens the garret door a little way, creeps in, and draws the door to after her._ [HIALMAR _and_ GINA _can be heard disputing in the sitting-room._ HIALMAR. [_Comes in with some manuscript books and old loose papers, which he lays upon the table._] That portmanteau is of no use! There are a thousand and one things I must drag with me. GINA. [_Following with the portmanteau._] Why not leave all the rest for the present, and only take a shirt and a pair of woollen drawers with you? HIALMAR. Whew!—all these exhausting preparations——! [_Pulls off his overcoat and throws it upon the sofa._ GINA. And there’s the coffee getting cold. HIALMAR. H'm. [_Drinks a mouthful without thinking of it, and then another._ GINA. [_Dusting the backs of the chairs._] A nice job you’ll have to find such another big garret for the rabbits. HIALMAR. What! Am I to drag all those rabbits with me too? GINA. You don’t suppose grandfather can get on without his rabbits. HIALMAR. He must just get used to doing without them. Have not _I_ to sacrifice very much greater things than rabbits! GINA. [_Dusting the bookcase._] Shall I put the flute in the portmanteau for you? HIALMAR. No. No flute for me. But give me the pistol! GINA. Do you want to take the pigstol with you? HIALMAR. Yes. My loaded pistol. GINA. [_Searching for it._] It’s gone. He must have taken it in with him. HIALMAR. Is he in the garret? GINA. Yes, of course he’s in the garret. HIALMAR. H'm—poor lonely old man. [_He takes a piece of bread and butter, eats it, and finishes his cup of coffee._ GINA. If we hadn’t have let that room, you could have moved in there. HIALMAR. And continued to live under the same roof with——! Never,—never! GINA. But couldn’t you put up with the sitting-room for a day or two? You could have it all to yourself. HIALMAR. Never within these walls! GINA. Well then, down with Relling and Molvik. HIALMAR. Don’t mention those wretches' names to me! The very thought of them almost takes away my appetite.—Oh no, I must go out into the storm and the snow-drift,—go from house to house and seek shelter for my father and myself. GINA. But you’ve got no hat, Ekdal! You’ve been and lost your hat, you know. HIALMAR. Oh those two brutes, those slaves of all the vices! A hat must be procured. [_Takes another piece of bread and butter._] Some arrangement must be made. For I have no mind to throw away my life, either. [_Looks for something on the tray._ GINA. What are you looking for? HIALMAR. Butter. GINA. I'll get some at once. _Goes out into the kitchen._ HIALMAR. [_Calls after her._] Oh it doesn’t matter; dry bread is good enough for me. GINA. [_Brings a dish of butter._] Look here; this is fresh churned. [_She pours out another cup of coffee for him; he seats himself on the sofa, spreads more butter on the already buttered bread, and eats and drinks awhile in silence._ HIALMAR. Could I, without being subject to intrusion—intrusion of _any_ sort—could I live in the sitting-room there for a day or two? GINA. Yes, to be sure you could, if you only would. HIALMAR. For I see no possibility of getting all father’s things out in such a hurry. GINA. And besides, you’ve surely got to tell him first as you don’t mean to live with us others no more. HIALMAR. [_Pushes away his coffee cup._] Yes, there is that too; I shall have to lay bare the whole tangled story to him——. I must turn matters over; I must have breathing-time; I cannot take all these burdens on my shoulders in a single day. GINA. No, especially in such horrible weather as it is outside. HIALMAR. [_Touching_ WERLE’S _letter._] I see that paper is still lying about here. GINA. Yes, _I_ haven’t touched it. HIALMAR. So far as I am concerned it is mere waste paper—— GINA. Well, _I_ have certainly no notion of making any use of it. HIALMAR. ——but we had better not let it get lost all the same;—in all the upset when I move, it might easily—— GINA. I'll take good care of it, Ekdal. HIALMAR. The donation is in the first instance made to father, and it rests with him to accept or decline it. GINA. [_Sighs._] Yes, poor old father—— HIALMAR. To make quite safe—— Where shall I find some gum? GINA. [_Goes to the bookcase._] Here’s the gum-pot. HIALMAR. And a brush? GINA. The brush is here too. _Brings him the things._ HIALMAR. [_Takes a pair of scissors._] Just a strip of paper at the back——[_Clips and gums._] Far be it from me to lay hands upon what is not my own—and least of all upon what belongs to a destitute old man—and to—the other as well.—There now. Let it lie there for a time; and when it is dry, take it away. I wish never to see that document again. Never! GREGERS WERLE _enters from the passage._ GREGERS. [_Somewhat surprised._] What,—are you sitting here, Hialmar? HIALMAR. [_Rises hurriedly._] I had sunk down from fatigue. GREGERS. You have been having breakfast, I see. HIALMAR. The body sometimes makes its claims felt too. GREGERS. What have you decided to do? HIALMAR. For a man like me, there is only one course possible. I am just putting my most important things together. But it takes time, you know. GINA. [_With a touch of impatience._] Am I to get the room ready for you, or am I to pack your portmanteau? HIALMAR. [_After a glance of annoyance at_ GREGERS.] Pack—and get the room ready! GINA. [_Takes the portmanteau._] Very well; then I'll put in the shirt and the other things. [_Goes into the sitting-room and draws the door to after her._ GREGERS. [_After a short silence._] I never dreamed that this would be the end of it. Do you really feel it a necessity to leave house and home? HIALMAR. [_Wanders about restlessly._] What would you have me do?—I am not fitted to bear unhappiness, Gregers. I must feel secure and at peace in my surroundings. GREGERS. But can you not feel that here? Just try it. I should have thought you had firm ground to build upon now—if only you start afresh. And remember, you have your invention to live for. HIALMAR. Oh don’t talk about my invention. It’s perhaps still in the dim distance. GREGERS. Indeed! HIALMAR. Why, great heavens, what would you have me invent? Other people have invented almost everything already. It becomes more and more difficult every day—— GREGERS. And you have devoted so much labour to it. HIALMAR. It was that blackguard Relling that urged me to it. GREGERS. Relling? HIALMAR. Yes, it was he that first made me realise my aptitude for making some notable discovery in photography. GREGERS. Aha—it was Relling! HIALMAR. Oh! I have been so truly happy over it! Not so much for the sake of the invention itself, as because Hedvig believed in it—believed in it with a child’s whole eagerness of faith.—At least, I have been fool enough to go and imagine that she believed in it. GREGERS. Can you really think that Hedvig has been false towards you? HIALMAR. I can think anything now. It is Hedvig that stands in my way. She will blot out the sunlight from my whole life. GREGERS. Hedvig! Is it Hedvig you are talking of? How should _she_ blot out your sunlight? HIALMAR. [_Without answering._] How unutterably I have loved that child! How unutterably happy I have felt every time I came home to my humble room, and she flew to meet me, with her sweet little blinking eyes. Oh, confiding fool that I have been! I loved her unutterably;—and I yielded myself up to the dream, the delusion, that she loved me unutterably in return. GREGERS. Do you call that a delusion? HIALMAR. How should I know? I can get nothing out of Gina; and besides, she is totally blind to the ideal side of these complications. But to you I feel impelled to open my mind, Gregers. I cannot shake off this frightful doubt—perhaps Hedvig has never really and honestly loved me. GREGERS. What would you say if she were to give you a proof of her love? [_Listens._] What’s that? I thought I heard the wild duck——? HIALMAR. It’s the wild duck quacking. Father’s in the garret. GREGERS. Is he? [_His face lights up with joy._] I say you may yet have proof that your poor misunderstood Hedvig loves you! HIALMAR. Oh, what proof can she give me? I dare not believe in any assurances from that quarter. GREGERS. Hedvig does not know what deceit means. HIALMAR. Oh Gregers, that is just what I cannot be sure of. Who knows what Gina and that Mrs. Sörby may many a time have sat here whispering and tattling about? And Hedvig usually has her ears open, I can tell you. Perhaps the deed of gift was not such a surprise to her, after all. In fact, I'm not sure but that I noticed something of the sort. GREGERS. What spirit is this that has taken possession of you? HIALMAR. I have had my eyes opened. Just you notice;—you’ll see, the deed of gift is only a beginning. Mrs. Sörby has always been a good deal taken up with Hedvig; and now she has the power to do whatever she likes for the child. They can take her from me whenever they please. GREGERS. Hedvig will never, never leave you. HIALMAR. Don’t be so sure of that. If only they beckon to her and throw out a golden bait——! And oh! I have loved her so unspeakably! I would have counted it my highest happiness to take her tenderly by the hand and lead her, as one leads a timid child through a great dark empty room!—I am cruelly certain now that the poor photographer in his humble attic has never really and truly been anything to her. She has only cunningly contrived to keep on a good footing with him until the time came. GREGERS. You don’t believe that yourself, Hialmar. HIALMAR. That is just the terrible part of it—I don’t know what to believe,—I never can know it. But can you really doubt that it must be as I say? Ho-ho, you have far too much faith in the claim of the ideal, my good Gregers! If those others came, with the glamour of wealth about them, and called to the child:—“Leave him: come to us: here life awaits you——!” GREGERS. [_Quickly._] Well, what then? HIALMAR. If I then asked her: Hedvig, are you willing to renounce that life for me? [_Laughs scornfully._] No thank you! You would soon hear what answer I should get. [_A pistol shot is heard from within the garret._ GREGERS. [_Loudly and joyfully._] Hialmar! HIALMAR. There now; he must needs go shooting too. GINA. [_Comes in._] Oh Ekdal, I can hear grandfather blazing away in the garret by hisself. HIALMAR. I'll look in—— GREGERS. [_Eagerly, with emotion._] Wait a moment! Do you know what that was? HIALMAR. Yes, of course I know. GREGERS. No you don’t know. But _I_ do. That was the proof! HIALMAR. What proof? GREGERS. It was a child’s free-will offering. She has got your father to shoot the wild duck. HIALMAR. To shoot the wild duck! GINA. Oh, think of that——! HIALMAR. What was _that_ for? GREGERS. She wanted to sacrifice to you her most cherished possession; for then she thought you would surely come to love her again. HIALMAR. [_Tenderly, with emotion._] Oh, poor child! GINA. What things she does think of! GREGERS. She only wanted your love again, Hialmar. She could not live without it. GINA. [_Struggling with her tears._] There, you can see for yourself, Ekdal. HIALMAR. Gina, where is she? GINA. [_Sniffs._] Poor dear, she’s sitting out in the kitchen, I dare say. HIALMAR. [_Goes over, tears open the kitchen door, and says_:] Hedvig, come, come in to me! [_Looks round._] No, she’s not here. GINA. Then she must be in her own little room. HIALMAR. [_Without._] No, she’s not here either. [_Comes in._] She must have gone out. GINA. Yes, you wouldn’t have her anywheres in the house. HIALMAR. Oh, if she would only come home quickly, so that I can tell her—— Everything will come right now, Gregers; now I believe we can begin life afresh. GREGERS. [_Quietly._] I knew it; I knew the child would make amends. OLD EKDAL _appears at the door of his room; he is in full uniform, and is busy buckling on his sword._ HIALMAR. [_Astonished._] Father! Are you there? GINA. Have you been firing in your room? EKDAL. [_Resentfully approaching._] So you go shooting alone, do you, Hialmar? HIALMAR. [_Excited and confused._] Then it wasn’t you that fired that shot in the garret? EKDAL. _Me_ that fired? H'm. GREGERS. [_Calls out to HIALMAR._] She has shot the wild duck herself! HIALMAR. What can it mean? [_Hastens to the garret door, tears it aside, looks in and calls loudly_:] Hedvig! GINA. [_Runs to the door._] Good God, what’s that! HIALMAR. [_Goes in._] She’s lying on the floor! GREGERS. Hedvig! lying on the floor! [_Goes in to_ HIALMAR. GINA. [_At the same time._] Hedvig! [_Inside the garret._] No, no, no! EKDAL. Ho-ho! does _she_ go shooting too, now? [HIALMAR, GINA, _and_ GREGERS _carry_ HEDVIG _into the studio; in her dangling right hand she holds the pistol fast clasped in her fingers._ HIALMAR. [_Distracted._] The pistol has gone off. She has wounded herself. Call for help! Help! GINA. [_Runs into the passage and calls down._] Relling! Relling! Doctor Relling; come up as quick as you can! [HIALMAR _and_ GREGERS _lay_ HEDVIG _down on the sofa._ EKDAL. [_Quietly._] The woods avenge themselves. HIALMAR. [_On his knees beside HEDVIG._] She’ll soon come to now. She’s coming to——; yes, yes, yes. GINA. [_Who has come in again._] Where has she hurt herself? I can’t see anything—— [RELLING _comes hurriedly, and immediately after him_ MOLVIK; _the latter without his waistcoat and necktie, and with his coat open._ RELLING. What’s the matter here? GINA. They say Hedvig has shot herself. HIALMAR. Come and help us! RELLING. Shot herself! [_He pushes the table aside and begins to examine her._ HIALMAR. [_Kneeling and looking anxiously up at him._] It can’t be dangerous? Speak, Relling! She is scarcely bleeding at all. It can’t be dangerous? RELLING. How did it happen? HIALMAR. Oh, we don’t know——! GINA. She wanted to shoot the wild duck. RELLING. The wild duck? HIALMAR. The pistol must have gone off. RELLING. H'm. Indeed. EKDAL. The woods avenge themselves. But I'm not afraid, all the same. [_Goes into the garret and closes the door after him._ HIALMAR. Well, Relling,—why don’t you say something? RELLING. The ball has entered the breast. HIALMAR. Yes, but she’s coming to! RELLING. Surely you can see that Hedvig is dead. GINA. [_Bursts into tears._] Oh my child, my child! GREGERS. [_Huskily._] In the depths of the sea—— HIALMAR. [_Jumps up._] No, no, she _must_ live! Oh, for God’s sake, Relling—only a moment—only just till I can tell her how unspeakably I loved her all the time! RELLING. The bullet has gone through her heart. Internal hemorrhage. Death must have been instantaneous. HIALMAR. And I! I hunted her from me like an animal! And she crept terrified into the garret and died for love of me! [_Sobbing._] I can never atone to her! I can never tell her——! [_Clenches his hands and cries, upwards._] O thou above——! If thou be indeed! Why hast thou done this thing to me? GINA. Hush, hush, you mustn’t go on that awful way. We had no right to keep her, I suppose. MOLVIK. The child is not dead, but sleepeth. RELLING. Bosh! HIALMAR. [_Becomes calm, goes over to the sofa, folds his arms, and looks at HEDVIG._] There she lies so stiff and still. RELLING. [_Tries to loosen the pistol._] She’s holding it so tight, so tight. GINA. No, no, Relling, don’t break her fingers; let the pigstol be. HIALMAR. She shall take it with her. GINA. Yes, let her. But the child mustn’t lie here for a show. She shall go to her own room, so she shall. Help me, Ekdal. [HIALMAR _and_ GINA _take_ HEDVIG _between them._ HIALMAR. [_As they are carrying her._] Oh Gina, Gina, can you survive this! GINA. We must help each other to bear it. For _now_ at least she belongs to both of us. MOLVIK. [_Stretches out his arms and mumbles._] Blessed be the Lord; to earth thou shalt return; to earth thou shalt return—— RELLING. [_Whispers._] Hold your tongue, you fool; you’re drunk. [HIALMAR _and_ GINA _carry the body out through the kitchen door._ RELLING _shuts it after them._ MOLVIK _slinks out into the passage._ RELLING. [_Goes over to GREGERS and says_:] No one shall ever convince me that the pistol went off by accident. GREGERS. [_Who has stood terrified, with convulsive twitchings._] Who can say how the dreadful thing happened? RELLING. The powder has burnt the body of her dress. She must have pressed the pistol right against her breast and fired. GREGERS. Hedvig has not died in vain. Did you not see how sorrow set free what is noble in him? RELLING. Most people are ennobled by the actual presence of death. But how long do you suppose this nobility will last in _him_? GREGERS. Why should it not endure and increase throughout his life? RELLING. Before a year is over, little Hedvig will be nothing to him but a pretty theme for declamation. GREGERS. How dare you say that of Hialmar Ekdal? RELLING. We will talk of this again, when the grass has first withered on her grave. Then you’ll hear him spouting about “the child too early torn from her father’s heart;” then you’ll see him steep himself in a syrup of sentiment and self-admiration and self-pity. Just you wait! GREGERS. If you are right and I am wrong, then life is not worth living. RELLING. Oh, life would be quite tolerable, after all, if only we could be rid of the confounded duns that keep on pestering us, in our poverty, with the claim of the ideal. GREGERS. [_Looking straight before him._] In that case, I am glad that my destiny is what it is. RELLING. May I inquire,—what is your destiny? GREGERS. [_Going._] To be the thirteenth at table. RELLING. The devil it is. THE END. ----- Footnote 19: “Livslögnen,” literally “the life-lie.” Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Transcriber’s Note There are quite a few instances of missing punctuation. The conventional period following the character’s name is sometimes missing and has been added for consistency’s sake without further comment. Those missing from setting and stage direction are also added without comment, since there is no obvious purpose to be served by the omission. However, the restoration of punctuation missing from dialogue is noted below, since the punctuation is frequently expressive. Several instances of dubious ‘?’ marks have been corrected, based on context. As noted below, on p. 62, there is apparently a missing word in the phrase ‘And even it were so...’, most likely ‘if’. Volume I of this series included errata for each succeeding volume, and noted the following for Volume VIII. Each of these was corrected in printing. Other errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. xii.11 was four [old years/years old] before Transposed. xxii.22 [‘]But you really ought to do so. Restored. xxiii.3 the name of his only sister[,] Restored. 21.29 one ought at least to vote[.] Added. 41.10 Dr. Stockman[n]. Added. 62.19 And even[ ]it were so? _sic_: if? 64.20 or a whole pamph[l]et about it. Inserted. 69.29 Father! Dismissal[!] Added. 76.2 “People’s Messenger[.]” Added. 76.3 an entrance-door[—]to the right Restored. 79.13 Asla[sk/ks]en! just come here a moment. Transposed. 81.28 but that’s too outrageous[!] Probable. 106.18 just as I thought[.] Added. 106.24 You know very well what I want[.] Added. 108.9 Dr. Hovst[e/a]d. Replaced. 109.33 sunshine and spring air, Thomas[.] Added. 113.25 won’t be so easy a[t/s] you think Replaced. 114.24 It[’]s because in this town Inserted. 124.14 We protest[!] Added. 144.20 Dr. Stockman[n] has unmasked Added. 144.24 we ought to formul[u/a]te this opinion Replaced. 149.7 Good[.] Come Katrina, come boys! Added. 169.23 DR. STOCKMAN[N]. Added. 169.25 MORT[O/E]N KIIL. Replaced. 174.25 Yo[ /u]r attitude, you say? Restored. 211.21 something good, mind[.] Added. 217.7 But that unhappy Ekdal family[.] Added. 217.30 I am not telling you the truth[?] Added. 218.9 Ekdal taught p[r/h]otography? Replaced. 224.25 opposed to it[!/?] Replaced. 241.27 they are t[w/o]o big for curls. Replaced. 259.10 you keep poultry, Lieutenant Ekdal[.] Added. 259.24 like to roost high, you see[.] Added. 270.2 You’re very strange[.] Added. 276.8 a matter of life and death[.] Added. 296.10 to make this great invention[.] Added. 303.3 you’re not to say anything, father[.] Added. 303.29 I brought him home last night[./?] Replaced. 307.22 don’t sit there cricketizing me[.] Added. 309.29 I carry it in my breast[.] Added. 321.14 to have gone so far, Ekdal[;] you’re not Added. 361.15 I'll try it to-morrow morning[!] Added. 378.16 you haven’t caught cold, Ekdal[.] Added. 397.2 Oh my child, my child[!] Added. # Project Gutenberg #74237 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Transcriber’s Note: This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. In the printed original, emphasis is indicated by gesperrt (_spaced_) text, but is here also delimited as the italic. The few footnotes have been collected at the end of the Act in which they are referenced. Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any other textual issues encountered during its preparation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSEN VOLUME X HEDDA GABLER THE MASTER BUILDER THE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSEN _Copyright Edition. Complete in 12 Volumes._ _Crown 8vo, price 4s. each._ =ENTIRELY REVISED AND EDITED BY= =WILLIAM ARCHER= Vol. I. Lady Inger, The Feast at Solhoug, Love’s Comedy Vol. II. The Vikings, The Pretenders Vol. III. Brand Vol. IV. Peer Gynt Vol. V. Emperor and Galilean (2 parts) Vol. VI. The League of Youth, Pillars of Society Vol. VII. A Doll’s House, Ghosts Vol. VIII. An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck Vol. IX. Rosmersholm, The Lady from the Sea Vol. X. Hedda Gabler, The Master Builder Vol. XI. Little Eyolf, John Gabriel Borkman, When We Dead Awaken Vol. XII. From Ibsen’s Workshop LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. 21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C. THE COLLECTED WORKS OF HENRIK IBSEN COPYRIGHT EDITION ------------------------------------------------------------------------ VOLUME X HEDDA GABLER THE MASTER BUILDER WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY WILLIAM ARCHER ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: title page] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN 1912 UNIFORM EDITION _First Printed, June 1907_ _New Impressions, September 1909, November 1912_ _Copyright 1907_ CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION TO “HEDDA GABLER” vii INTRODUCTION TO “THE MASTER BUILDER” xix “HEDDA GABLER” 1 _Translated by_ EDMUND GOSSE and WILLIAM ARCHER “THE MASTER BUILDER” 187 _Translated by_ EDMUND GOSSE and WILLIAM ARCHER HEDDA GABLER. INTRODUCTION. From Munich, on June 29, 1890, Ibsen wrote to the Swedish poet, Count Carl Snoilsky: “Our intention has all along been to spend the summer in the Tyrol again. But circumstances are against our doing so. I am at present engaged upon a new dramatic work, which for several reasons has made very slow progress, and I do not leave Munich until I can take with me the completed first draft. There is little or no prospect of my being able to complete it in July.” Ibsen did not leave Munich at all that season. On October 30 he wrote: “At present I am utterly engrossed in a new play. Not one leisure hour have I had for several months.” Three weeks later (November 20) he wrote to his French translator, Count Prozor: “My new play is finished; the manuscript went off to Copenhagen the day before yesterday.... It produces a curious feeling of emptiness to be thus suddenly separated from a work which has occupied one’s time and thoughts for several months, to the exclusion of all else. But it is a good thing, too, to have done with it. The constant intercourse with the fictitious personages was beginning to make me quite nervous.” To the same correspondent he wrote on December 4: ”The title of the play is _Hedda Gabler_. My intention in giving it this name was to indicate that Hedda, as a personality, is to be regarded rather as her father’s daughter than as her husband’s wife. It was not my desire to deal in this play with so-called problems. What I principally wanted to do was to depict human beings, human emotions, and human destinies, upon a groundwork of certain of the social conditions and principles of the present day.“ So far we read the history of the play in the official “Correspondence.”[1] Some interesting glimpses into the poet’s moods during the period between the completion of _The Lady from the Sea_ and the publication of _Hedda Gabler_ are to be found in the series of letters to Fräulein Emilie Bardach, of Vienna, published by Dr. George Brandes.[2] This young lady Ibsen met at Gossensass in the Tyrol in the autumn of 1889. The record of their brief friendship belongs to the history of _The Master Builder_ rather than to that of _Hedda Gabler_, but the allusions to his work in his letters to her during the winter of 1889 demand some examination. So early as October 7, 1889, he writes to her: ”A new poem begins to dawn in me. I will execute it this winter, and try to transfer to it the bright atmosphere of the summer. But I feel that it will end in sadness—such is my nature.“ Was this “dawning” poem _Hedda Gabler_? Or was it rather _The Master Builder_ that was germinating in his mind? Who shall say? The latter hypothesis seems the more probable, for it is hard to believe that, at any stage in the incubation of _Hedda Gabler_, he can have conceived it as even beginning in a key of gaiety. A week later, however, he appears to have made up his mind that the time had not come for the poetic utilisation of his recent experiences. He writes on October 15: ”Here I sit as usual at my writing-table. Now I would fain work, but am unable to. My fancy, indeed, is very active. But it always wanders away. It wanders where it has no business to wander during working hours. I cannot repress my summer memories—nor do I wish to. I live through my experiences again and again and yet again. To transmute it all into a poem, I find, in the meantime, impossible.“ Clearly, then, he felt that his imagination ought to have been engaged on some theme having no relation to his summer experiences—the theme, no doubt, of _Hedda Gabler_. In his next letter, dated October 29, he writes: “Do not be troubled because I cannot, in the meantime, create (_dichten_). In reality I am for ever creating, or, at any rate, dreaming of something which, when in the fulness of time it ripens, will reveal itself as a creation (_Dichtung_).” On November 19 he says: “I am very busily occupied with preparations for my new poem. I sit almost the whole day at my writing-table. Go out only in the evening for a little while.” The five following letters contain no allusion to the play; but on September 18, 1890, he wrote: “My wife and son are at present at Riva, on the Lake of Garda, and will probably remain there until the middle of October, or even longer. Thus I am quite alone here, and cannot get away. The new play on which I am at present engaged will probably not be ready until November, though I sit at my writing-table daily, and almost the whole day long.” Here ends the history of _Hedda Gabler_, so far as the poet’s letters carry us. Its hard clear outlines, and perhaps somewhat bleak atmosphere, seem to have resulted from a sort of reaction against the sentimental “dreamery” begotten of his Gossensass experiences. He sought refuge in the chill materialism of Hedda from the ardent transcendentalism of Hilda, whom he already heard knocking at the door. He was not yet in the mood to deal with her on the plane of poetry.[3] _Hedda Gabler_ was published in Copenhagen on December 16, 1890. This was the first of Ibsen’s plays to be translated from proof-sheets and published in England and America almost simultaneously with its first appearance in Scandinavia. The earliest theatrical performance took place at the Residenz Theater, Munich, on the last day of January 1891, in the presence of the poet, Frau Conrad-Ramlo playing the title-part. The Lessing Theater, Berlin, followed suit on February 10. Not till February 25 was the play seen in Copenhagen, with Fru Hennings as Hedda. On the following night it was given for the first time in Christiania, the Norwegian Hedda being Fröken Constance Bruun. It was this production which the poet saw when he visited the Christiania Theater for the first time after his return to Norway, August 28, 1891. It would take pages to give even the baldest list of the productions and revivals of _Hedda Gabler_ in Scandinavia and Germany, where it has always ranked among Ibsen’s most popular works. The admirable production of the play by Miss Elizabeth Robins and Miss Marion Lea, at the Vaudeville Theatre, London, April 20, 1891, may be counted the second great step towards the popularisation of Ibsen in England, the first being the Charrington-Achurch production of _A Doll’s House_ in 1889. Miss Robins afterwards repeated her fine performance of Hedda many times, in London, in the English provinces, and in New York. The character has also been acted in London by Eleonora Duse, and as I write (March 5, 1907) by Mrs. Patrick Campbell, at the Court Theatre. In America, Hedda has frequently been acted by Mrs. Fiske, Miss Nance O’Neill and other actresses—quite recently by a Russian actress, Madame Alla Nazimova, who (playing in English) has made a great success both in this part and in Nora. The first French Hedda Gabler was Mlle. Marthe Brandès, who played the part at the Vaudeville Theatre, Paris, on December 17, 1891, the performance being introduced by a lecture by M. Jules Lemaître. In Holland, in Italy, in Russia, the play has been acted times without number. In short (as might easily have been foretold) it has rivalled _A Doll’s House_ in world-wide popularity. It has been suggested,[4] I think without sufficient ground, that Ibsen deliberately conceived _Hedda Gabler_ as an “international” play, and that the scene is really the “west end” of any great European city. To me it seems quite clear that Ibsen had Christiania in mind, and the Christiania of a somewhat earlier period than the ’nineties. The electric cars, telephones, and other conspicuous factors in the life of a modern capital are notably absent from the play. There is no electric light in Secretary Falk’s villa. It is still the habit for ladies to return on foot from evening parties, with gallant swains escorting them. This “suburbanism,” which so distressed the London critics of 1891, was characteristic of the Christiania Ibsen himself had known in the ’sixties—the Christiania of _Love’s Comedy_—rather than of the greatly extended and modernised city of the end of the century. Moreover, Lövborg’s allusions to the fiord, and the suggested picture of Sheriff Elvsted, his family and his avocations, are all distinctively Norwegian. The truth seems to be very simple—the environment and the subsidiary personages are all thoroughly national, but Hedda herself is an “international” type, a product of civilisation by no means peculiar to Norway. We cannot point to any individual model or models who “sat to” Ibsen for the character of Hedda.[5] The late Grant Allen declared that Hedda was “nothing more nor less than the girl we take down to dinner in London nineteen times out of twenty”; in which case Ibsen must have suffered from a superfluity of models, rather than from any difficulty in finding one. But the fact is that in this, as in all other instances, the word “model” must be taken in a very different sense from that in which it is commonly used in painting. Ibsen undoubtedly used models for this trait and that, but never for a whole figure. If his characters can be called portraits at all, they are composite portraits. Even when it seems pretty clear that the initial impulse towards the creation of a particular character came from some individual, the original figure is entirely transmuted in the process of harmonisation with the dramatic scheme. We need not, therefore, look for a definite prototype of Hedda; but Dr. Brandes shows that two of that lady’s exploits were probably suggested by the anecdotic history of the day. Ibsen had no doubt heard how the wife of a well-known Norwegian composer, in a fit of raging jealousy excited by her husband’s prolonged absence from home, burnt the manuscript of a symphony which he had just finished. The circumstances under which Hedda burns Lövborg’s manuscript are, of course, entirely different and infinitely more dramatic; but here we have merely another instance of the dramatisation or “poetisation” of the raw material of life. Again, a still more painful incident probably came to his knowledge about the same time. A beautiful and very intellectual woman was married to a well-known man who had been addicted to drink, but had entirely conquered the vice. One day a mad whim seized her to put his self-mastery and her power over him to the test. As it happened to be his birthday, she rolled into his study a small keg of brandy, and then withdrew. She returned some time afterwards to find that he had broached the keg, and lay insensible on the floor. In this anecdote we cannot but recognise the germ, not only of Hedda’s temptation of Lövborg, but of a large part of her character. “Thus,” says Dr. Brandes, “out of small and scattered traits of reality Ibsen fashioned his close-knit and profoundly thought-out works of art.” For the character of Eilert Lövborg, again, Ibsen seems unquestionably to have borrowed several traits from a definite original. A young Danish man of letters, whom Dr. Brandes calls Holm, was an enthusiastic admirer of Ibsen, and came to be on very friendly terms with him. One day Ibsen was astonished to receive, in Munich, a parcel addressed from Berlin by this young man, containing, without a word of explanation, a packet of his (Ibsen’s) letters, and a photograph which he had presented to Holm. Ibsen brooded and brooded over the incident, and at last came to the conclusion that the young man had intended to return her letters and photograph to a young lady to whom he was known to be attached, and had in a fit of aberration mixed up the two objects of his worship. Some time after, Holm appeared at Ibsen’s rooms. He talked quite rationally, but professed to have no knowledge whatever of the letter-incident, though he admitted the truth of Ibsen’s conjecture that the “belle dame sans merci” had demanded the return of her letters and portrait. Ibsen was determined to get at the root of the mystery; and a little inquiry into his young friend’s habits revealed the fact that he broke his fast on a bottle of port wine, consumed a bottle of Rhine wine at lunch, of Burgundy at dinner, and finished off the evening with one or two more bottles of port. Then he heard, too, how, in the course of a night’s carouse, Holm had lost the manuscript of a book; and in these traits he saw the outline of the figure of Eilert Lövborg. Some time elapsed, and again Ibsen received a postal packet from Holm. This one contained his will, in which Ibsen figured as his residuary legatee. But many other legatees were mentioned in the instrument—all of them ladies, such as Fräulein Alma Rothbart, of Bremen, and Fräulein Elise Kraushaar, of Berlin. The bequests to these meritorious spinsters were so generous that their sum considerably exceeded the amount of the testator’s property. Ibsen gently but firmly declined the proffered inheritance; but Holm’s will no doubt suggested to him the figure of that red-haired “Mademoiselle Diana” who is heard of but not seen in _Hedda Gabler_, and enabled him to add some further traits to the portraiture of Lövborg. When the play appeared, Holm recognised himself with glee in the character of the bibulous man of letters, and thereafter adopted “Eilert Lövborg” as his pseudonym. I do not, therefore, see why Dr. Brandes should suppress his real name; but I willingly imitate him in erring on the side of discretion. The poor fellow died several years ago. Some critics have been greatly troubled as to the precise meaning of Hedda’s fantastic vision of Lövborg “with vine-leaves in his hair.” Surely this is a very obvious image or symbol of the beautiful, tho ideal, aspect of bacchic elation and revelry. Antique art, or I am much mistaken, shows us many figures of Dionysus himself and his followers with vine-leaves entwined in their hair. To Ibsen’s mind, at any rate, the image had long been familiar. In _Peer Gynt_ (Act iv. sc. 8), when Peer, having carried off Anitra, finds himself in a particularly festive mood, he cries: “Were there vine-leaves around, I would garland my brow.” Again, in _Emperor and Galilean_ (Pt. II. Act i.) where Julian, in the procession of Dionysus, impersonates the god himself, it is directed that he shall wear a wreath of vine-leaves. Professor Dietrichson relates that among the young artists whose society Ibsen frequented during his first years in Rome, it was customary, at their little festivals, for the revellers to deck themselves in this fashion. But the image is so obvious that there is no need to trace it to any personal experience. The attempt to place Hedda’s vine-leaves among Ibsen’s obscurities is an example of the firm resolution not to understand which animated the criticism of the ’nineties. Dr. Brandes has dealt very severely with the character of Eilert Lövborg, alleging that we cannot believe in the genius attributed to him. But where is he described as a genius? The poet represents him as a very able student of sociology; but that is a quite different thing from attributing to him such genius as must necessarily shine forth in every word he utters. Dr. Brandes, indeed, declines to believe even in his ability as a sociologist, on the ground that it is idle to write about the social development of the future. “To our prosaic minds,” he says, “it may seem as if the most sensible utterance on the subject is that of the fool of the play: ‘The future! Good heavens, we know nothing of the future.’” The best retort to this criticism is that which Eilert himself makes: ”There’s a thing or two to be said about it all the same.“ The intelligent forecasting of the future (as Mr. H. G. Wells has shown) is not only clearly distinguishable from fantastic Utopianism, but is indispensable to any large statesmanship or enlightened social activity. With very real and very great respect for Dr. Brandes, I cannot think that he has been fortunate in his treatment of Lövborg’s character. It has been represented as an absurdity that he should think of reading extracts from his new book to a man like Tesman, whom he despises. But though Tesman is a ninny, he is, as Hedda says, a ”specialist“—he is a competent, plodding student of his subject. Lövborg may quite naturally wish to see how his new method, or his excursion into a new field, strikes the average scholar of the Tesman type. He is, in fact, ”trying it on the dog“—neither an unreasonable nor an unusual proceeding. There is, no doubt, a certain improbability in the way in which Lövborg is represented as carrying his manuscript around, and especially in Mrs. Elvsted’s production of his rough draft from her pocket; but these are mechanical trifles, on which only a niggling criticism would dream of laying stress. Of all Ibsen’s works, _Hedda Gabler_ is the most detached, the most objective—a character-study pure and simple. It is impossible—or so it seems to me—to extract any sort of general idea from it. One cannot even call it a satire, unless one is prepared to apply that term to the record of a “case” in a work on criminology. Reverting to Dumas’s dictum that a play should contain “a painting, a judgment, an ideal,” we may say that _Hedda Gabler_ fulfils only the first of these requirements. The poet does not even pass judgment on his heroine: he simply paints her full-length portrait with scientific impassivity. But what a portrait! How searching in insight, how brilliant in colouring, how rich in detail! Grant Allen’s remark, above quoted, was, of course, a whimsical exaggeration: the Hedda type is not so common as all that, else the world would quickly come to an end. But particular traits and tendencies of the Hedda type are very common in modern life, and not only among women. Hyperæsthesia lies at the root of her tragedy. With a keenly critical, relentlessly solvent intelligence, she combines a morbid shrinking from all the gross and prosaic detail of the sensual life. She has nothing to take her out of herself—not a single intellectual interest or moral enthusiasm. She cherishes, in a languid way, a petty social ambition; and even that she finds obstructed and baffled. At the same time she learns that another woman has had the courage to love and venture all, where she, in her cowardice, only hankered and refrained. Her malign egoism rises up uncontrolled, and calls to its aid her quick and subtle intellect. She ruins the other woman’s happiness, but in doing so incurs a danger from which her sense of personal dignity revolts. Life has no such charm for her that she cares to purchase it at the cost of squalid humiliation and self-contempt. The good and the bad in her alike impel her to have done with it all; and a pistol-shot ends what is surely one of the most poignant character-tragedies in literature. Ibsen’s brain never worked at higher pressure than in the conception and adjustment of those “crowded hours” in which Hedda, tangled in the web of Will and Circumstance, struggles on till she is too weary to struggle any more. It may not be superfluous to note that the “a” in “Gabler” should be sounded long and full, like the “a” in “garden”—_not_ like the “a” in “gable” or in “gabble.” ----- Footnote 1: Letters 214, 216, 217, 219. Footnote 2: In the Ibsen volume of _Die Literatur_ (Berlin). Footnote 3: Dr. Julius Elias (_Neue deutsche Rundschau_, December 1906, p. 1462) makes the curious assertion that the character of Thea Elvsted was in part borrowed from this “Gossensasser Hildetypus.” It is hard to see how even Ibsen’s ingenuity could distil from the same flower two such different essences as Thea and Hilda. Footnote 4: See article by Herman Bang in _Neue deutsche Rundschau_, December 1906, p. 1495. Footnote 5: Dr. Brahm (_Neue deutsche Rundschau_, December 1906, p. 1422) says that, after the first performance of _Hedda Gabler_ in Berlin, Ibsen confided to him that the character had been suggested by a German lady whom he met in Munich, and who did not shoot, but poisoned herself. Nothing more seems to be known of this lady. See, too, an article by Julius Elias in the same magazine, p. 1460. THE MASTER BUILDER. INTRODUCTION. With _The Master Builder_—or _Master Builder Solness_, as the title runs in the original—we enter upon the final stage in Ibsen’s career. “You are essentially right,” the poet wrote to Count Prozor in March 1900, “when you say that the series which closes with the Epilogue (_When We Dead Awaken_) began with _Master Builder Solness_.” “Ibsen,” says Dr. Brahm, ”wrote in Christiania all the four works which he thus seems to bracket together—_Solness_, _Eyolf_, _Borkman_, and _When We Dead Awaken_. He returned to Norway in July 1891, for a stay of indefinite length; but the restless wanderer over Europe was destined to leave his home no more.... He had not returned, however, to throw himself, as of old, into the battle of the passing day. Polemics are entirely absent from the poetry of his old age. He leaves the State and Society at peace. He who had departed as the creator of Falk [in _Love’s Comedy_] now, on his return, gazes, not satirically, but rather in a lyric mood, into the secret places of human nature and the wonders of his own soul.“ Dr. Brahm, however, seems to be mistaken in thinking that Ibsen returned to Norway with no definite intention of settling down. Dr. Julius Elias (an excellent authority) reports that shortly before Ibsen left Munich in 1891, he remarked one day, “I must get back to the North!” “Is that a sudden impulse?” asked Elias. “Oh no,” was the reply; ”I want to be a good head of a household and have my affairs in order. To that end I must consolidate my property, lay it down in good securities, and get it under control—and that one can best do where one has rights of citizenship.“ Some critics will no doubt be shocked to find the poet whom they have written down an “anarchist” confessing such bourgeois motives. After his return to Norway, Ibsen’s correspondence became very scant, and we have no letters dating from the period when he was at work on _The Master Builder_. On the other hand, we possess a curious lyrical prelude to the play, which he put on paper on March 16, 1892. It is said to have been his habit, before setting to work on a play, to “crystallise in a poem the mood which then possessed him”; but the following is the only one of these keynote-poems which has been published. I give it in the original language, with a literal translation: DE SAD DER, DE TO— De sad der, de to, i saa lunt et hus ved höst og i vinterdage, Saa brændte huset. Alt ligger i grus. De to faar i asken rage. For nede i den er et smykke gemt,— et smykke, som aldrig kan brænde, Og leder de trofast, hænder det nemt at det findes af ham eller hende. Men finder de end, de brandlidte to, det dyre, ildfaste smykke,— aldrig hun finder sin brændte tro, han aldrig sin brændte lykke. THEY SAT THERE, THE TWO— They sat there, the two, in so cosy a house, through autumn and winter days. Then the house burned down. Everything lies in ruins. The two must grope among the ashes. For among them is hidden a jewel—a jewel that never can burn. And if they search faithfully, it may easily happen that he or she may find it. But even should they find it, the burnt-out two—find this precious unburnable jewel—never will she find her burnt faith, he never his burnt happiness. This is the latest piece of Ibsen’s verse that has been given to the world; but one of his earliest poems—first printed in 1858—was also, in some sort, a prelude to _The Master Builder_. Of this a literal translation may suffice. It is called BUILDING-PLANS I remember as clearly as if it had been to-day the evening when, in the paper, I saw my first poem in print. There I sat in my den, and, with long-drawn puffs, I smoked and I dreamed in blissful self-complacency. ”I will build a cloud-castle. It shall shine all over the North. It shall have two wings: one little and one great. The great wing shall shelter a deathless poet; the little wing shall serve as a young girl’s bower.“ The plan seemed to me nobly harmonious; but as time went on it fell into confusion. When the master grew reasonable, the castle turned utterly crazy; the great wing became too little, the little wing fell to ruin. Thus we see that, thirty-five years before the date of _The Master Builder_, Ibsen’s imagination was preoccupied with a symbol of a master building a castle in the air, and a young girl in one of its towers. There has been some competition among the poet’s young lady friends for the honour of having served as his model for Hilda. Several, no doubt, are entitled to some share in it. One is not surprised to learn that among the papers he left behind were sheaves upon sheaves of letters from women. “All these ladies,” says Dr. Julius Elias, ”demanded something of him—some cure for their agonies of soul, or for the incomprehension from which they suffered; some solution of the riddle of their nature. Almost every one of them regarded herself as a problem to which Ibsen could not but have the time and the interest to apply himself. They all thought they had a claim on the creator of Nora.... Of this chapter of his experience, Fru Ibsen spoke with ironic humour. ‘Ibsen (I have often said to him), Ibsen, keep these swarms of over-strained womenfolk at arm’s length.’ ‘Oh no (he would reply), let them alone. I want to observe them more closely.’ His observations would take a longer or shorter time as the case might be, and would always contribute to some work of art.“ The principal model for Hilda was doubtless Fräulein Emilie Bardach, of Vienna, whom he met at Gossensass in the autumn of 1889. He was then sixty-one years of age; she is said to have been seventeen. As the lady herself handed his letters to Dr. Brandes for publication, there can be no indiscretion in speaking of them freely. Some passages from them I have quoted in the introduction to _Hedda Gabler_—passages which show that at first the poet deliberately put aside his Gossensass impressions for use when he should stand at a greater distance from them, and meanwhile devoted himself to work in a totally different key. On October 15, 1889, he writes, in his second letter to Fräulein Bardach: “I cannot repress my summer memories, nor do I want to. I live through my experiences again and again, and yet again. To transmute it all into a poem I find, in the meantime, impossible. In the meantime? Shall I succeed in doing so sometime in the future? And do I really wish to succeed? In the meantime, at any rate, I do not.... And yet it must come in time.” The letters number twelve in all, and are couched in a tone of sentimental regret for the brief, bright summer days of their acquaintanceship. The keynote is struck in the inscription on the back of a photograph which he gave her before they parted: _An die Maisonne eines Septemberlebens—in Tirol_, 27/9/89.[6] In her album he had written the words: Hohes, schmerzliches Glück— um das Unerreichbare zu ringen![7] in which we may, if we like, see a foreshadowing of the Solness frame of mind. In the fifth letter of the series he refers to her as “an enigmatic Princess”; in the sixth he twice calls her “my dear Princess”; but this is the only point at which the letters quite definitely and unmistakably point forward to _The Master Builder_. In the ninth letter (February 6, 1890) he says: “I feel it a matter of conscience to end, or, at any rate, to restrict, our correspondence.” The tenth letter, six months later, is one of kindly condolence on the death of the young lady’s father. In the eleventh (very short) note, dated December 30, 1890, he acknowledges some small gift, but says: “Please, for the present, do not write to me again.... I will soon send you my new play [_Hedda Gabler_]. Receive it in friendship, but in silence!” This injunction she apparently obeyed. When _The Master Builder_ appeared, it would seem that Ibsen did not even send her a copy of the play; and we gather that he was rather annoyed when she sent him a photograph signed “Princess of Orangia.” On his seventieth birthday, however, she telegraphed her congratulations, to which he returned a very cordial reply. And here their relations ended. That she was right, however, in regarding herself as his principal model for Hilda, appears from an anecdote related by Dr. Elias.[8] It is not an altogether pleasing anecdote, but Dr. Elias is an unexceptionable witness, and it can by no means be omitted from an examination into the origins of _The Master Builder_. Ibsen had come to Berlin in February 1891 for the first performance of _Hedda Gabler_. Such experiences were always a trial to him, and he felt greatly relieved when they were over. Packing, too, he detested; and Elias having helped him through this terrible ordeal, the two sat down to lunch together, while awaiting the train. An expansive mood descended upon Ibsen, and chuckling over his champagne-glass, he said: ”Do you know, my next play is already hovering before me—of course in vague outline. But of one thing I have got firm hold. An experience: a woman’s figure. Very interesting, very interesting indeed. Again spice of devilry in it.“ Then he related how he had met in the Tyrol a Viennese girl of very remarkable character. She had at once made him her confidant. The gist of her confessions was that she did not care a bit about one day marrying a well brought-up young man—most likely she would never marry. What tempted and charmed and delighted her was to lure other women’s husbands away from them. She was a little dæmonic wrecker; she often appeared to him like a little bird of prey, that would fain have made him, too, her booty. He had studied her very, very closely. For the rest, she had had no great success with him. ”She did not get hold of me, but I got hold of her—for my play. Then I fancy“ (here he chuckled again) “she consoled herself with some one else.” Love seemed to mean for her only a sort of morbid imagination. This, however, was only one side of her nature. His little model had had a great deal of heart and of womanly understanding; and thanks to the spontaneous power she could gain over him, every woman might, if she wished it, guide some man towards the good. “Thus Ibsen spoke,” says Elias, ”calmly and coolly, gazing as it were into the far distance, like an artist taking an objective view of some experience—like Rubek speaking of his soul-thefts. He had stolen a soul, and put it to a double employment. Thea Elvsted and Hilda Wangel are intimately related—are, indeed, only different expressions of the same nature.“ If Ibsen actually declared Thea and Hilda to be drawn from one model, we must of course take his word for it; but the relationship is hard to discern. There can be no reasonable doubt, then, that the Gossensass episode gave the primary impulse to _The Master Builder_. But it seems pretty well established, too, that another lady, whom he met in Christiania after his return in 1891, also contributed largely to the character of Hilda. This may have been the reason why he resented Fraülein Bardach’s appropriating to herself the title of “Princess of Orangia.” The play was published in the middle of December 1892. It was acted both in Germany and England before it was seen in the Scandinavian capitals. Its first performance took place at the Lessing Theatre, Berlin, January 19, 1893, with Emanuel Reicher as Solness and Frl. Reisenhofer as Hilda. In London it was first performed at the Trafalgar Square Theatre (now the Duke of York’s) on February 20, 1893, under the direction of Mr. Herbert Waring and Miss Elizabeth Robins, who played Solness and Hilda. This was one of the most brilliant and successful of English Ibsen productions. Miss Robins was almost an ideal Hilda, and Mr. Waring’s Solness was exceedingly able. Some thirty performances were given in all, and the play was reproduced at the Opera Comique later in the season, with Mr. Lewis Waller as Solness. In the following year Miss Robins acted Hilda in Manchester. In Christiania and Copenhagen the play was produced on the same evening, March 8, 1893; the Copenhagen Solness and Hilda were Emil Poulsen and Fru Hennings. A Swedish production, by Lindberg, soon followed, both in Stockholm and Gothenburg. In Paris _Solness le constructeur_ was not seen until April 3, 1894, when it was produced by “L’Œuvre” with M. Lugné-Poë as Solness. This company, sometimes with Mme. Suzanne Desprès and sometimes with Mme. Berthe Bady as Hilda, in 1894 and 1895 presented the play in London, Brussels, Amsterdam, Milan, and other cities. In October 1894 they visited Christiania, where Ibsen was present at one of their performances, and is reported by Herman Bang to have been so enraptured with it that he exclaimed, “This is the resurrection of my play!” On this occasion Mme. Bady was the Hilda. The first performance of the play in America took place at the Carnegie Lyceum, New York, on January 16, 1900, with Mr. William H. Pascoe as Solness and Miss Florence Kahn as Hilda. The performance was repeated in the course of the same month, both at Washington and Boston. In England, and probably elsewhere as well, _The Master Builder_ produced a curious double effect. It alienated many of the poet’s staunchest admirers, and it powerfully attracted many people who had hitherto been hostile to him. Looking back, it is easy to see why this should have been so; for here was certainly a new thing in drama, which could not but set up many novel reactions. A greater contrast could scarcely be imagined than that between the hard, cold, precise outlines of _Hedda Gabler_ and the vague mysterious atmosphere of _The Master Builder_, in which, though the dialogue is sternly restrained within the limits of prose, the art of drama seems for ever on the point of floating away to blend with the art of music. Substantially, the play is one long dialogue between Solness and Hilda; and it would be quite possible to analyse this dialogue in terms of music, noting (for example) the announcement first of this theme and then of that, the resumption and reinforcement of a theme which seemed to have been dropped, the contrapuntal interweaving of two or more motives, a scherzo here, a fugal passage there. Leaving this exercise to someone more skilled in music (or less unskilled) than myself, I may note that in _The Master Builder_ Ibsen resumes his favourite retrospective method, from which in _Hedda Gabler_ he had in great measure departed. But the retrospect with which we are here concerned is purely psychological. The external events involved in it are few and simple in comparison with the external events which are successively unveiled in the retrospective passages of _The Wild Duck_ or _Rosmersholm_. The matter of the play is the soul-history of Halvard Solness, recounted to an impassioned listener—so impassioned, indeed, that the soul-changes it begets in her form an absorbing and thrilling drama. The graduations, retardations, accelerations of Solness’s self-revealment are managed with the subtlest art, so as to keep the interest of the spectator ever on the stretch. The technical method was not new; it was simply that which Ibsen had been perfecting from _Pillars of Society_ onward; but it was applied to a subject of a nature not only new to him, but new to literature. That the play is full of symbolism it would be futile to deny; and the symbolism is mainly autobiographic. The churches which Solness sets out by building doubtless represent Ibsen’s early romantic plays, the “homes for human beings,” his social dramas; while the houses with high towers, merging into “castles in the air,” stand for those spiritual dramas, with a wide outlook over the metaphysical environment of humanity, on which he was henceforth to be engaged. Perhaps it is not altogether fanciful to read a personal reference into Solness’s refusal to call himself an architect, on the ground that his training has not been systematic—that he is a self-taught man. Ibsen too was in all essentials self-taught; his philosophy was entirely unsystematic; and, like Solness, he was no student of books. There may be an introspective note also in that dread of the younger generation to which Solness confesses. It is certain that the old Master Builder was not lavish of his certificates of competence to young aspirants, though there is nothing to show that his reticence ever depressed or quenched any rising genius. On the whole, then, it cannot be doubted that several symbolic motives are inwoven into the iridescent fabric of the play. But it is a great mistake to regard it as essentially and inseparably a piece of symbolism. Essentially it is the history of a sickly conscience, worked out in terms of pure psychology. Or rather, it is a study of a sickly and a robust conscience side by side. “The conscience is very conservative,” Ibsen has somewhere said; and here Solness’s conservatism is contrasted with Hilda’s radicalism—or rather would-be radicalism, for we are led to suspect, towards the close, that the radical too is a conservative in spite of herself. The fact that Solness cannot climb as high as he builds implies, I take it, that he cannot act as freely as he thinks, or as Hilda would goad him into thinking. At such an altitude his conscience would turn dizzy, and life would become impossible to him. But here I am straying back to the interpretation of symbols. My present purpose is to insist that there is nothing in the play which has no meaning on the natural-psychological plane, and absolutely requires a symbolic interpretation to make it comprehensible. The symbols are harmonic undertones; the psychological melody is clear and consistent without any reference to them.[9] It is true that, in order to accept the action on what we may call the realistic level, we must suppose Solness to possess and to exercise, sometimes in spite of himself, and sometimes unconsciously, a considerable measure of hypnotic power. But the time is surely past when we could reckon hypnotism among “supernatural” phenomena. Whether the particular forms of hypnotic influence attributed to Solness do actually exist is a question we need not determine. The poet does not demand our absolute credence, as though he were giving evidence in the witness-box. What he requires is our imaginative acceptance of certain incidents which he purposely leaves hovering on the border between the natural and the preternatural, the explained and the unexplained. In this play, as in _The Lady from the Sea_ and _Little Eyolf_, he shows a delicacy of art in his dalliance with the occult which irresistibly recalls the exquisite genius of Nathaniel Hawthorne.[10] The critics who insist on finding nothing but symbolism in the play have fastened on Mrs. Solness’s “nine lovely dolls,” and provided the most amazing interpretations for them. A letter contributed in 1893 to the _Westminster Gazette_ records an incident which throws a curious light on the subject, and may be worth preserving. “At a recent first-night,” I wrote, ”I happened to be seated just behind a well-known critic. He turned round to me and said, ‘I want you to tell me what is _your_ theory of those “nine lovely dolls.” Of course one can see that they are entirely symbolical.’ ‘I am not so sure of that,’ I replied, remembering a Norwegian cousin of my own who treasured a favourite doll until she was nearer thirty than twenty. ‘They of course symbolise the unsatisfied passion of motherhood in Mrs. Solness’s heart, but I have very little doubt that Ibsen makes use of this “symbol” because he has observed a similar case, or cases, in real life.’ ‘What!’ cried the critic. ‘He has seen a grown-up, a middle-aged, woman continuing to “live with” her dolls!’ I was about to say that it did not seem to me so very improbable, when a lady who was seated next me, a total stranger to both of us, leant forward and said, ‘Excuse my interrupting you, but it may perhaps interest you to know that _I have three dolls to which I am deeply attached!_’ I will not be so rude as to conjecture this lady’s age, but we may be sure that a very young woman would not have had the courage to make such an avowal. Does it not seem that Ibsen knows a thing or two about human nature—English as well as Norwegian—which we dramatic critics, though bound by our calling to be subtle psychologists, have not yet fathomed?“ In the course of the correspondence which followed, one very apposite anecdote was quoted from an American paper, the _Argonaut_: “An old Virginia lady said to a friend, on finding a treasured old cup cracked by a careless maid, ‘I know of nothing to compare with the affliction of losing a handsome piece of old china.’ ‘Surely,’ said the friend, ‘it is not so bad as losing one’s children.’ ‘Yes, it is,’ replied the old lady, ’for when your children die, you do have the consolations of religion, you know.’” It would be a paradox to call _The Master Builder_ Ibsen’s greatest work, but one of his three or four greatest it assuredly is. Of all his writings, it is probably the most original, the most individual, the most unlike any other drama by any other writer. The form of _Brand_ and _Peer Gynt_ was doubtless suggested by other dramatic poems—notably by _Faust_. In _The Wild Duck_, in _Rosmersholm_, in _Hedda Gabler_, even in _Little Eyolf_ and _John Gabriel Borkman_, there remain faint traces of the French leaven which was so strong in the earlier plays. But _The Master Builder_ had no model and has no parallel. It shows no slightest vestige of outside influence. It is Ibsen, and nothing but Ibsen. ----- Footnote 6: ”To the May-sun of a September life—in Tyrol.“ Footnote 7: ”High, painful happiness—to struggle for the unattainable!“ Footnote 8: _Neue deutsche Rundschau_, December 1906, p. 1462. Footnote 9: This conception I have worked out at much greater length in an essay, entitled _The Melody of the Master Builder_, appended to the shilling edition of the play, published in 1893. I there retell the story, transplanting it to England and making the hero a journalist instead of an architect, in order to show that (if we grant the reality of certain commonly-accepted phenomena of hypnotism) there is nothing incredible or even extravagantly improbable about it. The argument is far too long to be included here, but the reader who is interested in the subject may find it worth referring to. Footnote 10: For an instance of the technical methods by which he suggested the supernormal element in the atmosphere of the play, see Introduction to _A Doll’s House_, p. xiv. HEDDA GABLER (1890) CHARACTERS. GEORGE TESMAN.[11] HEDDA TESMAN, _his wife_. MISS JULIANA TESMAN, _his aunt_. MRS. ELVSTED. JUDGE[12] BRACK. EILERT LÖVBORG. BERTA, _servant at the Tesmans_. _The scene of the action is Tesman’s villa, in the west end of Christiania._ HEDDA GABLER. PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. ------- ACT FIRST. _A spacious, handsome, and tastefully furnished drawing-room, decorated in dark colours. In the back, a wide doorway with curtains drawn back, leading into a smaller room decorated in the same style as the drawing-room. In the right-hand wall of the front room, a folding door leading out to the hall. In the opposite wall, on the left, a glass door, also with curtains drawn back. Through the panes can be seen part of a veranda outside, and trees covered with autumn foliage. An oval table, with a cover on it, and surrounded by chairs, stands well forward. In front, by the wall on the right, a wide stove of dark porcelain, a high-backed arm-chair, a cushioned foot-rest, and two footstools. A settee, with a small round table in front of it, fills the upper right-hand corner. In front, on the left, a little way from the wall, a sofa. Further back than the glass door, a piano. On either side of the doorway at the back a what-not with terra-cotta and majolica ornaments.—Against the back wall of the inner room a sofa, with a table, and one or two chairs. Over the sofa hangs the portrait of a handsome elderly man in a General’s uniform. Over the table a hanging lamp, with an opal glass shade.—A number of bouquets are arranged about the drawing-room, in vases and glasses. Others lie upon the tables. The floors in both rooms are covered with thick carpets.—Morning light. The sun shines in through the glass door._ _MISS JULIANA TESMAN, with her bonnet on and carrying a parasol, comes in from the hall, followed by BERTA, who carries a bouquet wrapped in paper. MISS TESMAN is a comely and pleasant-looking lady of about sixty-five. She is nicely but simply dressed in a grey walking-costume. BERTA is a middle-aged woman of plain and rather countrified appearance._ MISS TESMAN. [_Stops close to the door, listens, and says softly_:] Upon my word, I don’t believe they are stirring yet! BERTA. [_Also softly._] I told you so, Miss. Remember how late the steamboat got in last night. And then, when they got home!—good Lord, what a lot the young mistress had to unpack before she could get to bed. MISS TESMAN. Well well—let them have their sleep out. But let us see that they get a good breath of the fresh morning air when they do appear. [_She goes to the glass door and throws it open._ BERTA. [_Beside the table, at a loss what to do with the bouquet in her hand._] I declare there isn’t a bit of room left. I think I’ll put it down here, Miss. [_She places it on the piano._ MISS TESMAN. So you’ve got a new mistress now, my dear Berta. Heaven knows it was a wrench to me to part with you. BERTA. [_On the point of weeping._] And do you think it wasn’t hard for me too, Miss? After all the blessed years I’ve been with you and Miss Rina.[13] MISS TESMAN. We must make the best of it, Berta. There was nothing else to be done. George can’t do without you, you see—he absolutely can’t. He has had you to look after him ever since he was a little boy. BERTA. Ah but, Miss Julia, I can’t help thinking of Miss Rina lying helpless at home there, poor thing. And with only that new girl too! _She’ll_ never learn to take proper care of an invalid. MISS TESMAN. Oh, I shall manage to train her. And of course, you know, I shall take most of it upon myself. You needn’t be uneasy about my poor sister, my dear Berta. BERTA. Well, but there’s another thing, Miss. I’m so mortally afraid I shan’t be able to suit the young mistress. MISS TESMAN. Oh well—just at first there may be one or two things—— BERTA. Most like she’ll be terrible grand in her ways. MISS TESMAN. Well, you can’t wonder at that—General Gabler’s daughter! Think of the sort of life she was accustomed to in her father’s time. Don’t you remember how we used to see her riding down the road along with the General? In that long black habit—and with feathers in her hat? BERTA. Yes indeed—I remember well enough!—But, good Lord, I should never have dreamt in those days that she and Master George would make a match of it. MISS TESMAN. Nor I.—But by-the-bye, Berta—while I think of it: in future you mustn’t say Master George. You must say Dr. Tesman. BERTA. Yes, the young mistress spoke of that too—last night—the moment they set foot in the house. Is it true then, Miss? MISS TESMAN. Yes, indeed it is. Only think, Berta—some foreign university has made him a doctor—while he has been abroad, you understand. I hadn’t heard a word about it, until he told me himself upon the pier. BERTA. Well well, he’s clever enough for anything, he is. But I didn’t think he’d have gone in for doctoring people too. MISS TESMAN. No no, it’s not that sort of doctor he is. [_Nods significantly._] But let me tell you, we may have to call him something still grander before long. BERTA. You don’t say so! What can _that_ be, Miss? MISS TESMAN. [_Smiling._] H’m—wouldn’t you like to know! [_With emotion._] Ah, dear dear—if my poor brother could only look up from his grave now, and see what his little boy has grown into! [_Looks around._] But bless me, Berta—why have you done _this_? Taken the chintz covers off all the furniture? BERTA. The mistress told me to. She can’t abide covers on the chairs, she says. MISS TESMAN. Are they going to make this their everyday sitting-room then? BERTA. Yes, that’s what I understood—from the mistress. Master George—the doctor—he said nothing. _GEORGE TESMAN comes from the right into the inner room, humming to himself, and carrying an unstrapped empty portmanteau. He is a middle-sized, young-looking man of thirty-three, rather stout, with a round, open, cheerful face, fair hair and beard. He wears spectacles, and is somewhat carelessly dressed in comfortable indoor clothes._ MISS TESMAN. Good morning, good morning, George. TESMAN. [_In the doorway between the rooms._] Aunt Julia! Dear Aunt Julia! [_Goes up to her and shakes hands warmly._] Come all this way—so early! Eh? MISS TESMAN. Why, of course I had to come and see how you were getting on. TESMAN. In spite of your having had no proper night’s rest? MISS TESMAN. Oh, that makes no difference to me. TESMAN. Well, I suppose you got home all right from the pier? Eh? MISS TESMAN. Yes, quite safely, thank goodness. Judge Brack was good enough to see me right to my door. TESMAN. We were so sorry we couldn’t give you a seat in the carriage. But you saw what a pile of boxes Hedda had to bring with her. MISS TESMAN. Yes, she had certainly plenty of boxes. BERTA. [_To TESMAN._] Shall I go in and see if there’s anything I can do for the mistress? TESMAN. No thank you, Berta—you needn’t. She said she would ring if she wanted anything. BERTA. [_Going towards the right._] Very well. TESMAN. But look here—take this portmanteau with you. BERTA. [_Taking it._] I’ll put it in the attic. [_She goes out by the hall door._ TESMAN. Fancy, Auntie—I had the whole of that portmanteau chock full of copies of documents. You wouldn’t believe how much I have picked up from all the archives I have been examining—curious old details that no one has had any idea of—— MISS TESMAN. Yes, you don’t seem to have wasted your time on your wedding trip, George. TESMAN. No, that I haven’t. But do take off your bonnet, Auntie. Look here! Let me untie the strings—eh? MISS TESMAN. [_While he does so._] Well well—this is just as if you were still at home with us. TESMAN. [_With the bonnet in his hand, looks at it from all sides._] Why, what a gorgeous bonnet you’ve been investing in! MISS TESMAN. I bought it on Hedda’s account. TESMAN. On Hedda’s account? Eh? MISS TESMAN. Yes, so that Hedda needn’t be ashamed of me if we happened to go out together. TESMAN. [_Patting her cheek._] You always think of everything, Aunt Julia. [_Lays the bonnet on a chair beside the table._] And now, look here—suppose we sit comfortably on the sofa and have a little chat, till Hedda comes. [_They seat themselves. She places her parasol in the corner of the sofa._ MISS TESMAN. [_Takes both his hands and looks at him._] What a delight it is to have you again, as large as life, before my very eyes, George! My George—my poor brother’s own boy! TESMAN. And it’s a delight for me, too, to see you again, Aunt Julia! You, who have been father and mother in one to me. MISS TESMAN. Oh yes, I know you will always keep a place in your heart for your old aunts. TESMAN. And what about Aunt Rina? No improvement—eh? MISS TESMAN. Oh no—we can scarcely look for any improvement in her case, poor thing. There she lies, helpless, as she has lain for all these years. But heaven grant I may not lose her yet awhile! For if I did, I don’t know what I should make of my life, George—especially now that I haven’t you to look after any more. TESMAN. [_Patting her back._] There there there——! MISS TESMAN. [_Suddenly changing her tone._] And to think that here are you a married man, George!—And that _you_ should be the one to carry off Hedda Gabler—the beautiful Hedda Gabler! Only think of it—she, that was so beset with admirers! TESMAN. [_Hums a little and smiles complacently._] Yes, I fancy I have several good friends about town who would like to stand in my shoes—eh? MISS TESMAN. And then this fine long wedding-tour you have had! More than five—nearly six months—— TESMAN. Well, for me it has been a sort of tour of research as well. I have had to do so much grubbing among old records—and to read no end of books too, Auntie. MISS TESMAN. Oh yes, I suppose so. [_More confidentially, and lowering her voice a little._] But listen now, George,—have you nothing—nothing special to tell me? TESMAN. As to our journey? MISS TESMAN. Yes. TESMAN. No, I don’t know of anything except what I have told you in my letters. I had a doctor’s degree conferred on me—but that I told you yesterday. MISS TESMAN. Yes, yes, you did. But what I mean is—haven’t you any—any—expectations——? TESMAN. Expectations? MISS TESMAN. Why you know, George—I’m your old auntie! TESMAN. Why, of course I have expectations. MISS TESMAN. Ah! TESMAN. I have every expectation of being a professor one of these days. MISS TESMAN. Oh yes, a professor—— TESMAN. Indeed, I may say I am certain of it. But my dear Auntie—you know all about that already! MISS TESMAN. [_Laughing to herself._] Yes, of course I do. You are quite right there. [_Changing the subject._] But we were talking about your journey. It must have cost a great deal of money, George? TESMAN. Well, you see—my handsome travelling-scholarship went a good way. MISS TESMAN. But I can’t understand how you can have made it go far enough for two. TESMAN. No, that’s not so easy to understand—eh? MISS TESMAN. And especially travelling with a lady—they tell me that makes it ever so much more expensive. TESMAN. Yes, of course—it makes it a little more expensive. But Hedda _had_ to have this trip, Auntie! She really _had_ to. Nothing else would have done. MISS TESMAN. No no, I suppose not. A wedding-tour seems to be quite indispensable nowadays.—But tell me now—have you gone thoroughly over the house yet? TESMAN. Yes, you may be sure I have. I have been afoot ever since daylight. MISS TESMAN. And what do you think of it all? TESMAN. I’m delighted! Quite delighted! Only I can’t think what we are to do with the two empty rooms between this inner parlour and Hedda’s bedroom. MISS TESMAN. [_Laughing._] Oh my dear George, I daresay you may find some use for them—in the course of time. TESMAN. Why of course you are quite right, Aunt Julia! You mean as my library increases—eh? MISS TESMAN. Yes, quite so, my dear boy. It was your library I was thinking of. TESMAN. I am specially pleased on Hedda’s account. Often and often, before we were engaged, she said that she would never care to live anywhere but in Secretary Falk’s villa.[14] MISS TESMAN. Yes, it was lucky that this very house should come into the market, just after you had started. TESMAN. Yes, Aunt Julia, the luck was on our side, wasn’t it——eh? MISS TESMAN. But the expense, my dear George. You will find it very expensive, all this. TESMAN. [_Looks at her, a little cast down._] Yes, I suppose I shall, Aunt! MISS TESMAN. Oh, frightfully! TESMAN. How much do you think? In round numbers?—Eh? MISS TESMAN. Oh, I can’t even guess until all the accounts come in. TESMAN. Well, fortunately, Judge Brack has secured the most favourable terms for me,—so he said in a letter to Hedda. MISS TESMAN. Yes, don’t be uneasy, my dear boy.—Besides, I have given security for the furniture and all the carpets. TESMAN. Security? You? My dear Aunt Julia—what sort of security could _you_ give? MISS TESMAN. I have given a mortgage on our annuity. TESMAN. [_Jumps up._] What! On your—and Aunt Rina’s annuity! MISS TESMAN. Yes, I knew of no other plan, you see. TESMAN. [_Placing himself before her._] Have you gone out of your senses, Auntie! Your annuity—it’s all that you and Aunt Rina have to live upon. MISS TESMAN. Well well—don’t get so excited about it. It’s only a matter of form you know—Judge Brack assured me of that. It was he that was kind enough to arrange the whole affair for me. A mere matter of form, he said. TESMAN. Yes, that may be all very well. But nevertheless—— MISS TESMAN. You will have your own salary to depend upon now. And, good heavens, even if we did have to pay up a little——! To eke things out a bit at the start——! Why, it would be nothing but a pleasure to us. TESMAN. Oh Auntie—will you never be tired of making sacrifices for me! MISS TESMAN. [_Rises and lays her hand on his shoulders._] Have I any other happiness in this world except to smooth your way for you, my dear boy? You, who have had neither father nor mother to depend on. And now we have reached the goal, George! Things have looked black enough for us, sometimes; but, thank heaven, now you have nothing to fear. TESMAN. Yes, it is really marvellous how everything has turned out for the best. MISS TESMAN. And the people who opposed you—who wanted to bar the way for you—now you have them at your feet. They have fallen, George. Your most dangerous rival—his fall was the worst.—And now he has to lie on the bed he has made for himself—poor misguided creature. TESMAN. Have you heard anything of Eilert? Since I went away, I mean. MISS TESMAN. Only that he is said to have published a new book. TESMAN. What! Eilert Lövborg! Recently—eh? MISS TESMAN. Yes, so they say. Heaven knows whether it can be worth anything! Ah, when _your_ new book appears—that will be another story, George! What is it to be about? TESMAN. It will deal with the domestic industries of Brabant during the Middle Ages. MISS TESMAN. Fancy—to be able to write on such a subject as that! TESMAN. However, it may be some time before the book is ready. I have all these collections to arrange first, you see. MISS TESMAN. Yes, collecting and arranging—no one can beat you at that. There you are my poor brother’s own son. TESMAN. I am looking forward eagerly to setting to work at it; especially now that I have my own delightful home to work in. MISS TESMAN. And, most of all, now that you have got the wife of your heart, my dear George. TESMAN. [_Embracing her._] Oh yes, yes, Aunt Julia! Hedda—she is the best part of it all! [_Looks towards the doorway._] I believe I hear her coming—eh? _HEDDA enters from the left through the inner room. She is a woman of nine-and-twenty. Her face and figure show refinement and distinction. Her complexion is pale and opaque. Her steel-grey eyes express a cold, unruffled repose. Her hair is of an agreeable medium brown, but not particularly abundant. She is dressed in a tasteful, somewhat loose-fitting morning gown._ MISS TESMAN. [_Going to meet HEDDA._] Good morning, my dear Hedda! Good morning, and a hearty welcome! HEDDA. [_Holds out her hand._] Good morning, dear Miss Tesman! So early a call! That is kind of you. MISS TESMAN. [_With some embarrassment._] Well—has the bride slept well in her new home? HEDDA. Oh yes, thanks. Passably. TESMAN. [_Laughing._] Passably! Come, that’s good, Hedda! You were sleeping like a stone when I got up. HEDDA. Fortunately. Of course one has always to accustom one’s self to new surroundings, Miss Tesman—little by little. [LOOKING TOWARDS THE LEFT.] Oh—there the servant has gone and opened the veranda door, and let in a whole flood of sunshine. MISS TESMAN. [_Going towards the door._] Well, then we will shut it. HEDDA. No no, not that! Tesman, please draw the curtains. That will give a softer light. TESMAN. [_At the door._] All right—all right.—There now, Hedda, now you have both shade and fresh air. HEDDA. Yes, fresh air we certainly must have, with all these stacks of flowers——. But—won’t you sit down, Miss Tesman? MISS TESMAN. No, thank you. Now that I have seen that everything is all right here—thank heaven!—I must be getting home again. My sister is lying longing for me, poor thing. TESMAN. Give her my very best love, Auntie; and say I shall look in and see her later in the day. MISS TESMAN. Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to tell her. But by-the-bye, George—[_Feeling in her dress pocket_]—I had almost forgotten—I have something for you here. TESMAN. What is it, Auntie? Eh? MISS TESMAN. [_Produces a flat parcel wrapped in newspaper and hands it to him._] Look here, my dear boy. TESMAN. [_Opening the parcel._] Well, I declare!—Have you really saved them for me, Aunt Julia! Hedda! isn’t this touching—eh? HEDDA. [_Beside the whatnot on the right._] Well, what is it? TESMAN. My old morning-shoes! My slippers. HEDDA. Indeed. I remember you often spoke of them while we were abroad. TESMAN. Yes, I missed them terribly. [_Goes up to her._] Now you shall see them, Hedda! HEDDA. [_Going towards the stove._] Thanks, I really don’t care about it. TESMAN. [_Following her._] Only think—ill as she was, Aunt Rina embroidered these for me. Oh you can’t think how many associations cling to them. HEDDA. [_At the table._] Scarcely for me. MISS TESMAN. Of course not for Hedda, George. TESMAN. Well, but now that she belongs to the family, I thought—— HEDDA. [_Interrupting._] We shall never get on with this servant, Tesman. MISS TESMAN. Not get on with Berta? TESMAN. Why, dear, what puts _that_ in your head? Eh? HEDDA. [_Pointing._] Look there! She has left her old bonnet lying about on a chair. TESMAN. [_In consternation, drops the slippers on the floor._] ] Why, Hedda—— HEDDA. Just fancy, if any one should come in and see it! TESMAN. But Hedda—that’s Aunt Julia’s bonnet. HEDDA. Is it! MISS TESMAN. [_Taking up the bonnet._] Yes, indeed it’s mine. And, what’s more, it’s not old, Madam Hedda. HEDDA. I really did not look closely at it, Miss Tesman. MISS TESMAN. [_Trying on the bonnet._] Let me tell you it’s the first time I have worn it—the very first time. TESMAN. And a very nice bonnet it is too—quite a beauty! MISS TESMAN. Oh, it’s no such great things, George. [_Looks around her._] My parasol——? Ah, here. [_Takes it._] For this is mine too—[_mutters_]—not Berta’s. TESMAN. A new bonnet and a new parasol! Only think, Hedda! HEDDA. Very handsome indeed. TESMAN. Yes, isn’t it? Eh? But Auntie, take a good look at Hedda before you go! See how handsome _she_ is! MISS TESMAN. Oh, my dear boy, there’s nothing new in _that_. Hedda was always lovely. [_She nods and goes towards the right._ TESMAN. [_Following._] Yes, but have you noticed what splendid condition she is in? How she has filled out on the journey? HEDDA. [_Crossing the room._] Oh, do be quiet——! MISS TESMAN. [_Who has stopped and turned._] Filled out? TESMAN. Of course you don’t notice it so much now that she has that dress on. But I, who can see—— HEDDA. [_At the glass door, impatiently._] Oh, you can’t see anything. TESMAN. It must be the mountain air in the Tyrol—— HEDDA. [_Curtly, interrupting._] I am exactly as I was when I started. TESMAN. So you insist; but I’m quite certain you are not. Don’t you agree with me, Auntie? MISS TESMAN. [_Who has been gazing at her with folded hands._] Hedda is lovely—lovely—lovely. [_Goes up to her, takes her head between both hands, draws it downwards, and kisses her hair._] God bless and preserve Hedda Tesman—for George’s sake. HEDDA. _[Gently freeing herself._] Oh—! Let me go. MISS TESMAN. [_In quiet emotion._] I shall not let a day pass without coming to see you. TESMAN. No you won’t, will you, Auntie? Eh? MISS TESMAN. Good-bye—good-bye! [_She goes out by the hall door. TESMAN accompanies her. The door remains half open. TESMAN can be heard repeating his message to Aunt Rina and his thanks for the slippers._ [_In the meantime, HEDDA walks about the room, raising her arms and clenching her hands as if in desperation. Then she flings back the curtains from the glass door, and stands there looking out._ [_Presently TESMAN returns and closes the door behind him._ TESMAN. [_Picks up the slippers from the floor._] What are you looking at, Hedda? HEDDA. [_Once more calm and mistress of herself._] I am only looking at the leaves. They are so yellow—so withered. TESMAN. [_Wraps up the slippers and lays them on the table._] Well you see, we are well into September now. HEDDA. [_Again restless._] Yes, to think of it!—Already in—in September. TESMAN. Don’t you think Aunt Julia’s manner was strange, dear? Almost solemn? Can you imagine what was the matter with her? Eh? HEDDA. I scarcely know her, you see. Is she not often like that? TESMAN. No, not as she was to-day. HEDDA. [_Leaving the glass door._] Do you think she was annoyed about the bonnet? TESMAN. Oh, scarcely at all. Perhaps a little, just at the moment—— HEDDA. But what an idea, to pitch her bonnet about in the drawing-room! No one does that sort of thing. TESMAN. Well you may be sure Aunt Julia won’t do it again. HEDDA. In any case, I shall manage to make my peace with her. TESMAN. Yes, my dear, good Hedda, if you only would. HEDDA. When you call this afternoon, you might invite her to spend the evening here. TESMAN. Yes, that I will. And there’s one thing more you could do that would delight her heart. HEDDA. What is it? TESMAN. If you could only prevail on yourself to say _du_[15] to her. For my sake, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA. No no, Tesman—you really mustn’t ask that of me. I have told you so already. I shall try to call her “Aunt”; and you must be satisfied with that. TESMAN. Well well. Only I think now that you belong to the family, you—— HEDDA. H’m—I can’t in the least see why—— [_She goes up towards the middle doorway._ TESMAN. [_After a pause._] Is there anything the matter with you, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA. I’m only looking at my old piano. It doesn’t go at all well with all the other things. TESMAN. The first time I draw my salary, we’ll see about exchanging it. HEDDA. No, no—no exchanging. I don’t want to part with it. Suppose we put it there in the inner room, and then get another here in its place. When it’s convenient, I mean. TESMAN. [_A little taken aback._] Yes—of course we could do that. HEDDA. [_Takes up the bouquet from the piano._] These flowers were not here last night when we arrived. TESMAN. Aunt Julia must have brought them for you. HEDDA. [_Examining the bouquet._] A visiting-card. [_Takes it out and reads_:] “Shall return later in the day.” Can you guess whose card it is? TESMAN. No. Whose? Eh? HEDDA. The name is “Mrs. Elvsted.” TESMAN. Is it really? Sheriff Elvsted’s wife? Miss Rysing that was. HEDDA. Exactly. The girl with the irritating hair, that she was always showing off. An old flame of yours I’ve been told. TESMAN. [_Laughing._] Oh, that didn’t last long; and it was before I knew you, Hedda. But fancy her being in town! HEDDA. It’s odd that she should call upon us. I have scarcely seen her since we left school. TESMAN. I haven’t seen her either for—heaven knows how long. I wonder how she can endure to live in such an out-of-the way hole—eh? HEDDA. [_After a moment’s thought, says suddenly._] Tell me, Tesman—isn’t it somewhere near there that he—that—Eilert Lövborg is living? TESMAN. Yes, he is somewhere in that part of the country. _BERTA enters by the hall door._ BERTA. That lady, ma’am, that brought some flowers a little while ago, is here again. [_Pointing._] The flowers you have in your hand, ma’am. HEDDA. Ah, is she? Well, please show her in. BERTA _opens the door for_ MRS. ELVSTED, _and goes out herself._—MRS. ELVSTED _is a woman of fragile figure, with pretty, soft features. Her eyes are light blue, large, round, and somewhat prominent, with a startled, inquiring expression. Her hair is remarkably light, almost flaxen, and unusually abundant and wavy. She is a couple of years younger than_ HEDDA. _She wears a dark visiting dress, tasteful, but not quite in the latest fashion._ HEDDA. [_Receives her warmly._] How do you do, my dear Mrs. Elvsted? It’s delightful to see you again. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Nervously, struggling for self-control._] Yes, it’s a very long time since we met. TESMAN. [_Gives her his hand._] And we too—eh? HEDDA. Thanks for your lovely flowers—— MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, not at all——. I would have come straight here yesterday afternoon; but I heard that you were away—— TESMAN. Have you just come to town? Eh? MRS. ELVSTED. I arrived yesterday, about midday. Oh, I was quite in despair when I heard that you were not at home. HEDDA. In despair! How so? TESMAN. Why, my dear Mrs. Rysing—I mean Mrs. Elvsted—— HEDDA. I hope that you are not in any trouble? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, I am. And I don’t know another living creature here that I can turn to. HEDDA. [_Laying the bouquet on the table._] Come—let us sit here on the sofa—— MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I am too restless to sit down. HEDDA. Oh no, you’re not. Come here. [_She draws MRS. ELVSTED down upon the sofa and sits at her side._ TESMAN. Well? What is it, Mrs. Elvsted——? HEDDA. Has anything particular happened to you at home? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes—and no. Oh—I am so anxious you should not misunderstand me—— HEDDA. Then your best plan is to tell us the whole story, Mrs. Elvsted. TESMAN. I suppose that’s what you have come for—eh? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes—of course it is. Well then, I must tell you—if you don’t already know—that Eilert Lövborg is in town, too. HEDDA. Lövborg——! TESMAN. What! Has Eilert Lövborg come back? Fancy that, Hedda! HEDDA. Well well—I hear it. MRS. ELVSTED. He has been here a week already. Just fancy—a whole week! In this terrible town, alone! With so many temptations on all sides. HEDDA. But, my dear Mrs. Elvsted—how does he concern you so much? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Looks at her with a startled air, and says rapidly._] He was the children’s tutor. HEDDA. Your children’s? MRS. ELVSTED. My husband’s. I have none. HEDDA. Your step-children’s, then? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes. TESMAN. [_Somewhat hesitatingly._] Then was he—I don’t know how to express it—was he—regular enough in his habits to be fit for the post? Eh? MRS. ELVSTED. For the last two years his conduct has been irreproachable. TESMAN. Has it indeed? Fancy that, Hedda! HEDDA. I hear it. MRS. ELVSTED. Perfectly irreproachable, I assure you! In every respect. But all the same—now that I know he is here—in this great town—and with a large sum of money in his hands—I can’t help being in mortal fear for him. TESMAN. Why did he not remain where he was? With you and your husband? Eh? MRS. ELVSTED. After his book was published he was too restless and unsettled to remain with us. TESMAN. Yes, by-the-bye, Aunt Julia told me he had published a new book. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, a big book, dealing with the march of civilisation—in broad outline, as it were. It came out about a fortnight ago. And since it has sold so well, and been so much read—and made such a sensation—— TESMAN. Has it indeed? It must be something he has had lying by since his better days. MRS. ELVSTED. Long ago, you mean? TESMAN. Yes. MRS. ELVSTED. No, he has written it all since he has been with us—within the last year. TESMAN. Isn’t that good news, Hedda? Think of that! MRS. ELVSTED. Ah yes, if only it would last! HEDDA. Have you seen him here in town? MRS. ELVSTED. No, not yet. I have had the greatest difficulty in finding out his address. But this morning I discovered it at last. HEDDA. [_Looks searchingly at her._] Do you know, it seems to me a little odd of your husband—h’m—— MRS. ELVSTED. [_Starting nervously._] Of my husband! What? HEDDA. That he should send you to town on such an errand—that he does not come himself and look after his friend. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh no, no—my husband has no time. And besides, I—I had some shopping to do. HEDDA. [_With a slight smile._] Ah, that is a different matter. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Rising quickly and uneasily._] And now I beg and implore you, Mr. Tesman—receive Eilert Lövborg kindly if he comes to you! And that he is sure to do. You see you were such great friends in the old days. And then you are interested in the same studies—the same branch of science—so far as I can understand. TESMAN. We used to be, at any rate. MRS. ELVSTED. That is why I beg so earnestly that you—you too—will keep a sharp eye upon him. Oh, you will promise me that, Mr. Tesman—won’t you? TESMAN. With the greatest of pleasure, Mrs. Rysing—— HEDDA. Elvsted. TESMAN. I assure you I shall do all I possibly can for Eilert. You may rely upon me. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, how very, very kind of you! [_Presses his hands._] Thanks, thanks, thanks! _[Frightened._] You see, my husband is so very fond of him! HEDDA. [_Rising._] You ought to write to him, Tesman. Perhaps he may not care to come to you of his own accord. TESMAN. Well, perhaps it would be the right thing to do, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA. And the sooner the better. Why not at once? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Imploringly._] Oh, if you only would! TESMAN. I’ll write this moment. Have you his address, Mrs.—Mrs. Elvsted. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes. [_Takes a slip of paper from her pocket, and hands it to him._] Here it is. TESMAN. Good, good. Then I’ll go in——[_Looks about him._] By-the-bye,—my slippers? Oh, here. [_Takes the packet, and is about to go._ HEDDA. Be sure you write him a cordial, friendly letter. And a good long one too. TESMAN. Yes, I will. MRS. ELVSTED. But please, please don’t say a word to show that I have suggested it. TESMAN. No, how could you think I would? Eh? [_He goes out to the right, through the inner room._ HEDDA. [_Goes up to MRS. ELVSTED, smiles, and says in a low voice._] There! We have killed two birds with one stone. MRS. ELVSTED. What do you mean? HEDDA. Could you not see that I wanted him to go? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, to write the letter—— HEDDA. And that I might speak to you alone. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Confused._] About the same thing? HEDDA. Precisely. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Apprehensively._] But there is nothing more Mrs. Tesman! Absolutely nothing! HEDDA. Oh yes, but there is. There is a great deal more—I can see that. Sit here—and we’ll have a cosy, confidential chat. [_She forces_ MRS. ELVSTED _to sit in the easy-chair beside the stove, and seats herself on one of the footstools._ MRS. ELVSTED. [_Anxiously, looking at her watch._] But, my dear Mrs. Tesman—I was really on the point of going. HEDDA. Oh, you can’t be in such a hurry.—Well? Now tell me something about your life at home. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, that is just what I care least to speak about. HEDDA. But to me, dear——? Why, weren’t we schoolfellows? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, but you were in the class above me. Oh, how dreadfully afraid of you I was then! HEDDA. Afraid of me? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, dreadfully. For when we met on the stairs you used always to pull my hair. HEDDA. Did I, really? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, and once you said you would burn it off my head. HEDDA. Oh that was all nonsense, of course. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, but I was so silly in those days.—And since then, too—we have drifted so far—far apart from each other. Our circles have been so entirely different. HEDDA. Well then, we must try to drift together again. Now listen! At school we said _du_[16] to each other; and we called each other by our Christian names—— MRS. ELVSTED. No, I am sure you must be mistaken. HEDDA. No, not at all! I can remember quite distinctly. So now we are going to renew our old friendship. [_Draws the footstool closer to MRS. ELVSTED._] There now! [_Kisses her cheek._] You must say _du_ to me and call me Hedda. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Presses and pats her hands._] Oh, how good and kind you are! I am not used to such kindness. HEDDA. There, there, there! And I shall say _du_ to you, as in the old days, and call you my dear Thora. MRS. ELVSTED. My name is Thea.[17] HEDDA. Why, of course! I meant Thea. [_Looks at her compassionately._] So you are not accustomed to goodness and kindness, Thea? Not in your own home? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, if I only had a home! But I haven’t any; I have never had a home. HEDDA. [_Looks at her for a moment._] I almost suspected as much. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Gazing helplessly before her._] Yes—yes—yes. HEDDA. I don’t quite remember—was it not as housekeeper that you first went to Mr. Elvsted’s? MRS. ELVSTED. I really went as governess. But his wife—his late wife—was an invalid,—and rarely left her room. So I had to look after the housekeeping as well. HEDDA. And then—at last—you became mistress of the house. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Sadly._] Yes, I did. HEDDA. Let me see—about how long ago was that? MRS. ELVSTED. My marriage? HEDDA. Yes. MRS. ELVSTED. Five years ago. HEDDA. To be sure; it must be that. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh those five years——! Or at all events the last two or three of them! Oh, if you[18] could only imagine—— HEDDA. [_Giving her a little slap on the hand._] _De?_ Fie, Thea! MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes, I will try——Well, if—you could only imagine and understand—— HEDDA. [_Lightly._] Eilert Lövborg has been in your neighbourhood about three years, hasn’t he? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Looks at her doubtfully._] Eilert Lövborg? Yes—he has. HEDDA. Had you known him before, in town here? MRS. ELVSTED. Scarcely at all. I mean—I knew him by name of course. HEDDA. But you saw a good deal of him in the country? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, he came to us every day. You see, he gave the children lessons; for in the long run I couldn’t manage it all myself. HEDDA. No, that’s clear.—And your husband——? I suppose he is often away from home? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes. Being sheriff, you know, he has to travel about a good deal in his district. HEDDA. [_Leaning against the arm of the chair._] Thea—my poor, sweet Thea—now you must tell me everything—exactly as it stands. MRS. ELVSTED. Well then, you must question me. HEDDA. What sort of a man is your husband, Thea? I mean—you know—in everyday life. Is he kind to you? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Evasively._] I am sure he means well in everything. HEDDA. I should think he must be altogether too old for you. There is at least twenty years’ difference between you, is there not? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Irritably._] Yes, that is true, too. Everything about him is repellent to me! We have not a thought in common. We have no single point of sympathy—he and I. HEDDA. But is he not fond of you all the same? In his own way? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh I really don’t know. I think he regards me simply as a useful property. And then it doesn’t cost much to keep me. I am not expensive. HEDDA. That is stupid of you. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Shakes her head._] It cannot be otherwise—not with him. I don’t think he really cares for any one but himself—and perhaps a little for the children. HEDDA. And for Eilert Lövborg, Thea. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Looking at her._] For Eilert Lövborg? What puts that into your head? HEDDA. Well, my dear—I should say, when he sends you after him all the way to town——[_Smiling almost imperceptibly._] And besides, you said so yourself, to Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED. [_With a little nervous twitch._] Did I? Yes, I suppose I did. [_Vehemently, but not loudly._] No—I may just as well make a clean breast of it at once! For it must all come out in any case. HEDDA. Why, my dear Thea——? MRS. ELVSTED. Well, to make a long story short: My husband did not know that I was coming. HEDDA. What! Your husband didn’t know it! MRS. ELVSTED. No, of course not. For that matter, he was away from home himself—he was travelling. Oh, I could bear it no longer, Hedda! I couldn’t indeed—so utterly alone as I should have been in future. HEDDA. Well? And then? MRS. ELVSTED. So I put together some of my things—what I needed most—as quietly as possible. And then I left the house. HEDDA. Without a word? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes—and took the train straight to town. HEDDA. Why, my dear, good Thea—to think of you daring to do it! MRS. ELVSTED. [_Rises and moves about the room._] What else could I possibly do? HEDDA. But what do you think your husband will say when you go home again? MRS. ELVSTED. [_At the table, looks at her._] Back to _him_? HEDDA. Of course. MRS. ELVSTED. I shall never go back to him again. HEDDA. [_Rising and going towards her._] Then you have left your home—for good and all? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes. There was nothing else to be done. HEDDA. But then—to take flight so openly MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, it’s impossible to keep things of that sort secret. HEDDA. But what do you think people will say of you, Thea? MRS. ELVSTED. They may say what they like, for aught _I_ care. [_Seats herself wearily and sadly on the sofa._] I have done nothing but what I _had_ to do. HEDDA. [_After a short silence._] And what are your plans now? What do you think of doing? MRS. ELVSTED. I don’t know yet. I only know this, that I _must_ live here, where Eilert Lövborg is—if I am to live at all. HEDDA. [_Takes a chair from the table, seats herself beside her, and strokes her hands._] My dear Thea—how did this—this friendship—between you and Eilert Lövborg come about? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh it grew up gradually. I gained a sort of influence over him. HEDDA. Indeed? MRS. ELVSTED. He gave up his old habits. Not because I asked him to, for I never dared do that. But of course he saw how repulsive they were to me; and so he dropped them. HEDDA. [_Concealing an involuntary smile of scorn._] Then you have reclaimed him—as the saying goes—my little Thea. MRS. ELVSTED. So he says himself, at any rate. And he, on his side, has made a real human being of me—taught me to think, and to understand so many things. HEDDA. Did he give _you_ lessons too, then? MRS. ELVSTED. No, not exactly lessons. But he talked to me—talked about such an infinity of things. And then came the lovely, happy time when I began to share in his work—when he allowed me to help him! HEDDA. Oh he did, did he? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes! He never wrote anything without my assistance. HEDDA. You were two good comrades, in fact? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Eagerly._] Comrades! Yes, fancy, Hedda—that is the very word he used!—Oh, I ought to feel perfectly happy; and yet I cannot; for I don’t know how long it will last. HEDDA. Are you no surer of him than that? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Gloomily._] A woman’s shadow stands between Eilert Lövborg and me. HEDDA. [_Looks at her anxiously._] Who can _that_ be? MRS. ELVSTED. I don’t know. Some one he knew in his—in his past. Some one he has never been able wholly to forget. HEDDA. What has he told you—about this? MRS. ELVSTED. He has only once—quite vaguely—alluded to it. HEDDA. Well! And what did he say? MRS. ELVSTED. He said that when they parted, she threatened to shoot him with a pistol. HEDDA. [_With cold composure._] Oh nonsense! No one does that sort of thing here. MRS. ELVSTED. No. And that is why I think it must have been that red-haired singing-woman whom he once—— HEDDA. Yes, very likely. MRS. ELVSTED. For I remember they used to say of her that she carried loaded firearms. HEDDA. Oh—then of course it must have been she. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Wringing her hands._] And now just fancy, Hedda—I hear that this singing-woman—that she is in town again! Oh, I don’t know what to do—— HEDDA. [_Glancing towards the inner room._] Hush! Here comes Tesman. [_Rises and whispers._] Thea—all this must remain between you and me. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Springing up._] Oh yes—yes! For heaven’s sake——! GEORGE TESMAN, _with a letter in his hand, comes from the right through the inner room._ TESMAN. There now—the epistle is finished. HEDDA. That’s right. And now Mrs. Elvsted is just going. Wait a moment—I’ll go with you to the garden gate. TESMAN. Do you think Berta could post the letter, Hedda dear? HEDDA. [_Takes it._] I will tell her to. BERTA _enters from the hall._ BERTA. Judge Brack wishes to know if Mrs. Tesman will receive him. HEDDA. Yes, ask Judge Brack to come in. And look here—put this letter in the post. BERTA. [_Taking the letter._] Yes, ma’am. [_She opens the door for_ JUDGE BRACK _and goes out herself._ BRACK _is a man of forty-five; thick set, but well-built and elastic in his movements. His face is roundish with an aristocratic profile. His hair is short, still almost black, and carefully dressed. His eyes are lively and sparkling. His eyebrows thick. His moustaches are also thick, with short-cut ends. He wears a well-cut walking-suit, a little too youthful for his age. He uses an eye-glass, which he now and then lets drop._ JUDGE BRACK. [_With his hat in his hand, bowing._] May one venture to call so early in the day? HEDDA. Of course one may. TESMAN. [_Presses his hand._] You are welcome at any time. [_Introducing him._] Judge Brack—Miss Rysing—— HEDDA. Oh——! BRACK. [_Bowing._] Ah—delighted—— HEDDA. [_Looks at him and laughs._] It’s nice to have a look at you by daylight, Judge! BRACK. Do you find me—altered? HEDDA. A little younger, I think. BRACK. Thank you so much. TESMAN. But what do you think of Hedda—eh? Doesn’t she look flourishing? She has actually—— HEDDA. Oh, do leave me alone. You haven’t thanked Judge Brack for all the trouble he has taken—— BRACK. Oh, nonsense—it was a pleasure to me—— HEDDA. Yes, you are a friend indeed. But here stands Thea all impatience to be off—so _au revoir_ Judge. I shall be back again presently. [_Mutual salutations. MRS. ELVSTED and HEDDA go out by the hall door._ BRACK. Well,—is your wife tolerably satisfied—— TESMAN. Yes, we can’t thank you sufficiently. Of course she talks of a little re-arrangement here and there; and one or two things are still wanting. We shall have to buy some additional trifles. BRACK. Indeed! TESMAN. But we won’t trouble you about these things. Hedda says she herself will look after what is wanting.—Shan’t we sit down? Eh? BRACK. Thanks, for a moment. [_Seats himself beside the table._] There is something I wanted to speak to you about, my dear Tesman. TESMAN. Indeed? Ah, I understand! [_Seating himself._] I suppose it’s the serious part of the frolic that is coming now. Eh? BRACK. Oh, the money question is not so very pressing; though, for that matter, I wish we had gone a little more economically to work. TESMAN. But that would never have done, you know! Think of Hedda, my dear fellow! You, who know her so well——. I couldn’t possibly ask her to put up with a shabby style of living! BRACK. No, no—that is just the difficulty. TESMAN. And then—fortunately—it can’t be long before I receive my appointment. BRACK. Well, you see—such things are often apt to hang fire for a time. TESMAN. Have you heard anything definite? Eh? BRACK. Nothing exactly definite——. [_Interrupting himself._] But by-the-bye—I have one piece of news for you. TESMAN. Well? BRACK. Your old friend, Eilert Lövborg, has returned to town. TESMAN. I know that already. BRACK. Indeed! How did you learn it? TESMAN. From that lady who went out with Hedda. BRACK. Really? What was her name? I didn’t quite catch it. TESMAN. Mrs. Elvsted. BRACK. Aha—Sheriff Elvsted’s wife? Of course—he has been living up in their regions. TESMAN. And fancy—I’m delighted to hear that he is quite a reformed character! BRACK. So they say. TESMAN. And then he has published a new book—eh? BRACK. Yes, indeed he has. TESMAN. And I hear it has made some sensation! BRACK. Quite an unusual sensation. TESMAN. Fancy—isn’t that good news! A man of such extraordinary talents——. I felt so grieved to think that he had gone irretrievably to ruin. BRACK. That was what everybody thought. TESMAN. But I cannot imagine what he will take to now! How in the world will he be able to make his living? Eh? [_During the last words,_ HEDDA _has entered by the hall door._ HEDDA. [_To BRACK, laughing with a touch of scorn._] Tesman is for ever worrying about how people are to make their living. TESMAN. Well you see, dear—we were talking about poor Eilert Lövborg. HEDDA. [_Glancing at him rapidly._] Oh, indeed? [_Seats herself in the arm-chair beside the stove and asks indifferently_:] What is the matter with _him_? TESMAN. Well—no doubt he has run through all his property long ago; and he can scarcely write a new book every year—eh? So I really can’t see what is to become of him. BRACK. Perhaps I can give you some information on that point. TESMAN. Indeed! BRACK. You must remember that his relations have a good deal of influence. TESMAN. Oh, his relations, unfortunately, have entirely washed their hands of him. BRACK. At one time they called him the hope of the family. TESMAN. At one time, yes! But he has put an end to all that. HEDDA. Who knows? [_With a slight smile._] I hear they have reclaimed him up at Sheriff Elvsted’s—— BRACK. And then this book that he has published—— TESMAN. Well well, I hope to goodness they may find something for him to do. I have just written to him. I asked him to come and see us this evening, Hedda dear. BRACK. But my dear fellow, you are booked for my bachelors’ party this evening. You promised on the pier last night. HEDDA. Had you forgotten, Tesman? TESMAN. Yes, I had utterly forgotten. BRACK. But it doesn’t matter, for you may be sure he won’t come. TESMAN. What makes you think that? Eh? BRACK. [_With a little hesitation, rising and resting his hands on the back of his chair._] My dear Tesman—and you too, Mrs. Tesman—I think I ought not to keep you in the dark about something that—that—— TESMAN. That concerns Eilert——? BRACK. Both you and him. TESMAN. Well, my dear Judge, out with it. BRACK. You must be prepared to find your appointment deferred longer than you desired or expected. TESMAN. [_Jumping up uneasily._] Is there some hitch about it? Eh? BRACK. The nomination may perhaps be made conditional on the result of a competition—— TESMAN. Competition! Think of that, Hedda! HEDDA. [_Leans further back in the chair._] Aha—aha! TESMAN. But who can my competitor be? Surely not——? BRACK. Yes, precisely—Eilert Lövborg. TESMAN. [_Clasping his hands._] No, no—it’s quite inconceivable! Quite impossible! Eh? BRACK. H’m—that is what it may come to, all the same. TESMAN. Well but, Judge Brack—it would show the most incredible lack of consideration for me. [_Gesticulates with his arms._] For—just think—I’m a married man! We have married on the strength of these prospects, Hedda and I; and run deep into debt; and borrowed money from Aunt Julia too. Good heavens, they had as good as promised me the appointment. Eh? BRACK. Well, well, well—no doubt you will get it in the end; only after a contest. HEDDA. [_Immovable in her arm-chair._] Fancy, Tesman, there will be a sort of sporting interest in that. TESMAN. Why, my dearest Hedda, how can you be so indifferent about it? HEDDA. [_As before._] I am not at all indifferent. I am most eager to see who wins. BRACK. In any case, Mrs. Tesman, it is best that you should know how matters stand. I mean—before you set about the little purchases I hear you are threatening. HEDDA. This can make no difference. BRACK. Indeed! Then I have no more to say. Good-bye! [_To TESMAN._] I shall look in on my way back from my afternoon walk, and take you home with me. TESMAN. Oh yes; yes—your news has quite upset me. HEDDA. [_Reclining, holds out her hand._] Good-bye, Judge; and be sure you call in the afternoon. BRACK. Many thanks. Good-bye, good-bye! TESMAN. [_Accompanying him to the door._] Good-bye my dear Judge! You must really excuse me—— [_JUDGE BRACK goes out by the hall door._ TESMAN. [_Crosses the room._] Oh Hedda—one should never rush into adventures. Eh? HEDDA. [_Looks at him, smiling._] Do _you_ do _that_? TESMAN. Yes, dear—there is no denying—it was adventurous to go and marry and set up house upon mere expectations. HEDDA. Perhaps you are right there. TESMAN. Well—at all events, we have our delightful home, Hedda! Fancy, the home we both dreamed of—the home we were in love with, I may almost say. Eh? HEDDA. [_Rising slowly and wearily._] It was part of our compact that we were to go into society—to keep open house. TESMAN. Yes, if you only knew how I had been looking forward to it! Fancy—to see you as hostess—in a select circle! Eh? Well, well, well—for the present we shall have to get on without society, Hedda—only to invite Aunt Julia now and then.—Oh, I intended you to lead such an utterly different life, dear——! HEDDA. Of course I cannot have my man in livery just yet. TESMAN. Oh no, unfortunately. It would be out of the question for us to keep a footman, you know. HEDDA. And the saddle-horse I was to have had—— TESMAN. [_Aghast._] The saddle-horse! HEDDA. ——I suppose I must not think of that now. TESMAN. Good heavens, no!—that’s as clear as daylight. HEDDA. [_Goes up the room._] Well, I shall have one thing at least to kill time with in the meanwhile. TESMAN. [_Beaming._] Oh thank heaven for that! What is it, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA. [_In the middle doorway, looks at him with covert scorn._] My pistols, George. TESMAN. [_In alarm._] Your pistols! HEDDA. [_With cold eyes._] General Gabler’s pistols. [_She goes out through the inner room, to the left._ TESMAN. [_Rushes up to the middle doorway and calls after her_:] No, for heaven’s sake, Hedda darling—don’t touch those dangerous things! For my sake, Hedda! Eh? ----- Footnote 11: Tesman, whose Christian name in the original is “Jörgen,” is described as “stipendiat i kulturhistorie”—that is to say, the holder of a scholarship for purposes of research into the History of Civilisation. Footnote 12: In the original “Assessor.” ACT SECOND _The room at the_ TESMANS’ _as in the first Act, except that the piano has been removed, and an elegant little writing-table with book-shelves put in its place. A smaller table stands near the sofa on the left. Most of the bouquets have been taken away._ MRS. ELVSTED’S _bouquet is upon the large table in front.—It is afternoon._ HEDDA, _dressed to receive callers, is alone in the room. She stands by the open glass door, loading a revolver. The fellow to it lies in an open pistol-case on the writing-table._ HEDDA. [_Looks down the garden, and calls_:] So you are here again, Judge! BRACK. [_Is heard calling from a distance._] As you see, Mrs. Tesman! HEDDA. [_Raises the pistol and points._] Now I’ll shoot you, Judge Brack! BRACK. [_Calling unseen._] No, no, no! Don’t stand aiming at me! HEDDA. This is what comes of sneaking in by the back way.[19] [_She fires._ BRACK. [_Nearer._] Are you out of your senses——! HEDDA. Dear me—did I happen to hit you? BRACK. [_Still outside._] I wish you would let these pranks alone! HEDDA. Come in then, Judge. JUDGE BRACK, _dressed as though for a men’s party, enters by the glass door. He carries a light overcoat over his arm._ BRACK. What the deuce—haven’t you tired of that sport, yet? What are you shooting at? HEDDA. Oh, I am only firing in the air. BRACK. [_Gently takes the pistol out of her hand._] Allow me, madam! [_Looks at it._] Ah—I know this pistol well! [_Looks around._] Where is the case? Ah, here it is. [_Lays the pistol in it, and shuts it._] Now we won’t play at that game any more to-day. HEDDA. Then what in heaven’s name would you have me do with myself? BRACK. Have you had no visitors? HEDDA. [_Closing the glass door._] Not one. I suppose all our set are still out of town. BRACK. And is Tesman not at home either? HEDDA. [_At the writing-table, putting the pistol-case in a drawer which she shuts._] No. He rushed off to his aunt’s directly after lunch; he didn’t expect you so early. BRACK. H’m—how stupid of me not to have thought of that! HEDDA. [_Turning her head to look at him._] Why stupid? BRACK. Because if I had thought of it I should have come a little—earlier. HEDDA. [_Crossing the room._] Then you would have found no one to receive you; for I have been in my room changing my dress ever since lunch. BRACK. And is there no sort of little chink that we could hold a parley through? HEDDA. You have forgotten to arrange one. BRACK. That was another piece of stupidity. HEDDA. Well, we must just settle down here—and wait. Tesman is not likely to be back for some time yet. BRACK. Never mind; I shall not be impatient. HEDDA _seats herself in the corner of the sofa._ BRACK _lays his overcoat over the back of the nearest chair, and sits down, but keeps his hat in his hand. A short silence. They look at each other._ HEDDA. Well? BRACK. [_In the same tone._] Well? HEDDA. I spoke first. BRACK. [_Bending a little forward._] Come, let us have a cosy little chat, Mrs. Hedda.[20] HEDDA. [_Leaning further back in the sofa._] Does it not seem like a whole eternity since our last talk? Of course I don’t count those few words yesterday evening and this morning. BRACK. You mean since our last confidential talk? Our last _tête-à-tête_? HEDDA. Well yes—since you put it so. BRACK. Not a day has passed but I have wished that you were home again. HEDDA. And I have done nothing but wish the same thing. BRACK. You? Really, Mrs. Hedda? And I thought you had been enjoying your tour so much! HEDDA. Oh yes, you may be sure of that! BRACK. But Tesman’s letters spoke of nothing but happiness. HEDDA. Oh, _Tesman_! You see, he thinks nothing so delightful as grubbing in libraries and making copies of old parchments, or whatever you call them. BRACK. [_With a spice of malice._] Well, that is his vocation in life—or part of it at any rate. HEDDA. Yes, of course; and no doubt when it’s your vocation——. But _I_! Oh, my dear Mr. Brack, how mortally bored I have been. BRACK. [_Sympathetically._] Do you really say so? In downright earnest? HEDDA. Yes, you can surely understand it——! To go for six whole months without meeting a soul that knew anything of our circle, or could talk about the things we are interested in. BRACK. Yes, yes—I too should feel that a deprivation. HEDDA. And then, what I found most intolerable of all—— BRACK. Well? HEDDA. ——was being everlastingly in the company of—one and the same person—— BRACK. [_With a nod of assent._] Morning, noon, and night, yes—at all possible times and seasons. HEDDA. I said “everlastingly.” BRACK. Just so. But I should have thought, with our excellent Tesman, one could—— HEDDA. Tesman is—a specialist, my dear Judge. BRACK. Undeniably. HEDDA. And specialists are not at all amusing to travel with. Not in the long run at any rate. BRACK. Not even—the specialist one happens to _love_? HEDDA. Faugh—don’t use that sickening word! BRACK. [_Taken aback._] What do you say, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. [_Half laughing, half irritated._] You should just try it! To hear of nothing but the history of civilisation, morning, noon, and night—— BRACK. Everlastingly. HEDDA. Yes, yes, yes! And then all this about the domestic industry of the middle ages——! That’s the most disgusting part of it! BRACK. [_Looks searchingly at her._] But tell me—in that case, how am I to understand your——? H’m—— HEDDA. My accepting George Tesman, you mean? BRACK. Well, let us put it so. HEDDA. Good heavens, do you see anything so wonderful in that? BRACK. Yes and no—Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. I had positively danced myself tired, my dear Judge. My day was done—— [_With a slight shudder._] Oh no—I won’t say that; nor think it either! BRACK. You have assuredly no reason to. HEDDA. Oh, reasons—— [_Watching him closely._] And George Tesman—after all, you must admit that he is correctness itself. BRACK. His correctness and respectability are beyond all question. HEDDA. And I don’t see anything absolutely ridiculous about him.—Do you? BRACK. Ridiculous? N—no—I shouldn’t exactly say so—— HEDDA. Well—and his powers of research, at all events, are untiring.—I see no reason why he should not one day come to the front, after all. BRACK. [_Looks at her hesitatingly._] I thought that you, like every one else, expected him to attain the highest distinction. HEDDA. [_With an expression of fatigue._] Yes, so I did.—And then, since he was bent, at all hazards, on being allowed to provide for me—I really don’t know why I should not have accepted his offer? BRACK. No—if you look at it in _that_ light—— HEDDA. It was more than my other adorers were prepared to do for me, my dear Judge. BRACK. [_Laughing._] Well, I can’t answer for all the rest; but as for myself, you know quite well that I have always entertained a—a certain respect for the marriage tie—for marriage as an institution, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. [_Jestingly._] Oh, I assure you I have never cherished any hopes with respect to you. BRACK. All I require is a pleasant and intimate interior, where I can make myself useful in every way, and am free to come and go as—as a trusted friend—— HEDDA. Of the master of the house, do you mean? BRACK. [_Bowing._] Frankly—of the mistress first of all; but of course of the master too, in the second place. Such a triangular friendship—if I may call it so—is really a great convenience for all parties, let me tell you. HEDDA. Yes, I have many a time longed for some one to make a third on our travels. Oh—those railway-carriage _tête-à-têtes_——! BRACK. Fortunately your wedding journey is over now. HEDDA. [_Shaking her head._] Not by a long—long way. I have only arrived at a station on the line. BRACK. Well, then the passengers jump out and move about a little, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. I never jump out. BRACK. Really? HEDDA. No—because there is always some one standing by to—— BRACK. [_Laughing._] To look at your ankles, do you mean? HEDDA. Precisely. BRACK. Well but, dear me—— HEDDA. [_With a gesture of repulsion._] I won’t have it. I would rather keep my seat where I happen to be—and continue the _tête-à-tête_. BRACK. But suppose a third person were to jump in and join the couple. HEDDA. Ah—that is quite another matter. BRACK. A trusted, sympathetic friend—— HEDDA. ——with a fund of conversation on all sorts of lively topics—— BRACK. ——and not the least bit of a specialist! HEDDA. [_With an audible sigh._] Yes, that would be a relief indeed. BRACK. [_Hears the front door open, and glances in that direction._] The triangle is completed. HEDDA. [_Half aloud._] And on goes the train. GEORGE TESMAN, _in a grey walking-suit, with a soft felt hat, enters from the hall. He has a number of unbound books under his arm and in his pockets._ TESMAN. [_Goes up to the table beside the corner settee._] Ouf—what a load for a warm day—all these books. [_Lays them on the table._] I’m positively perspiring, Hedda. Hallo—are you there already, my dear Judge? Eh? Berta didn’t tell me. BRACK. [_Rising._] I came in through the garden. HEDDA. What books have you got there? TESMAN. [_Stands looking them through._] Some new books on my special subjects—quite indispensable to me. HEDDA. Your special subjects? BRACK. Yes, books on his special subjects, Mrs. Tesman. [_BRACK and HEDDA exchange a confidential smile._ HEDDA. Do you need still more books on your special subjects? TESMAN. Yes, my dear Hedda, one can never have too many of them. Of course one must keep up with all that is written and published. HEDDA. Yes, I suppose one must. TESMAN. [_Searching among his books._] And look here—I have got hold of Eilert Lövborg’s new book too. [_Offering it to her._] Perhaps you would like to glance through it, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA. No, thank you. Or rather—afterwards perhaps. TESMAN. I looked into it a little on the way home. BRACK. Well, what do you think of it—as a specialist? TESMAN. I think it shows quite remarkable soundness of judgment. He never wrote like that before. [_Putting the books together._] Now I shall take all these into my study. I’m longing to cut the leaves——! And then I must change my clothes. [_To BRACK._] I suppose we needn’t start just yet? Eh? BRACK. Oh, dear no—there is not the slightest hurry. TESMAN. Well then, I will take my time. [_Is going with his books, but stops in the doorway and turns._] By-the-bye, Hedda—Aunt Julia is not coming this evening. HEDDA. Not coming? Is it that affair of the bonnet that keeps her away? TESMAN. Oh, not at all. How could you think such a thing of Aunt Julia? Just fancy——! The fact is, Aunt Rina is very ill. HEDDA. She always is. TESMAN. Yes, but to-day she is much worse than usual, poor dear. HEDDA. Oh, then it’s only natural that her sister should remain with her. I must bear my disappointment. TESMAN. And you can’t imagine, dear, how delighted Aunt Julia seemed to be—because you had come home looking so flourishing! HEDDA. [_Half aloud, rising._] Oh, those everlasting Aunts! TESMAN. What? HEDDA. [_Going to the glass door._] Nothing. TESMAN. Oh, all right. [_He goes through the inner room, out to the right._ BRACK. What bonnet were you talking about? HEDDA. Oh, it was a little episode with Miss Tesman this morning. She had laid down her bonnet on the chair there—[_Looks at him and smiles._]—and I pretended to think it was the servant’s. BRACK. [_Shaking his head._] Now my dear Mrs. Hedda, how could you do such a thing? To that excellent old lady, too! HEDDA. [_Nervously crossing the room._] Well, you see—these impulses come over me all of a sudden; and I _cannot_ resist them. [_Throws herself down in the easy-chair by the stove._] Oh, I don’t know how to explain it. BRACK. [_Behind the easy-chair._] You are not really happy—that is at the bottom of it. HEDDA. [_Looking straight before her._] I know of no reason why I should be—happy. Perhaps you can give me one? BRACK. Well—amongst other things, because you have got exactly the home you had set your heart on. HEDDA. [_Looks up at him and laughs._] Do you too believe in that legend? BRACK. Is there nothing in it, then? HEDDA. Oh yes, there is _something_ in it. BRACK. Well? HEDDA. There is _this_ in it, that I made use of Tesman to see me home from evening parties last summer—— BRACK. I, unfortunately, had to go quite a different way. HEDDA. That’s true. I know you were going a different way last summer. BRACK. [_Laughing._] Oh fie, Mrs. Hedda! Well, then—you and Tesman——? HEDDA. Well, we happened to pass here one evening; Tesman, poor fellow, was writhing in the agony of having to find conversation; so I took pity on the learned man—— BRACK. [_Smiles doubtfully._] _You_ took pity? H’m—— HEDDA. Yes, I really did. And so—to help him out of his torment—I happened to say, in pure thoughtlessness, that I should like to live in this villa. BRACK. No more than that? HEDDA. Not _that_ evening. BRACK. But afterwards? HEDDA. Yes, my thoughtlessness had consequences, my dear Judge. BRACK. Unfortunately that too often happens, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. Thanks! So you see it was this enthusiasm for Secretary Falk’s villa that first constituted a bond of sympathy between George Tesman and me. From _that_ came our engagement and our marriage, and our wedding journey, and all the rest of it. Well, well, my dear Judge—as you make your bed so you must lie, I could almost say. BRACK. This is exquisite! And you really cared not a rap about it all the time? HEDDA. No, heaven knows I didn’t. BRACK. But now? Now that we have made it so homelike for you? HEDDA. Uh—the rooms all seem to smell of lavender and dried rose-leaves.—But perhaps it’s Aunt Julia that has brought that scent with her. BRACK. [_Laughing._] No, I think it must be a legacy from the late Mrs. Secretary Falk. HEDDA. Yes, there is an odour of mortality about it. It reminds me of a bouquet—the day after the ball. [_Clasps her hands behind her head, leans back in her chair and looks at him._] Oh, my dear Judge—you cannot imagine how horribly I shall bore myself here. BRACK. Why should not you, too, find some sort of vocation in life, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. A vocation—that should attract me? BRACK. If possible, of course. HEDDA. Heaven knows what sort of a vocation that could be. I often wonder whether——[_Breaking off._] But that would never do either. BRACK. Who can tell? Let me hear what it is. HEDDA. Whether I might not get Tesman to go into politics, I mean. BRACK. [_Laughing._] Tesman? No really now, political life is not the thing for him—not at all in his line. HEDDA. No, I daresay not.—But if I could get him into it all the same? BRACK. Why—what satisfaction could you find in that? If he is not fitted for that sort of thing, why should you want to drive him into it? HEDDA. Because I am bored, I tell you! [_After a pause._] So you think it quite out of the question that Tesman should ever get into the ministry? BRACK. H’m—you see, my dear Mrs. Hedda—to get into the ministry, he would have to be a tolerably rich man. HEDDA. [_Rising impatiently._] Yes, there we have it! It is this genteel poverty I have managed to drop into——! [_Crosses the room._] That is what makes life so pitiable! So utterly ludicrous!—For that’s what it is. BRACK. Now _I_ should say the fault lay elsewhere. HEDDA. Where, then? BRACK. You have never gone through any really stimulating experience. HEDDA. Anything serious, you mean? BRACK. Yes, you may call it so. But now you may perhaps have one in store. HEDDA. [_Tossing her head._] Oh, you’re thinking of the annoyances about this wretched professorship! But that must be Tesman’s own affair. I assure you I shall not waste a thought upon it. BRACK. No, no, I daresay not. But suppose now that what people call—in elegant language—a solemn responsibility were to come upon you? [_Smiling._] A new responsibility, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. [_Angrily._] Be quiet! Nothing of that sort will ever happen! BRACK. [_Warily._] We will speak of this again a year hence—at the very outside. HEDDA. [_Curtly._] I have no turn for anything of the sort, Judge Brack. No responsibilities for me! BRACK. Are you so unlike the generality of women as to have no turn for duties which——? HEDDA. [_Beside the glass door._] Oh, be quiet, I tell you!—I often think there is only one thing in the world I have any turn for. BRACK. [_Drawing near to her._] And what is that, if I may ask? HEDDA. [_Stands looking out._] Boring myself to death. Now you know it. [_Turns, looks towards the inner room, and laughs._] Yes, as I thought! Here comes the Professor. BRACK. [_Softly, in a tone of warning._] Come, come, come, Mrs. Hedda! GEORGE TESMAN, _dressed for the party, with his gloves and hat in his hand, enters from the right through the inner room._ TESMAN. Hedda, has no message come from Eilert Lövborg? Eh? HEDDA. No. TESMAN. Then you’ll see he’ll be here presently. BRACK. Do you really think he will come? TESMAN. Yes, I am almost sure of it. For what you were telling us this morning must have been a mere floating rumour. BRACK. You think so? TESMAN. At any rate, Aunt Julia said she did not believe for a moment that he would ever stand in my way again. Fancy that! BRACK. Well then, that’s all right. TESMAN. [_Placing his hat and gloves on a chair on the right._] Yes, but you must really let me wait for him as long as possible. BRACK. We have plenty of time yet. None of my guests will arrive before seven or half-past. TESMAN. Then meanwhile we can keep Hedda company, and see what happens. Eh? HEDDA. [_Placing BRACK’S hat and overcoat upon the corner settee._] And at the worst Mr. Lövborg can remain here with me. BRACK. [_Offering to take his things._] Oh, allow me, Mrs. Tesman!—What do you mean by ”At the worst“? HEDDA. If he won’t go with you and Tesman. TESMAN. [_Looks dubiously at her._] But, Hedda dear—do you think it would quite do for him to remain with you? Eh? Remember, Aunt Julia can’t come. HEDDA. No, but Mrs. Elvsted is coming. We three can have a cup of tea together. TESMAN. Oh yes, _that_ will be all right. BRACK. [_Smiling._] And that would perhaps be the safest plan for him. HEDDA. Why so? BRACK. Well, you know, Mrs. Tesman, how you used to gird at my little bachelor parties. You declared they were adapted only for men of the strictest principles. HEDDA. But no doubt Mr. Lövborg’s principles are strict enough now. A converted sinner—— [_BERTA appears at the hall door._ BERTA. There’s a gentleman asking if you are at home, ma’am—— HEDDA. Well, show him in. TESMAN. [_Softly._] I’m sure it is he! Fancy that! EILERT LÖVBORG _enters from the hall. He is slim and lean; of the same age as_ TESMAN, _but looks older and somewhat worn-out. His hair and beard are of a blackish brown, his face long and pale, but with patches of colour on the cheekbones. He is dressed in a well-cut black visiting suit, quite new. He has dark gloves and a silk hat. He stops near the door, and makes a rapid bow, seeming somewhat embarrassed._ TESMAN. [_Goes up to him and shakes him warmly by the hand._] Well, my dear Eilert—so at last we meet again! EILERT LÖVBORG. [_Speaks in a subdued voice._] Thanks for your letter, Tesman. [_Approaching HEDDA._] Will you too shake hands with me, Mrs. Tesman? HEDDA. [_Taking his hand._] I am glad to see you, Mr. Lövborg. [_With a motion of her hand._] I don’t know whether you two gentlemen——? LÖVBORG. [_Bowing slightly._] Judge Brack, I think. BRACK. [_Doing likewise._] Oh yes,—in the old days—— TESMAN. [_To Lövborg, with his hands on his shoulders._] And now you must make yourself entirely at home, Eilert! Musn’t he, Hedda?—For I hear you are going to settle in town again? Eh? LÖVBORG. Yes, I am. TESMAN. Quite right, quite right. Let me tell you, I have got hold of your new book; but I haven’t had time to read it yet. LÖVBORG. You may spare yourself the trouble. TESMAN. Why so? LÖVBORG. Because there is very little in it. TESMAN. Just fancy—how can you say so? BRACK. But it has been very much praised, I hear. LÖVBORG. That was what I wanted; so I put nothing into the book but what every one would agree with. BRACK. Very wise of you. TESMAN. Well but, my dear Eilert——! LÖVBORG. For now I mean to win myself a position again—to make a fresh start. TESMAN. [_A little embarrassed._] Ah, that is what you wish to do? Eh? LÖVBORG. [_Smiling, lays down his hat, and draws a packet, wrapped in paper, from his coat pocket._] But when this one appears, George Tesman, you will have to read it. For _this_ is the real book—the book I have put my true self into. TESMAN. Indeed? And what is it? LÖVBORG. It is the continuation. TESMAN. The continuation? Of what? LÖVBORG. Of the book. TESMAN. Of the new book? LÖVBORG. Of course. TESMAN. Why, my dear Eilert—does it not come down to our own days? LÖVBORG. Yes, it does; and this one deals with the future. TESMAN. With the future! But, good heavens, we know nothing of the future! LÖVBORG. No; but there is a thing or two to be said about it all the same. [_Opens the packet._] Look here—— TESMAN. Why, that’s not your handwriting. LÖVBORG. I dictated it. [_Turning over the pages._] It falls into two sections. The first deals with the civilising forces of the future. And here is the second—[_running through the pages towards the end_]—forecasting the probable line of development. TESMAN. How odd now! I should never have thought of writing anything of that sort. HEDDA. [_At the glass door, drumming on the pane._] H’m——. I daresay not. LÖVBORG. [_Replacing the manuscript in its paper and laying the packet on the table._] I brought it, thinking I might read you a little of it this evening. TESMAN. That was very good of you, Eilert. But this evening——? [_Looking at BRACK._] I don’t quite see how we can manage it—— LÖVBORG. Well then, some other time. There is no hurry. BRACK. I must tell you, Mr. Lövborg—there is a little gathering at my house this evening—mainly in honour of Tesman, you know—— LÖVBORG. [_Looking for his hat._] Oh—then I won’t detain you—— BRACK. No, but listen—will you not do me the favour of joining us? LÖVBORG. [_Curtly and decidedly._] No, I can’t—thank you very much. BRACK. Oh, nonsense—do! We shall be quite a select little circle. And I assure you we shall have a “lively time,” as Mrs. Hed—as Mrs. Tesman says. LÖVBORG. I have no doubt of it. But nevertheless—— BRACK. And then you might bring your manuscript with you, and read it to Tesman at my house. I could give you a room to yourselves. TESMAN. Yes, think of that, Eilert,—why shouldn’t you? Eh? HEDDA. [_Interposing._] But, Tesman, if Mr. Lövborg would really rather not! I am sure Mr. Lövborg is much more inclined to remain here and have supper with me. Lövborg. [_Looking at her._] With you, Mrs. Tesman? HEDDA. And with Mrs. Elvsted. LÖVBORG. Ah——[_Lightly._] I saw her for a moment this morning. HEDDA. Did you? Well, she is coming this evening. So you see you are almost bound to remain, Mr. Lövborg, or she will have no one to see her home. LÖVBORG. That’s true. Many thanks, Mrs. Tesman—in that case I will remain. HEDDA. Then I have one or two orders to give the servant—— [_She goes to the hall door and rings._ BERTA _enters._ HEDDA _talks to her in a whisper, and points towards the inner room._ BERTA _nods and goes out again._ TESMAN. [_At the same time, to LÖVBORG._] Tell me, Eilert—is it this new subject—the future—that you are going to lecture about? LÖVBORG. Yes. TESMAN. They told me at the bookseller’s that you are going to deliver a course of lectures this autumn. LÖVBORG. That is my intention. I hope you won’t take it ill, Tesman. TESMAN. Oh no, not in the least! But——? LÖVBORG. I can quite understand that it must be disagreeable to you. TESMAN. [_Cast down._] Oh, I can’t expect you, out of consideration for me, to—— LÖVBORG. But I shall wait till you have received your appointment. TESMAN. Will you wait? Yes but—yes but—are you not going to compete with me? Eh? LÖVBORG. No; it is only the moral victory I care for. TESMAN. Why, bless me—then Aunt Julia was right after all! Oh yes—I knew it! Hedda! Just fancy—Eilert Lövborg is not going to stand in our way! HEDDA. [_Curtly._] _Our_ way? Pray leave _me_ out of the question. [_She goes up towards the inner room, where_ BERTA _is placing a tray with decanters and glasses on the table._ HEDDA _nods approval, and comes forward again._ BERTA _goes out._ TESMAN. [_At the same time._] And you, Judge Brack—what do you say to this? Eh? BRACK. Well, I say that a moral victory—h’m—may be all very fine—— TESMAN. Yes, certainly. But all the same—— HEDDA. [_Looking at TESMAN with a cold smile._] You stand there looking as if you were thunderstruck—— TESMAN. Yes—so I am—I almost think—— BRACK. Don’t you see, Mrs. Tesman, a thunderstorm has just passed over? HEDDA. [_Pointing towards the inner room._] Will you not take a glass of cold punch, gentlemen? BRACK. [_Looking at his watch._] A stirrup-cup? Yes, it wouldn’t come amiss. TESMAN. A capital idea, Hedda! Just the thing! Now that the weight has been taken off my mind—— HEDDA. Will you not join them, Mr. Lövborg? LÖVBORG. _[With a gesture of refusal._] No, thank you. Nothing for me. BRACK. Why bless me—cold punch is surely not poison. LÖVBORG. Perhaps not for every one. HEDDA. I will keep Mr. Lövborg company in the meantime. TESMAN. Yes, yes, Hedda dear, do. [_He and_ BRACK _go into the inner room, seat themselves, drink punch, smoke cigarettes, and carry on a lively conversation during what follows._ EILERT LÖVBORG _remains standing beside the stove. HEDDA goes to the writing-table._ HEDDA. [_Raising her voice a little!_] Do you care to look at some photographs, Mr. Lövborg? You know Tesman and I made a tour in the Tyrol on our way home? [_She takes up an album, and places it on the table beside the sofa, in the further corner of which she seats herself._ EILERT LÖVBORG _approaches, stops, and looks at her. Then he takes a chair and seats himself to her left, with his back towards the inner room._ HEDDA. [_Opening the album._] Do you see this range of mountains, Mr. Lövborg? It’s the Ortler group. Tesman has written the name underneath. Here it is: “The Ortler group near Meran.” LÖVBORG. [_Who has never taken his eyes off her, says softly and slowly_:] Hedda—Gabler! HEDDA. [_Glancing hastily at him._] Ah! Hush! LÖVBORG. [_Repeats softly._] Hedda Gabler! HEDDA. [_Looking at the album._] That was my name in the old days—when we two knew each other. LÖVBORG. And I must teach myself never to say Hedda Gabler again—never, as long as I live. HEDDA. [_Still turning over the pages._] Yes, you must. And I think you ought to practise in time. The sooner the better, I should say. LÖVBORG. [_In a tone of indignation._] Hedda Gabler married? And married to—George Tesman! HEDDA. Yes—so the world goes. LÖVBORG. Oh, Hedda, Hedda—how could you[21] throw yourself away! HEDDA. [_Looks sharply at him._] What? I can’t allow this! LÖVBORG. What do you mean? [TESMAN _comes into the room and goes towards the sofa._ HEDDA. [_Hears him coming and says in an indifferent tone._] And this is a view from the Val d’Ampezzo, Mr. Lövborg. Just look at these peaks! [_Looks affectionately up at TESMAN._] What’s the name of these curious peaks, dear? TESMAN. Let me see. Oh, those are the Dolomites. HEDDA. Yes, that’s it!—Those are the Dolomites, Mr. Lövborg. TESMAN. Hedda dear,—I only wanted to ask whether I shouldn’t bring you a little punch after all? For yourself at any rate—eh? HEDDA. Yes, do, please; and perhaps a few biscuits. TESMAN. No cigarettes? HEDDA. No. TESMAN. Very well. [_He goes into the inner room and out to the right._ BRACK _sits in the inner room, and keeps an eye from time to time on_ HEDDA _and_ LÖVBORG. LÖVBORG. [_Softly, as before._] Answer me, Hedda—how could you go and do this? HEDDA. [_Apparently absorbed in the album._] If you continue to say _du_ to me I won’t talk to you. LÖVBORG. May I not say _du_ even when we are alone? HEDDA. No. You may think it; but you mustn’t say it. LÖVBORG. Ah, I understand. It is an offence against George Tesman, whom you[22]—love. HEDDA. [_Glances at him and smiles._] Love? What an idea! LÖVBORG. You don’t love him then! HEDDA. But I won’t hear of any sort of unfaithfulness! Remember that. LÖVBORG. Hedda—answer me one thing—— HEDDA. Hush! [TESMAN _enters with a small tray from the inner room._ TESMAN. Here you are! Isn’t this tempting? [_He puts the tray on the table._ HEDDA. Why do you bring it yourself? TESMAN. [_Filling the glasses._] Because I think it’s such fun to wait upon you, Hedda. HEDDA. But you have poured out two glasses. Mr. Lövborg said he wouldn’t have any—— TESMAN. No, but Mrs. Elvsted will soon be here, won’t she? HEDDA. Yes, by-the-bye—Mrs. Elvsted—— TESMAN. Had you forgotten her? Eh? HEDDA. We were so absorbed in these photographs. [_Shows him a picture._] Do you remember this little village? TESMAN. Oh, it’s that one just below the Brenner Pass. It was there we passed the night—— HEDDA. ——and met that lively party of tourists. TESMAN. Yes, that was the place. Fancy—if we could only have had _you_ with us, Eilert! Eh? [_He returns to the inner room and sits beside_ BRACK. LÖVBORG. Answer me this one thing, Hedda—— HEDDA. Well? LÖVBORG. Was there no love in your friendship for _me_ either? Not a spark—not a tinge of love in it? HEDDA. I wonder if there was? To me it seems as though we were two good comrades—two thoroughly intimate friends. [_Smilingly._] You especially were frankness itself. LÖVBORG. It was you that made me so. HEDDA. As I look back upon it all, I think there was really something beautiful, something fascinating—something daring—in—in that secret intimacy—that comradeship which no living creature so much as dreamed of. LÖVBORG. Yes, yes, Hedda! Was there not?—When I used to come to your father’s in the afternoon—and the General sat over at the window reading his papers—with his back towards us—— HEDDA. And we two on the corner sofa—— LÖVBORG. Always with the same illustrated paper before us—— HEDDA. For want of an album, yes. LÖVBORG. Yes, Hedda, and when I made my confessions to you—told you about myself, things that at that time no one else knew! There I would sit and tell you of my escapades—my days and nights of devilment. Oh, Hedda—what was the power in you that forced me to confess these things? HEDDA. Do you think it was any power in me? LÖVBORG. How else can I explain it? And all those—those roundabout questions you used to put to me—— HEDDA. Which you understood so particularly well—— LÖVBORG. How could you sit and question me like that? Question me quite frankly—— HEDDA. In roundabout terms, please observe. LÖVBORG. Yes, but frankly nevertheless. Cross-question me about—all that sort of thing? HEDDA. And how could you answer, Mr. Lövborg? LÖVBORG. Yes, that is just what I can’t understand—in looking back upon it. But tell me now, Hedda—was there not love at the bottom of our friendship? On your side, did you not feel as though you might purge my stains away—if I made you my confessor? Was it not so? HEDDA. No, not quite. LÖVBORG. What was your motive, then? HEDDA. Do you think it quite incomprehensible that a young girl—when it can be done—without any one knowing—— LÖVBORG. Well? HEDDA. ——should be glad to have a peep, now and then, into a world which—— LÖVBORG. Which——? HEDDA. ——which she is forbidden to know anything about? LÖVBORG. So _that_ was it? HEDDA. Partly. Partly—I almost think. LÖVBORG. Comradeship in the thirst for life. But why should not _that_, at any rate, have continued? HEDDA. The fault was yours. LÖVBORG. It was you that broke with me. HEDDA. Yes, when our friendship threatened to develop into something more serious. Shame upon you, Eilert Lövborg! How could you think of wronging your—your frank comrade? LÖVBORG. [_Clenching his hands._] Oh, why did you not carry out your threat? Why did you not shoot me down? HEDDA. Because I have such a dread of scandal. LÖVBORG. Yes, Hedda, you are a coward at heart. HEDDA. A terrible coward. [_Changing her tone._] But it was a lucky thing for you. And now you have found ample consolation at the Elvsteds’. LÖVBORG. I know what Thea has confided to you. HEDDA. And perhaps you have confided to her something about us? LÖVBORG. Not a word. She is too stupid to understand anything of that sort. HEDDA. Stupid? LÖVBORG. She is stupid about matters of that sort. HEDDA. And I am cowardly. [_Bends over towards him, without looking him in the face, and says more softly_:] But now I will confide something to _you_. LÖVBORG. [_Eagerly._] Well? HEDDA. The fact that I dared not shoot you down—— LÖVBORG. Yes! HEDDA. ——_that_ was not my most arrant cowardice—that evening. LÖVBORG. [_Looks at her a moment, understands, and whispers passionately._] Oh, Hedda! Hedda Gabler! Now I begin to see a hidden reason beneath our comradeship! You[23] and I——! After all, then, it was your craving for life—— HEDDA. [_Softly, with a sharp glance._] Take care! Believe nothing of the sort! [_Twilight has begun to fall. The hall door is opened from without by_ BERTA. HEDDA. [_Closes the album with a bang and calls smilingly_:] Ah, at last! My darling Thea,—come along! MRS. ELVSTED _enters from the hall. She is in evening dress. The door is closed behind her._ HEDDA. [_On the sofa, stretches out her arms towards her._] My sweet Thea—you can’t think how I have been longing for you! [MRS. ELVSTED, _in passing, exchanges slight salutations with the gentlemen in the inner room, then goes up to the table and gives_ HEDDA _her hand._ EILERT LÖVBORG _has risen. He and_ MRS. ELVSTED _greet each other with a silent nod._ MRS. ELVSTED. Ought I to go in and talk to your husband for a moment? HEDDA. Oh, not at all. Leave those two alone. They will soon be going. MRS. ELVSTED. Are they going out? HEDDA. Yes, to a supper-party. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Quickly, to LÖVBORG._] Not _you_? LÖVBORG. No. HEDDA. Mr. Lövborg remains with us. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Takes a chair and is about to seat herself at his side._] Oh, how nice it is here! HEDDA. No, thank you, my little Thea! Not _there_! You’ll be good enough to come over here to me. I will sit between you. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, just as you please. [_She goes round the table and seats herself on the sofa on_ HEDDA’S _right._ LÖVBORG _re-seats himself on his chair._ LÖVBORG. [_After a short pause, to HEDDA._] Is not she lovely to look at? HEDDA. [_Lightly stroking her hair._] Only to look at? LÖVBORG. Yes. For _we_ two—she and I—_we_ are two real comrades. _We_ have absolute faith in each other; so we can sit and talk with perfect frankness—— HEDDA. Not round about, Mr. Lövborg? LÖVBORG. Well—— MRS. ELVSTED. [_Softly clinging close to HEDDA._] Oh, how happy I am, Hedda! For, only think, he says I have inspired him too. HEDDA. [_Looks at her with a smile._] Ah! Does he say that, dear? LÖVBORG. And then she is so brave, Mrs. Tesman! MRS. ELVSTED. Good heavens—am I brave? LÖVBORG. Exceedingly—where your comrade is concerned. HEDDA. Ah yes—courage! If one only had _that_! LÖVBORG. What then? What do you mean? HEDDA. Then life would perhaps be liveable, after all. [_With a sudden change of tone._] But now, my dearest Thea, you really must have a glass of cold punch. MRS. ELVSTED. No, thanks—I never take anything of that kind. HEDDA. Well then, _you_, Mr. Lövborg. LÖVBORG. Nor I, thank you. MRS. ELVSTED. No, he doesn’t either. HEDDA. [_Looks fixedly at him._] But if I say you _shall_? LÖVBORG. It would be no use. HEDDA. [_Laughing._] Then I, poor creature, have no sort of power over you? LÖVBORG. Not in _that_ respect. HEDDA. But seriously, I think you ought to—for your own sake. MRS. ELVSTED. Why, Hedda——! LÖVBORG. How so? HEDDA. Or rather on account of other people. LÖVBORG. Indeed? HEDDA. Otherwise people might be apt to suspect that—in your heart of hearts—you did not feel quite secure—quite confident in yourself. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Softly._] Oh please, Hedda—— LÖVBORG. People may suspect what they like—for the present. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Joyfully._] Yes, let them! HEDDA. I saw it plainly in Judge Brack’s face a moment ago. LÖVBORG. What did you see? HEDDA. His contemptuous smile, when you dared not go with them into the inner room. LÖVBORG. Dared not? Of course I preferred to stop here and talk to _you_. MRS. ELVSTED. What could be more natural, Hedda? HEDDA. But the Judge could not guess that. And I saw, too, the way he smiled and glanced at Tesman when you dared not accept his invitation to this wretched little supper-party of his. LÖVBORG. Dared not! Do you say I dared not? HEDDA. _I_ don’t say so. But that was how Judge Brack understood it. LÖVBORG. Well, let him. HEDDA. Then you are not going with them? LÖVBORG. I will stay here with you and Thea. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, Hedda—how can you doubt that? HEDDA. [_Smiles and nods approvingly to LÖVBORG._] Firm as a rock! Faithful to your principles, now and for ever! Ah, that is how a man should be! [_Turns to MRS. ELVSTED and caresses her._] Well now, what did I tell you, when you came to us this morning in such a state of distraction—— LÖVBORG. [_Surprised._] Distraction! MRS. ELVSTED. [_Terrified._] Hedda—oh Hedda——! HEDDA. You can see for yourself! You haven’t the slightest reason to be in such mortal terror—— [_Interrupting herself._] There! Now we can all three enjoy ourselves! LÖVBORG. [_Who has given a start._] Ah—what is all this, Mrs. Tesman? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh my God, Hedda! What are you saying? What are you doing? HEDDA. Don’t get excited! That horrid Judge Brack is sitting watching you. LÖVBORG. So she was in mortal terror! On my account! MRS. ELVSTED. [_Softly and piteously._] Oh, Hedda—now you have ruined everything! LÖVBORG. [_Looks fixedly at her for a moment. His face is distorted._] So _that_ was my comrade’s frank confidence in me? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Imploringly._] Oh, my dearest friend—only let me tell you—— LÖVBORG. [_Takes one of the glasses of punch, raises it to his lips, and says in a low, husky voice._] Your health, Thea! [_He empties the glass, puts it down, and takes the second._ MRS. ELVSTED. [_Softly._] Oh, Hedda, Hedda—how _could_ you do this? HEDDA. _I_ do it? _I?_ Are you crazy? LÖVBORG. Here’s to your health too, Mrs. Tesman. Thanks for the truth. Hurrah for the truth! [_He empties the glass and is about to re-fill it._ HEDDA. [_Lays her hand on his arm._] Come, come—no more for the present. Remember you are going out to supper. MRS. ELVSTED. No, no, no! HEDDA. Hush! They are sitting watching you. LÖVBORG. [_Putting down the glass._] Now, Thea—tell me the truth—— MRS. ELVSTED. Yes. LÖVBORG. Did your husband know that you had come after me? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Wringing her hands._] Oh, Hedda—do you hear what he is asking? LÖVBORG. Was it arranged between you and him that you were to come to town and look after me? Perhaps it was the Sheriff himself that urged you to come? Aha, my dear—no doubt he wanted my help in his office! Or was it at the card-table that he missed me? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Softly, in agony._] Oh, Lövborg, Lövborg——! LÖVBORG. [_Seizes a glass and is on the point of filling it._] Here’s a glass for the old Sheriff too! HEDDA. [_Preventing him._] No more just now. Remember, you have to read your manuscript to Tesman. LÖVBORG. [_Calmly, putting down the glass._] It was stupid of me all this, Thea—to take it in this way, I mean. Don’t be angry with me, my dear, dear comrade. You shall see—both you and the others—that if I was fallen once—now I have risen again! Thanks to _you_, Thea. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Radiant with joy._] Oh, heaven be praised——! [BRACK _has in the meantime looked at his watch. He and_ TESMAN _rise and come into the drawing-room._ BRACK. [_Takes his hat and overcoat._] Well, Mrs. Tesman, our time has come. HEDDA. I suppose it has. LÖVBORG. [_Rising._] Mine too, Judge Brack. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Softly and imploringly._] Oh, Lövborg, don’t do it! HEDDA. [_Pinching her arm._] They can hear you! MRS. ELVSTED. [_With a suppressed shriek._] Ow! LÖVBORG. [_To BRACK._] You were good enough to invite me. BRACK. Well, are you coming after all? LÖVBORG. Yes, many thanks. BRACK. I’m delighted—— LÖVBORG. [_To TESMAN, putting the parcel of MS. in his pocket._] I should like to show you one or two things before I send it to the printers. TESMAN. Fancy—that will be delightful. But, Hedda dear, how is Mrs. Elvsted to get home? Eh? HEDDA. Oh, that can be managed somehow. LÖVBORG. [_Looking towards the ladies._] Mrs. Elvsted? Of course, I’ll come again and fetch her. [_Approaching._] At ten or thereabouts, Mrs. Tesman? Will that do? HEDDA. Certainly. That will do capitally. TESMAN. Well, then, that’s all right. But you must not expect _me_ so early, Hedda. HEDDA. Oh, you may stop as long—as long as ever you please. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Trying to conceal her anxiety._] Well then, Mr. Lövborg—I shall remain here until you come. LÖVBORG. [_With his hat in his hand._] Pray do, Mrs. Elvsted. BRACK. And now off goes the excursion train, gentlemen! I hope we shall have a lively time, as a certain fair lady puts it. HEDDA. Ah, if only the fair lady could be present unseen——! BRACK. Why unseen? HEDDA. In order to hear a little of your liveliness at first hand, Judge Brack. BRACK. [_Laughing._] I should not advise the fair lady to try it. TESMAN. [_Also laughing._] Come, you’re a nice one Hedda! Fancy that! BRACK. Well, good-bye, good-bye, ladies. LÖVBORG. [_Bowing._] About ten o’clock, then. [BRACK, LÖVBORG, _and_ TESMAN _go out by the hall door. At the same time,_ BERTA _enters from the inner room with a lighted lamp, which she places on the drawing-room table; she goes out by the way she came._ MRS. ELVSTED. [_Who has risen and is wandering restlessly about the room._] Hedda—Hedda—what will come of all this? HEDDA. At ten o’clock—he will be here. I can see him already—with vine-leaves in his hair—flushed and fearless—— MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I hope he may. HEDDA. And then, you see—then he will have regained control over himself. Then he will be a free man for all his days. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh God!—if he would only come as you see him now! HEDDA. He will come as I see him—so, and not otherwise! [_Rises and approaches THEA._] You may doubt him as long as you please; _I_ believe in him. And now we will try—— MRS. ELVSTED. You have some hidden motive in this, Hedda! HEDDA. Yes, I _have_. I want for once in my life to have power to mould a human destiny. MRS. ELVSTED. Have you not the power? HEDDA. I have not—and have never had it. MRS. ELVSTED. Not your husband’s? HEDDA. Do you think _that_ is worth the trouble? Oh, if you could only understand how poor I am. And fate has made _you_ so rich! [_Clasps her passionately in her arms._] I think I must burn your hair off, after all. MRS. ELVSTED. Let me go! Let me go! I am afraid of you, Hedda! BERTA. [_In the middle doorway._] Tea is laid in the dining-room, ma’am. HEDDA. Very well. We are coming. MRS. ELVSTED. No, no, no! I would rather go home alone! At once! HEDDA. Nonsense! First you shall have a cup of tea, you little stupid. And then—at ten o’clock—Eilert Lövborg will be here—with vine-leaves in his hair. [_She drags_ MRS. ELVSTED _almost by force towards the middle doorway._ ACT THIRD. _The room at the_ TESMANS’. _The curtains are drawn over the middle doorway, and also over the glass door. The lamp, half turned down, and with a shade over it, is burning on the table. In the stove, the door of which stands open, there has been a fire, which is now nearly burnt out._ MRS. ELVSTED, _wrapped in a large shawl, and with her feet upon a foot-rest, sits close to the stove, sunk back in the arm-chair._ HEDDA, _fully dressed, lies sleeping upon the sofa, with a sofa-blanket over her._ MRS. ELVSTED. [_After a pause, suddenly sits up in her chair, and listens eagerly. Then she sinks back again wearily, moaning to herself._] Not yet!—Oh God—oh God—not yet! BERTA _slips cautiously in by the hall door. She has a letter in her hand._ MRS. ELVSTED. [_Turns and whispers eagerly._] Well—has any one come? BERTA. [_Softly._] Yes, a girl has just brought this letter. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Quickly, holding out her hand._] A letter! Give it to me! BERTA. No, it’s for Dr. Tesman, ma’am. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, indeed. BERTA. It was Miss Tesman’s servant that brought it. I’ll lay it here on the table. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, do. BERTA. [_Laying down the letter._] I think I had better put out the lamp. It’s smoking. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, put it out. It must soon be daylight now. BERTA. [_Putting out the lamp._] It is daylight already, ma’am. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, broad day! And no one come back yet——! BERTA. Lord bless you, ma’am—I guessed how it would be. MRS. ELVSTED. You guessed? BERTA. Yes, when I saw that a certain person had come back to town—and that he went off with them. For we’ve heard enough about that gentleman before now. MRS. ELVSTED. Don’t speak so loud. You will waken Mrs. Tesman. BERTA. [_Looks towards the sofa and sighs._] No, no—let her sleep, poor thing. Shan’t I put some wood on the fire? MRS. ELVSTED. Thanks, not for me. BERTA. Oh, very well. [_She goes softly out by the hall door._ HEDDA. [_Is wakened by the shutting of the door, and looks up._] What’s that——? MRS. ELVSTED. It was only the servant—— HEDDA. [_Looking about her._] Oh, we’re here——! Yes, now I remember. [_Sits erect upon the sofa, stretches herself, and rubs her eyes._] What o’clock is it, Thea? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Looks at her watch._] It’s past seven. HEDDA. When did Tesman come home? MRS. ELVSTED. He has not come. HEDDA. Not come home yet? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Rising._] No one has come. HEDDA. Think of our watching and waiting here till four in the morning—— MRS. ELVSTED. [_Wringing her hands._] And _how_ I watched and waited for him! HEDDA. [_Yawns, and says with her hand before her mouth._] Well well—we might have spared ourselves the trouble. MRS. ELVSTED. Did you get a little sleep? HEDDA. Oh yes; I believe I have slept pretty well. Have you not? MRS. ELVSTED. Not for a moment. I couldn’t, Hedda!—not to save my life. HEDDA. [_Rises and goes towards her._] There there there! There’s nothing to be so alarmed about. I understand quite well what has happened. MRS. ELVSTED. Well, what do you think? Won’t you tell me? HEDDA. Why, of course it has been a very late affair at Judge Brack’s—— MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes—that is clear enough. But all the same—— HEDDA. And then, you see, Tesman hasn’t cared to come home and ring us up in the middle of the night. [_Laughing._] Perhaps he wasn’t inclined to show himself either—immediately after a jollification. MRS. ELVSTED. But in that case—where can he have gone? HEDDA. Of course he has gone to his Aunts’ and slept there. They have his old room ready for him. MRS. ELVSTED. No, he can’t be with _them_; for a letter has just come for him from Miss Tesman. There it lies. HEDDA. Indeed? [_Looks at the address._] Why yes, it’s addressed in Aunt Julia’s own hand. Well then, he has remained at Judge Brack’s. And as for Eilert Lövborg—he is sitting, with vine leaves in his hair, reading his manuscript. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh Hedda, you are just saying things you don’t believe a bit. HEDDA. You really are a little blockhead, Thea. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh yes, I suppose I am. HEDDA. And how mortally tired you look. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, I am mortally tired. HEDDA. Well then, you must do as I tell you. You must go into my room and lie down for a little while. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh no, no—I shouldn’t be able to sleep. HEDDA. I am sure you would. MRS. ELVSTED. Well, but your husband is certain to come soon now; and then I want to know at once—— HEDDA. I shall take care to let you know when he comes. MRS. ELVSTED. Do you promise me, Hedda? HEDDA. Yes, rely upon me. Just you go in and have a sleep in the meantime. MRS. ELVSTED. Thanks; then I’ll try to. [_She goes off through the inner room._ [HEDDA _goes up to the glass door and draws back the curtains. The broad daylight streams into the room. Then she takes a little hand-glass from the writing-table, looks at herself in it, and arranges her hair. Next she goes to the hall door and presses the bell-button._ ce BERTA _presently appears at the hall door._ BERTA. Did you want anything, ma’am? HEDDA. Yes; you must put some more wood in the stove. I am shivering. BERTA. Bless me—I’ll make up the fire at once. [_She rakes the embers together and lays a piece of wood upon them; then stops and listens._] That was a ring at the front door, ma’am. HEDDA. Then go to the door. I will look after the fire. BERTA. It’ll soon burn up. [_She goes out by the hall door._ [HEDDA _kneels on the foot-rest and lays some more pieces of wood in the stove._ _After a short pause,_ GEORGE TESMAN _enters from the hall. He looks tired and rather serious. He steals on tiptoe towards the middle doorway and is about to slip through the curtains._ HEDDA. [_At the stove, without looking up._] Good morning. TESMAN. [_Turns._] Hedda! [_Approaching her._] Good heavens—are you up so early? Eh? HEDDA. Yes, I am up very early this morning. TESMAN. And I never doubted you were still sound asleep. Fancy that, Hedda! HEDDA. Don’t speak so loud. Mrs. Elvsted is resting in my room. TESMAN. Has Mrs. Elvsted been here all night? HEDDA. Yes, since no one came to fetch her. TESMAN. Ah, to be sure. HEDDA. [_Closes the door of the stove and rises._] Well, did you enjoy yourselves at Judge Brack’s? TESMAN. Have you been anxious about me? Eh? HEDDA. No, I should never think of being anxious. But I asked if you had enjoyed yourself. TESMAN. Oh yes,—for once in a way. Especially the beginning of the evening; for then Eilert read me part of his book. We arrived more than an hour too early—fancy that! And Brack had all sorts of arrangements to make—so Eilert read to me. HEDDA. [_Seating herself by the table on the right._] Well? Tell me, then—— TESMAN. [_Sitting on a footstool near the stove._] Oh Hedda, you can’t conceive what a book that is going to be! I believe it is one of the most remarkable things that have ever been written. Fancy that! HEDDA. Yes, yes; I don’t care about that—— TESMAN. I must make a confession to you, Hedda. When he had finished reading—a horrid feeling came over me. HEDDA. A horrid feeling? TESMAN. I felt jealous of Eilert for having had it in him to write such a book. Only think, Hedda! HEDDA. Yes, yes, I am thinking! TESMAN. And then how pitiful to think that he—with all his gifts—should be irreclaimable, after all. HEDDA. I suppose you mean that he has more courage than the rest? TESMAN. No, not at all—I mean that he is incapable of taking his pleasures in moderation. HEDDA. And what came of it all—in the end? TESMAN. Well, to tell the truth, I think it might best be described as an orgie, Hedda. HEDDA. Had he vine-leaves in his hair? TESMAN. Vine-leaves? No, I saw nothing of the sort. But he made a long, rambling speech in honour of the woman who had inspired him in his work—that was the phrase he used. HEDDA. Did he name her? TESMAN. No, he didn’t; but I can’t help thinking he meant Mrs. Elvsted. You may be sure he did. HEDDA. Well—where did you part from him? TESMAN. On the way to town. We broke up—the last of us at any rate—all together; and Brack came with us to get a breath of fresh air. And then, you see, we agreed to take Eilert home; for he had had far more than was good for him. HEDDA. I daresay. TESMAN. But now comes the strange part of it, Hedda; or, I should rather say, the melancholy part of it. I declare I am almost ashamed—on Eilert’s account—to tell you—— HEDDA. Oh, go on——! TESMAN. Well, as we were getting near town, you see, I happened to drop a little behind the others. Only for a minute or two—fancy that! HEDDA. Yes yes yes, but——? TESMAN. And then, as I hurried after them—what do you think I found by the wayside? Eh? HEDDA. Oh, how should I know! TESMAN. You mustn’t speak of it to a soul, Hedda! Do you hear! Promise me, for Eilert’s sake. [_Draws a parcel, wrapped in paper, from his coat pocket._] Fancy, dear—I found this. HEDDA. Is not that the parcel he had with him yesterday? TESMAN. Yes, it is the whole of his precious, irreplaceable manuscript! And he had gone and lost it, and knew nothing about it. Only fancy, Hedda! So deplorably—— HEDDA. But why did you not give him back the parcel at once? TESMAN. I didn’t dare to—in the state he was then in—— HEDDA. Did you not tell any of the others that you had found it? TESMAN. Oh, far from it! You can surely understand that, for Eilert’s sake, I wouldn’t do that. HEDDA. So no one knows that Eilert Lövborg’s manuscript is in your possession? TESMAN. No. And no one _must_ know it. HEDDA. Then what did you say to him afterwards? TESMAN. I didn’t talk to him again at all; for when we got in among the streets, he and two or three of the others gave us the slip and disappeared. Fancy that! HEDDA. Indeed! They must have taken him home then. TESMAN. Yes, so it would appear. And Brack, too, left us. HEDDA. And what have you been doing with yourself since? TESMAN. Well, I and some of the others went home with one of the party, a jolly fellow, and took our morning coffee with him; or perhaps I should rather call it our night coffee—eh? But now, when I have rested a little, and given Eilert, poor fellow, time to have his sleep out, I must take this back to him. HEDDA. [_Holds out her hand for the packet._] No—don’t give it to him! Not in such a hurry, I mean. Let me read it first. TESMAN. No, my dearest Hedda, I mustn’t, I really mustn’t. HEDDA. You must not? TESMAN. No—for you can imagine what a state of despair he will be in when he wakens and misses the manuscript. He has no copy of it, you must know! He told me so. HEDDA. [_Looking searchingly at him._] Can such a thing not be reproduced? Written over again? TESMAN. No, I don’t think that would be possible. For the inspiration, you see—— HEDDA. Yes, yes—I suppose it depends on that——[_Lightly._] But, by-the-bye—here is a letter for you. TESMAN. Fancy——! HEDDA. [_Handing it to him._] It came early this morning. TESMAN. It’s from Aunt Julia! What can it be? [_He lays the packet on the other footstool, opens the letter, runs his eye through it, and jumps up._] Oh, Hedda—she says that poor Aunt Rina is dying! HEDDA. Well, we were prepared for that. TESMAN. And that if I want to see her again, I must make haste. I’ll run in to them at once. HEDDA. [_Suppressing a smile._] Will you run? TESMAN. Oh, my dearest Hedda—if you could only make up your mind to come with me! Just think! HEDDA. [_Rises and says wearily, repelling the idea._] No, no, don’t ask me. I _will_ not look upon sickness and death. I loathe all sorts of ugliness. TESMAN. Well, well, then——! [_Bustling around._] My hat——? My overcoat——? Oh, in the hall——. I do hope I mayn’t come too late, Hedda! Eh? HEDDA. Oh, if you run——— [_BERTA appears at the hall door._ BERTA. Judge Brack is at the door, and wishes to know if he may come in. TESMAN. At this time! No, I can’t possibly see him. HEDDA. But I can. [_To BERTA._] Ask Judge Brack to come in. [_BERTA goes out._ HEDDA. [_Quickly, whispering._] The parcel, Tesman! [_She snatches it up from the stool._ TESMAN. Yes, give it to me! HEDDA. No, no, I will keep it till you come back. [_She goes to the writing-table and places it in the bookcase._ TESMAN _stands in a flurry of haste, and cannot get his gloves on._ _JUDGE BRACK enters from the hall._ HEDDA. [_Nodding to him._] You are an early bird, I must say. BRACK. Yes, don’t you think so? [_To TESMAN._] Are you on the move, too? TESMAN. Yes, I _must_ rush off to my aunts’. Fancy—the invalid one is lying at death’s door, poor creature. BRACK. Dear me, is she indeed? Then on no account let me detain you. At such a critical moment—— TESMAN. Yes, I must really rush——Good-bye! Good-bye! [_He hastens out by the hall door._ HEDDA. [_Approaching._] You seem to have made a particularly lively night of it at your rooms, Judge Brack. BRACK. I assure you I have not had my clothes off, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. Not you, either? BRACK. No, as you may see. But what has Tesman been telling you of the night’s adventures? HEDDA. Oh, some tiresome story. Only that they went and had coffee somewhere or other. BRACK. I have heard about that coffee-party already. Eilert Lövborg was not with them, I fancy? HEDDA. No, they had taken him home before that. BRACK. Tesman too? HEDDA. No, but some of the others, he said. BRACK. [_Smiling._] George Tesman is really an ingenuous creature, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. Yes, heaven knows he is. Then is there something behind all this? BRACK. Yes, perhaps there may be. HEDDA. Well then, sit down, my dear Judge, and tell your story in comfort. [_She seats herself to the left of the table. BRACK sits near her, at the long side of the table._ HEDDA. Now then? BRACK. I had special reasons for keeping track of my guests—or rather of some of my guests—last night. HEDDA. Of Eilert Lövborg among the rest, perhaps? BRACK. Frankly—yes. HEDDA. Now you make me really curious—— BRACK. Do you know where he and one or two of the others finished the night, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. If it is not quite unmentionable, tell me. BRACK. Oh no, it’s not at all unmentionable. Well, they put in an appearance at a particularly animated soirée. HEDDA. Of the lively kind? BRACK. Of the very liveliest—— HEDDA. Tell me more of this, Judge Brack—— BRACK. Lövborg, as well as the others, had been invited in advance. I knew all about it. But he had declined the invitation; for now, as you know, he has become a new man. HEDDA. Up at the Elvsteds’, yes. But he went after all, then? BRACK. Well, you see, Mrs. Hedda—unhappily the spirit moved him at my rooms last evening—— HEDDA. Yes, I hear he found inspiration. BRACK. Pretty violent inspiration. Well, I fancy that altered his purpose; for we menfolk are unfortunately not always so firm in our principles as we ought to be. HEDDA. Oh, I am sure _you_ are an exception, Judge Brack. But as to Lövborg——? BRACK. To make a long story short—he landed at last in Mademoiselle Diana’s rooms. HEDDA. Mademoiselle Diana’s? BRACK. It was Mademoiselle Diana that was giving the soirée, to a select circle of her admirers and her lady friends. HEDDA. Is she a red-haired woman? BRACK. Precisely. HEDDA. A sort of a—singer? BRACK. Oh yes—in her leisure moments. And moreover a mighty huntress—of men—Mrs. Hedda. You have no doubt heard of her. Eilert Lövborg was one of her most enthusiastic protectors—in the days of his glory. HEDDA. And how did all this end? BRACK. Far from amicably, it appears. After a most tender meeting, they seem to have come to blows—— HEDDA. Lövborg and she? BRACK. Yes. He accused her or her friends of having robbed him. He declared that his pocket-book had disappeared—and other things as well. In short, he seems to have made a furious disturbance. HEDDA. And what came of it all? BRACK. It came to a general scrimmage, in which the ladies as well as the gentlemen took part. Fortunately the police at last appeared on the scene. HEDDA. The police too? BRACK. Yes. I fancy it will prove a costly frolic for Eilert Lövborg, crazy being that he is. HEDDA. How so? BRACK. He seems to have made a violent resistance—to have hit one of the constables on the head and torn the coat off his back. So they had to march him off to the police-station with the rest. HEDDA. How have you learnt all this? BRACK. From the police themselves. HEDDA. [_Gazing straight before her._] So that is what happened. Then he had no vine-leaves in his hair. BRACK. Vine-leaves, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. [_Changing her tone._] But tell me now, Judge—what is your real reason for tracking out Eilert Lövborg’s movements so carefully? BRACK. In the first place, it could not be entirely indifferent to me if it should appear in the police-court that he came straight from my house. HEDDA. Will the matter come into court then? BRACK. Of course. However, I should scarcely have troubled so much about that. But I thought that, as a friend of the family, it was my duty to supply you and Tesman with a full account of his nocturnal exploits. HEDDA. Why so, Judge Brack? BRACK. Why, because I have a shrewd suspicion that he intends to use you as a sort of blind. HEDDA. Oh, how can you think such a thing! BRACK. Good heavens, Mrs. Hedda—we have eyes in our head. Mark my words! This Mrs. Elvsted will be in no hurry to leave town again. HEDDA. Well, even if there should be anything between them, I suppose there are plenty of other places where they could meet. BRACK. Not a single _home_. Henceforth, as before, every respectable house will be closed against Eilert Lövborg. HEDDA. And so ought mine to be, you mean? BRACK. Yes. I confess it would be more than painful to me if this personage were to be made free of your house. How superfluous, how intrusive, he would be, if he were to force his way into—— HEDDA. ——into the triangle? BRACK. Precisely. It would simply mean that I should find myself homeless. HEDDA. [_Looks at him with a smile._] So you want to be the one cock in the basket[24]—that is your aim. BRACK. [_Nods slowly and lowers his voice._] Yes, that is my aim. And for that I will fight—with every weapon I can command. HEDDA. [_Her smile vanishing._] I see you are a dangerous person—when it comes to the point. BRACK. Do you think so? HEDDA. I am beginning to think so. And I am exceedingly glad to think—that you have no sort of hold over me. BRACK. [_Laughing equivocally._] Well well, Mrs. Hedda—perhaps you are right there. If I had, who knows what I might be capable of? HEDDA. Come come now, Judge Brack! That sounds almost like a threat. BRACK. [_Rising._] Oh, not at all! The triangle, you know, ought, if possible, to be spontaneously constructed. HEDDA. There I agree with you. BRACK. Well, now I have said all I had to say; and I had better be getting back to town. Good-bye, Mrs. Hedda. [_He goes towards the glass door._ HEDDA. [_Rising._] Are you going through the garden? BRACK. Yes, it’s a short cut for me. HEDDA. And then it is a back way, too. BRACK. Quite so. I have no objection to back ways. They may be piquant enough at times. HEDDA. When there is ball practice going on, you mean? BRACK. [_In the doorway, laughing to her._] Oh, people don’t shoot their tame poultry, I fancy. HEDDA. [_Also laughing._] Oh no, when there is only one cock in the basket—— [_They exchange laughing nods of farewell. He goes. She closes the door behind him._ [HEDDA, _who has become quite serious, stands for a moment looking out. Presently she goes and peeps through the curtain over the middle doorway. Then she goes to the writing-table, takes_ LÖVBORG’S _packet out of the bookcase, and is on the point of looking through its contents._ BERTA _is heard speaking loudly in the hall._ HEDDA _turns and listens. Then she hastily locks up the packet in the drawer, and lays the key on the inkstand._ EILERT LÖVBORG, _with his greatcoat on and his hat in his hand, tears open the hall door. He looks somewhat confused and irritated._ LÖVBORG. [_Looking towards the hall._] And I tell you I must and will come in! There! [_He closes the door, turns, sees_ HEDDA, _at once regains his self-control, and bows._ HEDDA. [_At the writing table._] Well, Mr. Lövborg, this is rather a late hour to call for Thea. LÖVBORG. You mean rather an early hour to call on you. Pray pardon me. HEDDA. How do you know that she is still here? LÖVBORG. They told me at her lodgings that she had been out all night. HEDDA. [_Going to the oval table._] Did you notice anything about the people of the house when they said that? LÖVBORG. [_Looks inquiringly at her._] Notice anything about them? HEDDA. I mean, did they seem to think it odd? LÖVBORG. [_Suddenly understanding._] Oh yes, of course! I am dragging her down with me! However, I didn’t notice anything.—I suppose Tesman is not up yet? HEDDA. No—I think not—— LÖVBORG. When did he come home? HEDDA. Very late. LÖVBORG. Did he tell you anything? HEDDA. Yes, I gathered that you had had an exceedingly jolly evening at Judge Brack’s. LÖVBORG. Nothing more? HEDDA. I don’t think so. However, I was so dreadfully sleepy—— MRS. ELVSTED _enters through the curtains of the middle doorway._ MRS. ELVSTED. [_Going towards him._] Ah, Lövborg! At last——! LÖVBORG. Yes, at last. And too late! MRS. ELVSTED. [_Looks anxiously at him._] What is too late? LÖVBORG. Everything is too late now. It is all over with me. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh no, no—don’t say that! LÖVBORG. You will say the same when you hear—— MRS. ELVSTED. I won’t hear anything! HEDDA. Perhaps you would prefer to talk to her alone? If so, I will leave you. LÖVBORG. No, stay—you too. I beg you to stay. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, but I won’t hear anything, I tell you. LÖVBORG. It is not last night’s adventures that I want to talk about. MRS. ELVSTED. What is it then——? LÖVBORG. I want to say that now our ways must part. MRS. ELVSTED. Part! HEDDA. [_Involuntarily._] I knew it! LÖVBORG. You can be of no more service to me, Thea. MRS. ELVSTED. How can you stand there and say that! No more service to you! Am I not to help you now, as before? Are we not to go on working together? LÖVBORG. Henceforward I shall do no work. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Despairingly._] Then what am I to do with my life? LÖVBORG. You must try to live your life as if you had never known me. MRS. ELVSTED. But you know I cannot do that! LÖVBORG. Try if you cannot, Thea. You must go home again—— MRS. ELVSTED. [_In vehement protest._] Never in this world! Where you are, there will I be also! I will not let myself be driven away like this! I will remain here! I will be with you when the book appears. HEDDA. [_Half aloud, in suspense._] Ah yes—the book! LÖVBORG. [_Looks at her._] My book and Thea’s; for _that_ is what it is. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, I feel that it is. And that is why I have a right to be with you when it appears! I will see with my own eyes how respect and honour pour in upon you afresh. And the happiness—the happiness—oh, I must share it with you! LÖVBORG. Thea—our book will never appear. HEDDA. Ah! MRS. ELVSTED. Never appear! LÖVBORG. _Can_ never appear. MRS. ELVSTED. [_In agonised foreboding._] Lövborg—what have you done with the manuscript? HEDDA. [_Looks anxiously at him._] Yes, the manuscript——? MRS. ELVSTED. Where is it? LÖVBORG. Oh Thea—don’t ask me about it! MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes, I _will_ know. I demand to be told at once. LÖVBORG. The manuscript——. Well then—I have torn the manuscript into a thousand pieces. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Shrieks._] Oh no, no——! HEDDA. [_Involuntarily._] But that’s not—— LÖVBORG. [_Looks at her._] Not true, you think? HEDDA. [_Collecting herself._] Oh well, of course—since you say so. But it sounded so improbable—— LÖVBORG. It is true, all the same. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Wringing her hands._] Oh God—oh God, Hedda—torn his own work to pieces! LÖVBORG. I have torn my own life to pieces. So why should I not tear my life-work too——? MRS. ELVSTED. And you did this last night? LÖVBORG. Yes, I tell you! Tore it into a thousand pieces—and scattered them on the fiord—far out. There there is cool sea-water at any rate—let them drift upon it—drift with the current and the wind. And then presently they will sink—deeper and deeper—as I shall, Thea. MRS. ELVSTED. Do you know, Lövborg, that what you have done with the book—I shall think of it to my dying day as though you had killed a little child. LÖVBORG. Yes, you are right. It is a sort of child-murder. MRS. ELVSTED. How could you, then——! Did not the child belong to me too? HEDDA. [_Almost inaudibly._] Ah, the child—— MRS. ELVSTED. [_Breathing heavily._] It is all over then. Well well, now I will go, Hedda. HEDDA. But you are not going away from town? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I don’t know what I shall do. I see nothing but darkness before me. [_She goes out by the hall door._ HEDDA. [_Stands waiting for a moment._] So you are not going to see her home, Mr. Lövborg? LÖVBORG. I? Through the streets? Would you have people see her walking with me? HEDDA. Of course I don’t know what else may have happened last night. But is it so utterly irretrievable? LÖVBORG. It will not end with last night—I know that perfectly well. And the thing is that now I have no taste for that sort of life either. I won’t begin it anew. She has broken my courage and my power of braving life out. HEDDA. [_Looking straight before her._] So that pretty little fool has had her fingers in a man’s destiny. [_Looks at him._] But all the same, how could you treat her so heartlessly? LÖVBORG. Oh, don’t say that it was heartless! HEDDA. To go and destroy what has filled her whole soul for months and years! You do not call that heartless! LÖVBORG. To you I can tell the truth, Hedda. HEDDA. The truth? LÖVBORG. First promise me—give me your word—that what I now confide to you Thea shall never know. HEDDA. I give you my word. LÖVBORG. Good. Then let me tell you that what I said just now was untrue. HEDDA. About the manuscript? LÖVBORG. Yes. I have not torn it to pieces—nor thrown it into the fiord. HEDDA. No, no——. But—where is it then? LÖVBORG. I have destroyed it none the less—utterly destroyed it, Hedda! HEDDA. I don’t understand. LÖVBORG. Thea said that what I had done seemed to her like a child-murder. HEDDA. Yes, so she said. LÖVBORG. But to kill his child—that is not the worst thing a father can do to it. HEDDA. Not the worst? LÖVBORG. No. I wanted to spare Thea from hearing the worst. HEDDA. Then what is the worst? LÖVBORG. Suppose now, Hedda, that a man—in the small hours of the morning—came home to his child’s mother after a night of riot and debauchery, and said: ”Listen—I have been here and there—in this place and in that. And I have taken our child with me—to this place and to that. And I have lost the child—utterly lost it. The devil knows into what hands it may have fallen—who may have had their clutches on it.“ HEDDA. Well—but when all is said and done, you know—this was only a book—— LÖVBORG. Thea’s pure soul was in that book. HEDDA. Yes, so I understand. LÖVBORG. And you can understand, too, that for her and me together no future is possible. HEDDA. What path do you mean to take then? LÖVBORG. None. I will only try to make an end of it all—the sooner the better. HEDDA. [_A step nearer him._] Eilert Lövborg—listen to me.—Will you not try to—to do it beautifully? LÖVBORG. Beautifully? [_Smiling._] With vine-leaves in my hair, as you used to dream in the old days——? HEDDA. No, no. I have lost my faith in the the vine-leaves. But beautifully nevertheless! For once in a way!—Good-bye! You must go now—and do not come here any more. LÖVBORG. Good-bye, Mrs. Tesman. And give George Tesman my love. [_He is on the point of going._ HEDDA. No, wait! I must give you a memento to take with you. [_She goes to the writing-table and opens the drawer and the pistol-case; then returns to_ LÖVBORG _with one of the pistols._ LÖVBORG. [_Looks at her._] This? Is _this_ the memento? HEDDA. [_Nodding slowly._] Do you recognise it? It was aimed at you once. LÖVBORG. You should have used it then. HEDDA. Take it—and do _you_ use it now. LÖVBORG. [_Puts the pistol in his breast pocket._] Thanks! HEDDA. And beautifully, Eilert Lövborg. Promise me that! LÖVBORG. Good-bye, Hedda Gabler. [_He goes out by the hall door._ [HEDDA _listens for a moment at the door. Then she goes up to the writing-table, takes out the packet of manuscript, peeps under the cover, draws a few of the sheets half out, and looks at them. Next she goes over and seats herself in the armchair beside the stove, with the packet in her lap. Presently she opens the stove door, and then the packet._ HEDDA. [_Throws one of the quires into the fire and whispers to herself._] Now I am burning your child, Thea!—Burning it, curly-locks! [_Throwing one or two more quires into the stove._] Your child and Eilert Lövborg’s. [_Throws the rest in._] I am burning—I am burning your child. ACT FOURTH. _The same rooms at the_ TESMANS’. _It is evening. The drawing-room is in darkness. The back room is lighted by the hanging lamp over the table. The curtains over the glass door are drawn close._ HEDDA, _dressed in black, walks to and fro in the dark room. Then she goes into the back room and disappears for a moment to the left. She is heard to strike a few chords on the piano. Presently she comes in sight again, and returns to the drawing-room._ BERTA _enters from the right, through the inner room, with a lighted lamp, which she places on the table in front of the corner settee in the drawing-room. Her eyes are red with weeping, and she has black ribbons in her cap. She goes quietly and circumspectly out to the right._ HEDDA _goes up to the glass door, lifts the curtain a little aside, and looks out into the darkness._ _Shortly afterwards,_ MISS TESMAN, _in mourning, with a bonnet and veil on, comes in from the hall._ HEDDA _goes towards her and holds out her hand._ MISS TESMAN. Yes, Hedda, here I am, in mourning and forlorn; for now my poor sister has at last found peace. HEDDA. I have heard the news already, as you see. Tesman sent me a card. MISS TESMAN. Yes, he promised me he would. But nevertheless I thought that to Hedda—here in the house of life—I ought myself to bring the tidings of death. HEDDA. That was very kind of you. MISS TESMAN. Ah, Rina ought not to have left us just _now_. This is not the time for Hedda’s house to be a house of mourning. HEDDA. [_Changing the subject._] She died quite peacefully, did she not, Miss Tesman? MISS TESMAN. Oh, her end was so calm, so beautiful. And then she had the unspeakable happiness of seeing George once more—and bidding him good-bye.—Has he not come home yet? HEDDA. No. He wrote that he might be detained. But won’t you sit down? MISS TESMAN. No thank you, my dear, dear Hedda. I should like to, but I have so much to do. I must prepare my dear one for her rest as well as I can. She shall go to her grave looking her best. HEDDA. Can I not help you in any way? MISS TESMAN. Oh, you must not think of it! Hedda Tesman must have no hand in such mournful work. Nor let her thoughts dwell on it either—not at this time. HEDDA. One is not always mistress of one’s thoughts—— MISS TESMAN. [_Continuing._] Ah yes, it is the way of the world. At home we shall be sewing a shroud; and here there will soon be sewing too, I suppose—but of another sort, thank God! GEORGE TESMAN _enters by the hall door._ HEDDA. Ah, you have come at last! TESMAN. You here, Aunt Julia? With Hedda? Fancy that! MISS TESMAN. I was just going, my dear boy. Well, have you done all you promised? TESMAN. No; I’m really afraid I have forgotten half of it. I must come to you again to-morrow. To-day my brain is all in a whirl. I can’t keep my thoughts together. MISS TESMAN. Why, my dear George, you mustn’t take it in this way. TESMAN. Mustn’t——? How do you mean? MISS TESMAN. Even in your sorrow you must rejoice, as I do—rejoice that she is at rest. TESMAN. Oh yes, yes—you are thinking of Aunt Rina. HEDDA. You will feel lonely now, Miss Tesman. MISS TESMAN. Just at first, yes. But that will not last very long, I hope. I daresay I shall soon find an occupant for poor Rina’s little room. TESMAN. Indeed? Who do you think will take it? Eh? MISS TESMAN. Oh, there’s always some poor invalid or other in want of nursing, unfortunately. HEDDA. Would you really take such a burden upon you again? MISS TESMAN. A burden! Heaven forgive you, child—it has been no burden to me. HEDDA. But suppose you had a total stranger on your hands—— MISS TESMAN. Oh, one soon makes friends with sick folk; and it’s such an absolute necessity for me to have some one to live for. Well, heaven be praised, there may soon be something in this house, too, to keep an old aunt busy. HEDDA. Oh, don’t trouble about anything here. TESMAN. Yes, just fancy what a nice time we three might have together, if——? HEDDA. If——? TESMAN. [_Uneasily._] Oh, nothing. It will all come right. Let us hope so—eh? MISS TESMAN. Well well, I daresay you two want to talk to each other. [_Smiling._] And perhaps Hedda may have something to tell you too, George. Good-bye! I must go home to Rina. [_Turning at the door._] How strange it is to think that now Rina is with me and with my poor brother as well! _Tesman._ Yes, fancy that, Aunt Julia! Eh? [_MISS TESMAN goes out by the hall door._ HEDDA. [_Follows TESMAN coldly and searchingly with her eyes._] I almost believe your Aunt Rina’s death affects _you_ more than it does your Aunt Julia. TESMAN. Oh, it’s not that alone. It’s Eilert I am so terribly uneasy about. HEDDA. [_Quickly._] Is there anything new about him? TESMAN. I looked in at his rooms this afternoon, intending to tell him the manuscript was in safe keeping. HEDDA. Well, did you not find him? TESMAN. No. He wasn’t at home. But afterwards I met Mrs. Elvsted, and she told me that he had been here early this morning. HEDDA. Yes, directly after you had gone. TESMAN. And he said that he had torn his manuscript to pieces—eh? HEDDA. Yes, so he declared. TESMAN. Why, good heavens, he must have been completely out of his mind! And I suppose you thought it best not to give it back to him, Hedda? HEDDA. No, he did not get it. TESMAN. But of course you told him that we had it? HEDDA. No. [_Quickly._] Did you tell Mrs. Elvsted? TESMAN. No; I thought I had better not. But you ought to have told him. Fancy, if, in desperation, he should go and do himself some injury! Let me have the manuscript, Hedda! I will take it to him at once. Where is it? HEDDA. [_Cold and immovable, leaning on the arm-chair._] I have not got it. TESMAN. Have not got it? What in the world do you mean? HEDDA. I have burnt it—every line of it. TESMAN. [_With a violent movement of terror._] Burnt! Burnt Eilert’s manuscript! HEDDA. Don’t scream so. The servant might hear you. TESMAN. Burnt! Why, good God——! No, no, no! It’s impossible! HEDDA. It is so, nevertheless. TESMAN. Do you know what you have done, Hedda? It’s unlawful appropriation of lost property. Fancy that! Just ask Judge Brack, and he’ll tell you what it is. HEDDA. I advise you not to speak of it—either to Judge Brack, or to any one else. TESMAN. But how could you do anything so unheard-of? What put it into your head? What possessed you? Answer me that—eh? HEDDA. [_Suppressing an almost imperceptible smile._] I did it for your sake, George. TESMAN. For my sake! HEDDA. This morning, when you told me about what he had read to you—— TESMAN. Yes yes—what then? HEDDA. You acknowledged that you envied him his work. TESMAN. Oh, of course I didn’t mean that literally. HEDDA. No matter—I could not bear the idea that any one should throw you into the shade. TESMAN. [_In an outburst of mingled doubt and joy._] Hedda! Oh, is this true? But—but—I never knew you show your love like that before. Fancy that! HEDDA. Well, I may as well tell you that—just at this time——[_Impatiently, breaking off._] No, no; you can ask Aunt Julia. _She_ will tell you, fast enough. TESMAN. Oh, I almost think I understand you, Hedda! [_Clasps his hands together._] Great heavens! do you really mean it! Eh? HEDDA. Don’t shout so. The servant might hear. TESMAN. [_Laughing in irrepressible glee._] The servant! Why, how absurd you are, Hedda. It’s only my old Berta! Why, I’ll tell Berta myself. Hedda. [_Clenching her hands together in desperation._] Oh, it is killing me,—it is killing me, all this! TESMAN. What is, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA. [_Coldly, controlling herself._] All this—absurdity—George. TESMAN. Absurdity! Do you see anything absurd in my being overjoyed at the news! But after all—perhaps I had better not say anything to Berta. HEDDA. Oh——why not that too? TESMAN. No, no, not yet! But I must certainly tell Aunt Julia. And then that you have begun to call me George too! Fancy that! Oh, Aunt Julia will be so happy—so happy! HEDDA. When she hears that I have burnt Eilert Lövborg’s manuscript—for your sake? TESMAN. No, by-the-bye—that affair of the manuscript—of course nobody must know about that. But that you love me so much,[25] Hedda—Aunt Julia must really share my joy in that! I wonder, now, whether this sort of thing is usual in young wives? Eh? HEDDA. I think you had better ask Aunt Julia that question too. TESMAN. I will indeed, some time or other. [_Looks uneasy and downcast again._] And yet the manuscript—the manuscript! Good God! it is terrible to think what will become of poor Eilert now. _MRS. ELVSTED, dressed as in the first Act, with hat and cloak, enters by the hall door._ MRS. ELVSTED. [_Greets them hurriedly, and says in evident agitation._] Oh, dear Hedda, forgive my coming again. HEDDA. What is the matter with you, Thea? TESMAN. Something about Eilert Lövborg again—eh? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes! I am dreadfully afraid some misfortune has happened to him. HEDDA. [_Seizes her arm._] Ah,—do you think so! TESMAN. Why, good Lord—what makes you think that, Mrs. Elvsted? MRS. ELVSTED. I heard them talking of him at my boarding-house—just as I came in. Oh, the most incredible rumours are afloat about him to-day. TESMAN. Yes, fancy, so I heard too! And I can bear witness that he went straight home to bed last night. Fancy that! HEDDA. Well, what did they say at the boarding-house? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I couldn’t make out anything clearly. Either they knew nothing definite, or else——. They stopped talking when they saw me; and I did not dare to ask. TESMAN. [_Moving about uneasily._] We must hope—we must hope that you misunderstood them, Mrs. Elvsted. MRS. ELVSTED. No, no; I am sure it was of him they were talking. And I heard something about the hospital or—— TESMAN. The hospital? HEDDA. No—surely that cannot be! MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I was in such mortal terror! I went to his lodgings and asked for him there. HEDDA. _You_ could make up your mind to that, Thea! MRS. ELVSTED. What else could I do? I really could bear the suspense no longer. TESMAN. But you didn’t find him either—eh? MRS. ELVSTED. No. And the people knew nothing about him. He hadn’t been home since yesterday afternoon, they said. TESMAN. Yesterday! Fancy, how could they say that? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I am sure something terrible must have happened to him. TESMAN. Hedda dear—how would it be if I were to go and make inquiries——? HEDDA. No, no—don’t you mix yourself up in this affair. JUDGE BRACK, _with his hat in his hand, enters by the hall door, which_ BERTA _opens, and closes behind him. He looks grave and bows in silence._ TESMAN. Oh, is that you, my dear Judge? Eh? BRACK. Yes. It was imperative I should see you this evening. TESMAN. I can see you have heard the news about Aunt Rina? BRACK. Yes, that among other things. TESMAN. Isn’t it sad—eh? BRACK. Well, my dear Tesman, that depends on how you look at it. TESMAN. [_Looks doubtfully at him._] Has anything else happened? BRACK. Yes. HEDDA. [_In suspense._] Anything sad, Judge Brack? BRACK. That, too, depends on how you look at it, Mrs. Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Unable to restrain her anxiety._] Oh! it is something about Eilert Lövborg! BRACK. [_With a glance at her._] What makes you think that, Madam? Perhaps you have already heard something——? MRS. ELVSTED. [_In confusion._] No, nothing at all, but—— TESMAN. Oh, for heaven’s sake, tell us! BRACK. [_Shrugging his shoulders._] Well, I regret to say Eilert Lövborg has been taken to the hospital. He is lying at the point of death. MRS. ELVSTED. [_Shrieks._] Oh God! oh God——! TESMAN. To the hospital! And at the point of death! HEDDA. [_Involuntarily._] So soon then—— MRS. ELVSTED. [_Wailing._] And we parted in anger, Hedda! HEDDA. [_Whispers._] Thea—Thea—be careful! MRS. ELVSTED. [_Not heeding her._] I must go to him! I must see him alive! BRACK. It is useless, Madam. No one will be admitted. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, at least tell me what has happened to him? What is it? TESMAN. You don’t mean to say that he has himself——Eh? HEDDA. Yes, I am sure he has. TESMAN. Hedda, how can you——? BRACK. [_Keeping his eyes fixed upon her._] Unfortunately you have guessed quite correctly, Mrs. Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, how horrible! TESMAN. Himself, then! Fancy that! HEDDA. Shot himself! BRACK. Rightly guessed again, Mrs. Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED. [_With an effort at self-control._] When did it happen, Mr. Brack? BRACK. This afternoon—between three and four. TESMAN. But, good Lord, where did he do it? Eh? BRACK. [_With some hesitation._] Where? Well—I suppose at his lodgings. MRS. ELVSTED. No, that cannot be; for I was there between six and seven. BRACK. Well then, somewhere else. I don’t know exactly. I only know that he was found——. He had shot himself—in the breast. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, how terrible! That he should die like that! HEDDA. [_To Brack._] Was it in the breast? BRACK. Yes—as I told you. HEDDA. Not in the temple? BRACK. In the breast, Mrs. Tesman. HEDDA. Well, well—the breast is a good place, too. BRACK. How do you mean, Mrs. Tesman? HEDDA. [_Evasively._] Oh, nothing—nothing. TESMAN. And the wound is dangerous, you say—eh? BRACK. Absolutely mortal. The end has probably come by this time. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes, I feel it. The end! The end! Oh, Hedda——! TESMAN. But tell me, how have you learnt all this? BRACK. [_Curtly._] Through one of the police. A man I had some business with. HEDDA. [_In a clear voice._] At last a deed worth doing! TESMAN. [_Terrified._] Good heavens, Hedda! what are you saying? HEDDA. I say there is beauty in this. BRACK. H’m, Mrs. Tesman—— TESMAN. Beauty! Fancy that! MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, Hedda, how can you talk of beauty in such an act! HEDDA. Eilert Lövborg has himself made up his account with life. He has had the courage to do—the one right thing. MRS. ELVSTED. No, you must never think _that_ was how it happened! It must have been in delirium that he did it. TESMAN. In despair! HEDDA. That he did not. I am certain of that. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes! In delirium! Just as when he tore up our manuscript. BRACK. [_Starting._] The manuscript? Has he torn that up? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, last night. TESMAN. [_Whispers softly._] Oh, Hedda, we shall never get over this. BRACK. H’m, very extraordinary. TESMAN. [_Moving about the room._] To think of Eilert going out of the world in this way! And not leaving behind him the book that would have immortalised his name—— MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, if only it could be put together again! TESMAN. Yes, if it only could! I don’t know what I would not give—— MRS. ELVSTED. Perhaps it can, Mr. Tesman. TESMAN. What do you mean? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Searches in the pocket of her dress._] Look here. I have kept all the loose notes he used to dictate from. HEDDA. [_A step forward._] Ah——! TESMAN. You have kept them, Mrs. Elvsted! Eh? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, I have them here. I put them in my pocket when I left home. Here they still are—— TESMAN. Oh, do let me see them! MRS. ELVSTED. [_Hands him a bundle of papers._] But they are in such disorder—all mixed up. TESMAN. Fancy, if we could make something out of them, after all! Perhaps if we two put our heads together—— MRS. ELVSTED. Oh yes, at least let us try—— TESMAN. We _will_ manage it! We _must_! I will dedicate my life to this task HEDDA. You, George? Your life? TESMAN. Yes, or rather all the time I can spare. My own collections must wait in the meantime. Hedda—you understand, eh? I owe this to Eilert’s memory. HEDDA. Perhaps. TESMAN. And so, my dear Mrs. Elvsted, we will give our whole minds to it. There is no use in brooding over what can’t be undone—eh? We must try to control our grief as much as possible, and—— MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes, Mr. Tesman, I will do the best I can. TESMAN. Well then, come here. I can’t rest until we have looked through the notes. Where shall we sit? Here? No, in there, in the back room. Excuse me, my dear Judge. Come with me, Mrs. Elvsted. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, if only it were possible! [TESMAN _and_ MRS. ELVSTED _go into the back room. She takes off her hat and cloak. They both sit at the table under the hanging lamp, and are soon deep in an eager examination of the papers._ HEDDA _crosses to the stove and sits in the arm-chair. Presently BRACK goes up to her._ HEDDA. [_In a low voice._] Oh, what a sense of freedom it gives one, this act of Eilert Lövborg’s. BRACK. Freedom, Mrs. Hedda? Well, of course, it is a release for him—— HEDDA. I mean for me. It gives me a sense of freedom to know that a deed of deliberate courage is still possible in this world,—a deed of spontaneous beauty. BRACK. [_Smiling._] H’m—my dear Mrs. Hedda—— HEDDA. Oh, I know what you are going to say. For you are a kind of specialist too, like—you know! BRACK. [_Looking hard at her._] Eilert Lövborg was more to you than perhaps you are willing to admit to yourself. Am I wrong? HEDDA. I don’t answer such questions. I only know that Eilert Lövborg has had the courage to live his life after his own fashion. And then—the last great act, with its beauty! Ah! that he should have the will and the strength to turn away from the banquet of life—so early. BRACK. I am sorry, Mrs. Hedda,—but I fear I must dispel an amiable illusion. HEDDA. Illusion? BRACK. Which could not have lasted long in any case. HEDDA. What do you mean? BRACK. Eilert Lövborg did not shoot himself—voluntarily. HEDDA. Not voluntarily? BRACK. No. The thing did not happen exactly as I told it. HEDDA. [_In suspense._] Have you concealed something? What is it? BRACK. For poor Mrs. Elvsted’s sake I idealised the facts a little. HEDDA. What _are_ the facts? BRACK. First, that he is already dead. HEDDA. At the hospital? BRACK. Yes—without regaining consciousness. HEDDA. What more have you concealed? BRACK. This—the event did not happen at his lodgings. HEDDA. Oh, that can make no difference. BRACK. Perhaps it may. For I must tell you—Eilert Lövborg was found shot in—in Mademoiselle Diana’s boudoir. HEDDA. [_Makes a motion as if to rise, but sinks back again._] That is impossible, Judge Brack! He cannot have been _there_ again to-day. BRACK. He was there this afternoon. He went there, he said, to demand the return of something which they had taken from him. Talked wildly about a lost child—— HEDDA. Ah—so that was why—— BRACK. I thought probably he meant his manuscript; but now I hear he destroyed that himself. So I suppose it must have been his pocket-book. HEDDA. Yes, no doubt. And there—there he was found? BRACK. Yes, there. With a pistol in his breast-pocket, discharged. The ball had lodged in a vital part. HEDDA. In the breast—yes. BRACK. No—in the bowels. HEDDA. [_Looks up at him with an expression of loathing._] That too! Oh, what curse is it that makes everything I touch turn ludicrous and mean? BRACK. There is one point more, Mrs. Hedda—another disagreeable feature in the affair. HEDDA. And what is that? BRACK. The pistol he carried—— HEDDA. [_Breathless._] Well? What of it? BRACK. He must have stolen it. HEDDA. [_Leaps up._] Stolen it! That is not true! He did not steal it! BRACK. No other explanation is possible. He _must_ have stolen it——. Hush! TESMAN _and_ MRS. ELVSTED _have risen from the table in the back room, and come into the drawing-room._ TESMAN. [_With the papers in both his hands._] Hedda dear, it is almost impossible to see under that lamp. Think of that! HEDDA. Yes, I am thinking. TESMAN. Would you mind our sitting at your writing-table—eh? HEDDA. If you like. [_Quickly._] No, wait! Let me clear it first! TESMAN. Oh, you needn’t trouble, Hedda. There is plenty of room. HEDDA. No no, let me clear it, I say! I will take these things in and put them on the piano. There! [_She has drawn out an object, covered with sheet music, from under the bookcase, places several other pieces of music upon it, and carries the whole into the inner room, to the left._ TESMAN _lays the scraps of paper on the writing-table, and moves the lamp there from the corner table. He and_ MRS. ELVSTED _sit down and proceed with their work._ HEDDA _returns._ HEDDA. [_Behind_ MRS. ELVSTED’S _chair, gently ruffling her hair._] Well, my sweet Thea,—how goes it with Eilert Lövborg’s monument? MRS. ELVSTED. [_Looks dispiritedly up at her._] Oh, it will be terribly hard to put in order. TESMAN. We _must_ manage it. I am determined. And arranging other people’s papers is just the work for me. [HEDDA _goes over to the stove, and seats herself on one of the footstools._ BRACK _stands over her, leaning on the arm-chair._ HEDDA. [_Whispers._] What did you say about the pistol? BRACK. [_Softly._] That he must have stolen it. HEDDA. Why stolen it? BRACK. Because every other explanation _ought_ to be impossible, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. Indeed? BRACK. [_Glances at her._] Of course Eilert Lövborg was here this morning. Was he not? HEDDA. Yes. BRACK. Were you alone with him? HEDDA. Part of the time. BRACK. Did you not leave the room whilst he was here? HEDDA. No. BRACK. Try to recollect. Were you not out of the room a moment? HEDDA. Yes, perhaps just a moment—out in the hall. BRACK. And where was your pistol case during that time? HEDDA. I had it locked up in—— BRACK. Well, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. The case stood there on the writing-table. BRACK. Have you looked since, to see whether both the pistols are there? HEDDA. No. BRACK. Well, you need not. I saw the pistol found in Lövborg’s pocket, and I knew it at once as the one I had seen yesterday—and before, too. HEDDA. Have you it with you? BRACK. No; the police have it. HEDDA. What will the police do with it? BRACK. Search till they find the owner. HEDDA. Do you think they will succeed? BRACK. [_Bends over her and whispers._] No, Hedda Gabler—not so long as I say nothing. HEDDA. [_Looks frightened at him._] And if you do not say nothing,—what then? BRACK. [_Shrugs his shoulders._] There is always the possibility that the pistol was stolen. HEDDA. [_Firmly._] Death rather than that. BRACK. [_Smiling._] People say such things—but they don’t do them. HEDDA. [_Without replying._] And supposing the pistol was not stolen, and the owner is discovered? What then? BRACK. Well, Hedda—then comes the scandal. HEDDA. The scandal! BRACK. Yes, the scandal—of which you are so mortally afraid. You will, of course, be brought before the court—both you and Mademoiselle Diana. She will have to explain how the thing happened—whether it was an accidental shot or murder. Did the pistol go off as he was trying to take it out of his pocket, to threaten her with? Or did she tear the pistol out of his hand, shoot him, and push it back into his pocket? That would be quite like her; for she is an able-bodied young person, this same Mademoiselle Diana. HEDDA. But _I_ have nothing to do with all this repulsive business. BRACK. No. But you will have to answer the question: Why did you give Eilert Lövborg the pistol? And what conclusions will people draw from the fact that you did give it to him? HEDDA. [_Lets her head sink._] That is true. I did not think of that. BRACK. Well, fortunately, there is no danger, so long as I say nothing. HEDDA. [_Looks up at him._] So I am in your power, Judge Brack. You have me at your beck and call, from this time forward. BRACK. [Whispers softly.] Dearest Hedda—believe me—I shall not abuse my advantage. HEDDA. I am in your power none the less. Subject to your will and your demands. A slave, a slave then! [_Rises impetuously._] No, I cannot endure the thought of that! Never! BRACK. [_Looks half-mockingly at her._] People generally get used to the inevitable. HEDDA. [_Returns his look._] Yes, perhaps. [_She crosses to the writing-table. Suppressing an involuntary smile, she imitates TESMAN’S intonations._] Well? Are you getting on, George? Eh? TESMAN. Heaven knows, dear. In any case it will be the work of months. HEDDA. [_As before._] Fancy that! [_Passes her hands softly through MRS. ELVSTED’S hair._] Doesn’t it seem strange to you, Thea? Here are you sitting with Tesman—just as you used to sit with Eilert Lövborg? MRS. ELVSTED. Ah, if I could only inspire your husband in the same way! HEDDA. Oh, that will come too—in time. TESMAN. Yes, do you know, Hedda—I really think I begin to feel something of the sort. But won’t you go and sit with Brack again? HEDDA. Is there nothing I can do to help you two? TESMAN. No, nothing in the world. [_Turning his head._] I trust to you to keep Hedda company, my dear Brack! BRACK. [_With a glance at HEDDA._] With the very greatest of pleasure. HEDDA. Thanks. But I am tired this evening. I will go in and lie down a little on the sofa. TESMAN. Yes, do dear—eh? [HEDDA _goes into the back room and draws the curtains. A short pause. Suddenly she is heard playing a wild dance on the piano._ MRS. ELVSTED. [_Starts from her chair._] Oh—what is that? TESMAN. [_Runs to the doorway._] Why, my dearest Hedda—don’t play dance-music to-night! Just think of Aunt Rina! And of Eilert too! HEDDA. [_Puts her head out between the curtains._] And of Aunt Julia. And of all the rest of them.—After this, I will be quiet. [_Closes the curtains again._] TESMAN. [_At the writing-table._] It’s not good for her to see us at this distressing work. I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Elvsted,—you shall take the empty room at Aunt Julia’s, and then I will come over in the evenings, and we can sit and work _there_—eh? HEDDA. [_In the inner room._] I hear what you are saying, Tesman. But how am _I_ to get through the evenings out here? TESMAN. [_Turning over the papers._] Oh, I daresay Judge Brack will be so kind as to look in now and then, even though I am out. BRACK. [_In the arm-chair, calls out gaily._] Every blessëd evening, with all the pleasure in life, Mrs. Tesman! We shall get on capitally together, we two! HEDDA. [_Speaking loud and clear._] Yes, don’t you flatter yourself we will, Judge Brack? Now that you are the one cock in the basket—— [_A shot is heard within._ TESMAN, MRS. ELVSTED, _and_ BRACK _leap to their feet._ TESMAN. Oh, now she is playing with those pistols again. [_He throws back the curtains and runs in, followed by_ MRS. ELVSTED. HEDDA _lies stretched on the sofa, lifeless. Confusion and cries._ BERTA _enters in alarm from the right._ TESMAN. [_Shrieks to BRACK._] Shot herself! Shot herself in the temple! Fancy that! BRACK. [_Half-fainting in the arm-chair._] Good God!—people don’t _do_ such things. ----- Footnote 13: Pronounce _Reena_. Footnote 14: In the original, ”Statsrådinde Falks villa“—showing that it had belonged to the widow of a cabinet minister. Footnote 15: _Du_ = thou; Tesman means, “If you could persuade yourself to _tutoyer_ her.” Footnote 16: See footnote, p. 27. Footnote 17: Pronounce _Tora_ and _Taya_. Footnote 18: Mrs. Elvsted here uses the formal pronoun _De_, whereupon Hedda rebukes her. In her next speech Mrs. Elvsted says _du_. Footnote 19: “Bagveje” means both “back ways” and “underhand courses.” Footnote 20: As this form of address is contrary to English usage, and as the note of familiarity would be lacking in “Mrs. Tesman,” Brack may, in stage representation, say “Miss Hedda,” thus ignoring her marriage and reverting to the form of address no doubt customary between them of old. Footnote 21: He uses the familiar _du_. Footnote 22: From this point onward Lövborg uses the formal _De_. Footnote 23: In this speech he once more says _du_. Hedda addresses him throughout as _De_. Footnote 24: ”Eneste hane i kurven“—a proverbial saying. Footnote 25: Literally, “That you burn for me.” THE MASTER BUILDER (1892) CHARACTERS HALVARD SOLNESS, _Master Builder_. ALINE SOLNESS, _his wife_. DOCTOR HERDAL, _physician_. KNUT BROVIK, _formerly an architect, now in_ SOLNESS’S employment. RAGNAR BROVIK, _his son, draughtsman_. KAIA FOSLI, _his niece, book-keeper_. MISS HILDA WANGEL. _Some Ladies._ _A Crowd in the street._ _The action passes in and about SOLNESS’S house._ THE MASTER BUILDER. PLAY IN THREE ACTS. ------- ACT FIRST. _A plainly-furnished work-room in the house of_ HALVARD SOLNESS. _Folding doors on the left lead out to the hall. On the right is the door leading to the inner rooms of the house. At the back is an open door into the draughtsmen’s office. In front, on the left, a desk with books, papers and writing materials. Further back than the folding door, a stove. In the right-hand corner, a sofa, a table, and one or two chairs. On the table a water-bottle and glass. A smaller table, with a rocking-chair and arm-chair, in front on the right. Lighted lamps, with shades, on the table in the draughtsmen’s office, on the table in the corner, and on the desk._ _In the draughtsmen’s office sit_ KNUT BROVIK _and his son_ RAGNAR, _occupied with plans and calculations. At the desk in the outer office stands_ KAIA FOSLI, _writing in the ledger._ KNUT BROVICK _is a spare old man with white hair and beard. He wears a rather threadbare but well-brushed black coat, spectacles, and a somewhat discoloured white neckcloth._ RAGNAR BROVIK _is a well-dressed, light-haired man in his thirties, with a slight stoop._ KAIA FOSLI _is a slightly built girl, a little over twenty, carefully dressed, and delicate-looking. She has a green shade over her eyes.—All three go on working for some time in silence._ KNUT BROVIK. [_Rises suddenly, as if in distress, from the table; breathes heavily and laboriously as he comes forward into the doorway._] No, I can’t bear it much longer! KAIA. [_Going up to him._] You are feeling very ill this evening, are you not, uncle? BROVIK. Oh, I seem to get worse every day. RAGNAR. [_Has risen and advances._] You ought to go home, father. Try to get a little sleep—— BROVIK. [_Impatiently._] Go to bed, I suppose? Would you have me stifled outright? KAIA. Then take a little walk. RAGNAR. Yes, do. I will come with you. BROVIK. [_With warmth._] I will not go till he comes! I am determined to have it out this evening with—[_in a tone of suppressed bitterness_]—with him—with the chief. KAIA. [_Anxiously._] Oh no, uncle,—do wait awhile before doing _that_! RAGNAR. Yes, better wait, father! BROVIK. [_Draws his breath laboriously._] Ha—ha—! _I_ haven’t much time for waiting. KAIA. [_Listening._] Hush! I hear him on the stairs. [_All three go back to their work. A short silence._ HALVARD SOLNESS _comes in through the hall door. He is a man no longer young, but healthy and vigorous, with close-cut curly hair, dark moustache and dark thick eyebrows. He wears a greyish-green buttoned jacket with an upstanding collar and broad lappels. On his head he wears a soft grey felt hat, and he has one or two light portfolios under his arm._ SOLNESS. [_Near the door, points towards the draughtsmen’s office, and asks in a whisper_:] Are they gone? KAIA. [_Softly, shaking her head._] No. [_She takes the shade off her eyes._ SOLNESS _crosses the room, throws his hat on a chair, places the portfolios on the table by the sofa, and approaches the desk again._ KAIA _goes on writing without intermission, but seems nervous and uneasy._ SOLNESS. [_Aloud._] What is that you are entering, Miss Fosli? KAIA. [_Starts._] Oh, it is only something that—— SOLNESS. Let me look at it, Miss Fosli. [_Bends over her, pretends to be looking into the ledger, and whispers_:] Kaia! KAIA. [_Softly, still writing._] Well? SOLNESS. Why do you always take that shade off when I come? KAIA. [_As before._] I look so ugly with it on. SOLNESS. [_Smiling._] Then you don’t like to look ugly, Kaia? KAIA. [_Half glancing up at him._] Not for all the world. Not in _your_ eyes. SOLNESS. [_Strokes her hair gently._] Poor, poor little Kaia—— KAIA. [_Bending her head._] Hush—they can hear you! [SOLNESS _strolls across the room to the right, turns and pauses at the door of the draughtsmen’s office._ SOLNESS. Has any one been here for me? RAGNAR. [_Rising._] Yes, the young couple who want a villa built, out at Lövstrand. SOLNESS. [_Growling._] Oh, _those_ two! _They_ must wait. I am not quite clear about the plans yet. RAGNAR. [_Advancing, with some hesitation._] They were very anxious to have the drawings at once. SOLNESS. [_As before._] Yes, of course—so they all are. BROVIK. [_Looks up._] They say they are longing so to get into a house of their own. SOLNESS. Yes, yes—we know all _that_! And so they are content to take whatever is offered them. They get a—a roof over their heads—an address—but nothing to call a home. No thank you! In that case, let them apply to somebody else. Tell them _that_, the next time they call. BROVIK. [_Pushes his glasses up on to his forehead and looks in astonishment at him._] To somebody else? Are you prepared to give up the commission? SOLNESS. [_Impatiently._] Yes, yes, yes, devil take it! If that is to be the way of it——. Rather that, than build away at random. [_Vehemently._] Besides, I know very little about these people as yet. BROVIK. The people are safe enough. Ragnar knows them. He is a friend of the family. Perfectly safe people. SOLNESS. Oh, safe—safe enough! That is not at all what I mean. Good lord—don’t _you_ understand me either? [_Angrily._] I won’t have anything to do with these strangers. They may apply to whom they please, so far as I am concerned. BROVIK. [_Rising._] Do you really mean _that_? SOLNESS. [_Sulkily._] Yes I do.—For once in a way. [_He comes forward._ [BROVIK _exchanges a glance with_ RAGNAR, _who makes a warning gesture. Then_ BROVIK _comes into the front room._ BROVIK. May I have a few words with you? SOLNESS. Certainly. BROVIK. [_To KAIA._] Just go in there for a moment, KAIA. KAIA. [_Uneasily._] Oh, but uncle—— BROVIK. Do as I say, child. And shut the door after you. [KAIA _goes reluctantly into the draughtsmen’s office, glances anxiously and imploringly at_ SOLNESS, _and shuts the door._ BROVIK. [_Lowering his voice a little._] I don’t want the poor children to know how ill I am. SOLNESS. Yes, you have been looking very poorly of late. BROVIK. It will soon be all over with me. My strength is ebbing—from day to day. SOLNESS. Won’t you sit down? BROVIK. Thanks—may I? SOLNESS. [_Placing the arm-chair more conveniently._] Here—take this chair.—And now? BROVIK. [_Has seated himself with difficulty._] Well, you see, it’s about Ragnar. That is what weighs most upon me. What is to become of him? SOLNESS. Of course your son will stay with me as long as ever he likes. BROVIK. But that is just what he does not like. He feels that he cannot stay here any longer. SOLNESS. Why, I should say he was very well off here. But if he wants more money, I should not mind—— BROVIK. No, no! It is not _that_. [_Impatiently._] But sooner or later he, too, must have a chance of doing something on his own account. SOLNESS. [_Without looking at him._] Do you think that Ragnar has quite talent enough to stand alone? BROVIK. No, that is just the heartbreaking part of it—I have begun to have my doubts about the boy. For you have never said so much as—as one encouraging word about him. And yet I cannot but think there must be something in him—he _can’t_ be without talent. SOLNESS. Well, but he has learnt nothing—nothing thoroughly, I mean. Except, of course, to draw. BROVIK. [_Looks at him with covert hatred, and says hoarsely._] _You_ had learned little enough of the business when you were in my employment. But that did not prevent you from setting to work—[_breathing with difficulty_]—and pushing your way up, and taking the wind out of my sails—mine, and so many other people’s. SOLNESS. Yes, you see—circumstances favoured me. BROVIK. You are right there. Everything favoured you. But then how can you have the heart to let me go to my grave—without having seen what Ragnar is fit for? And of course I am anxious to see them married, too—before I go. SOLNESS. [_Sharply._] Is it she who wishes it? BROVIK. Not Kaia so much as Ragnar—he talks about it everyday. [_Appealingly._] You must—you _must_ help him to get some independent work now! I _must_ see something that the lad has done. Do you hear? SOLNESS. [_Peevishly._] Hang it, man, you can’t expect me to drag commissions down from the moon for him! BROVIK. He has the chance of a capital commission at this very moment. A big bit of work. SOLNESS. [_Uneasily, startled._] Has he? BROVIK. If _you_ would give your consent. SOLNESS. What sort of work do you mean? BROVIK. [_With some hesitation._] He can have the building of that villa out at Lövstrand. SOLNESS. _That_! Why I am going to build that myself. BROVIK. Oh _you_ don’t much care about doing it. SOLNESS. [_Flaring up._] Don’t care! I! Who dares to say that? BROVIK. You said so yourself just now. SOLNESS. Oh, never mind what I _say_.—Would they give Ragnar the building of that villa? BROVIK. Yes. You see, he knows the family. And then—just for the fun of the thing—he has made drawings and estimates and so forth—— SOLNESS. Are they pleased with the drawings? The people who will have to live in the house? BROVIK. Yes. If you would only look through them and approve of them—— SOLNESS. Then they would let Ragnar build their home for them? BROVIK. They were immensely pleased with his idea. They thought it exceedingly original, they said. SOLNESS. Oho! Original! Not the old-fashioned stuff that _I_ am in the habit of turning out! BROVIK. It seemed to them _different_. SOLNESS. [_With suppressed irritation._] So it was to see Ragnar that they came here—whilst I was out! BROVIK. They came to call upon you—and at the same time to ask whether you would mind retiring—— SOLNESS. [_Angrily._] Retire? I? BROVIK. In case you thought that Ragnar’s drawings—— SOLNESS. I! Retire in favour of your son! BROVIK. Retire from the agreement, they meant. SOLNESS. Oh, it comes to the same thing. [_Laughs angrily._] So that is it, is it? Halvard Solness is to see about retiring now! To make room for younger men! For the very youngest, perhaps! He must make room! Room! Room! BROVIK. Why, good heavens! there is surely room for more than one single man—— SOLNESS. Oh, there’s not so _very_ much room to spare either. But, be that as it may—I will never retire! I will never give way to anybody! Never of my own free will. Never in this world will I do _that_! BROVIK. [_Rises with difficulty._] Then I am to pass out of life without any certainty? Without a gleam of happiness? Without any faith or trust in Ragnar? Without having seen a single piece of work of his doing? Is that to be the way of it? SOLNESS. [_Turns half aside, and mutters._] H’m—don’t ask more just now. BROVIK. I must have an answer to this one question. Am I to pass out of life in such utter poverty? SOLNESS. [_Seems to struggle with himself; finally he says, in a low but firm voice_:] You must pass out of life as best you can. BROVIK. Then be it so. [_He goes up the room._ SOLNESS. [_Following him, half in desperation._] Don’t you understand that I _cannot_ help it? I am what I am, and I cannot change my nature! BROVIK. No, no; I suppose you can’t. [_Reels and supports himself against the sofa-table._] May I have a glass of water? SOLNESS. By all means. [_Fills a glass and hands it to him._ BROVIK. Thanks. [_Drinks and puts the glass down again._ [SOLNESS _goes up and opens the door of the draughtsmen’s office._ SOLNESS. Ragnar—you must come and take your father home. RAGNAR _rises quickly. He and_ KAIA _come into the work-room._ RAGNAR. What is the matter, father? BROVIK. Give me your arm. Now let us go. RAGNAR. Very well. You had better put your things on, too, Kaia. SOLNESS. Miss Fosli must stay—just for a moment. There is a letter I want written. BROVIK. [_Looks at SOLNESS._] Good night. Sleep well—if you can. SOLNESS. Good night. [BROVIK _and_ RAGNAR _go out by the hall-door._ KAIA _goes to the desk._ SOLNESS _stands with bent head, to the right, by the arm-chair._ KAIA. [_Dubiously._] _Is_ there any letter——? SOLNESS. [_Curtly._] No, of course not. [_Looks sternly at her._] Kaia! KAIA. [_Anxiously, in a low voice._] Yes! SOLNESS. [_Points imperatively to a spot on the floor._] Come here! At once! KAIA. [_Hesitatingly._] Yes. SOLNESS. [_As before._] Nearer! KAIA. [_Obeying._] What do you want with me? SOLNESS. [_Looks at her for a while._] Is it you I have to thank for all this? KAIA. No, no, don’t think that! SOLNESS. But confess now—you want to get married! KAIA. [_Softly._] Ragnar and I have been engaged for four or five years, and so—— SOLNESS. And so you think it time there were an end of it. Is not that so? KAIA. Ragnar and Uncle say I _must_. So I suppose I shall have to give in. SOLNESS. [_More gently._] Kaia, don’t you really care a little bit for Ragnar, too? KAIA. I cared very much for Ragnar once—before I came here to you. SOLNESS. But you don’t now? Not in the least? KAIA. [_Passionately, clasping her hands and holding them out towards him._] Oh, you know very well there is only one person I care for now! One, and one only, in all the world! I shall never care for any one else. SOLNESS. Yes, you say that. And yet you go away from me—leave me alone here with everything on my hands. KAIA. But could I not stay with you, even if Ragnar——? SOLNESS. [_Repudiating the idea._] No, no, that is quite impossible. If Ragnar leaves me and starts work on his own account, then of course he will need you himself. KAIA. [_Wringing her hands._] Oh, I feel as if I _could_ not be separated from you! It’s quite, quite impossible! SOLNESS. Then be sure you get those foolish notions out of Ragnar’s head. Marry him as much as you please—[_Alters his tone._] I mean—don’t let him throw up his good situation with me. For then I can keep _you_ too, my dear KAIA. KAIA. Oh yes, how lovely that would be, if it could only be managed! SOLNESS. [_Clasps her head with his two hands and whispers._] For I cannot get on without you, you see. I must have you with me every single day. KAIA. [_In nervous exaltation._] My God! My God! SOLNESS. [_Kisses her hair._] Kaia—Kaia! KAIA. [_Sinks down before him._] Oh, how good you are to me! How unspeakably good you are! SOLNESS. [_Vehemently._] Get up! For goodness’ sake get up! I think I hear some one! [_He helps her to rise. She staggers over to the desk._ MRS. SOLNESS _enters by the door on the right. She looks thin and wasted with grief, but shows traces of bygone beauty. Blonde ringlets. Dressed with good taste, wholly in black. Speaks somewhat slowly and in a plaintive voice._ MRS. SOLNESS. [_In the doorway._] Halvard! SOLNESS. [_Turns._] Oh, are you there, my dear——? MRS. SOLNESS. [_With a glance at KAIA._] I am afraid I am disturbing you. SOLNESS. Not in the least. Miss Fosli has only a short letter to write. MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, so I see. SOLNESS. What do you want with me, Aline? MRS. SOLNESS. I merely wanted to tell you that Dr. Herdal is in the drawing-room. Won’t you come and see him, Halvard? SOLNESS. [_Looks suspiciously at her._] H’m—is the doctor so very anxious to talk to me? MRS. SOLNESS. Well, not exactly anxious. He really came to see me; but he would like to say how-do-you-do to you at the same time. SOLNESS. [_Laughs to himself._] Yes, I daresay. Well, you must ask him to wait a little. MRS. SOLNESS. Then you will come in presently? SOLNESS. Perhaps I will. Presently, presently, dear. In a little while. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Glancing again at KAIA._] Well now, don’t forget, Halvard. [_Withdraws and closes the door behind her._ KAIA. [_Softly._] Oh dear, oh dear—I am sure Mrs. Solness thinks ill of me in some way! SOLNESS. Oh, not in the least. Not more than usual at any rate. But all the same, you had better go now, Kaia. KAIA. Yes, yes, now I _must_ go. SOLNESS. [_Severely._] And mind you get that matter settled for me. Do you hear? KAIA. Oh, if it only depended on _me_—— SOLNESS. I _will_ have it settled, I say! And to-morrow too—not a day later! KAIA. [_Terrified._] If there’s nothing else for it, I am quite willing to break off the engagement. SOLNESS. [_Angrily._] Break it off. Are you mad? Would you think of breaking it off? KAIA. [_Distracted._] Yes, if necessary. For I _must_—I _must_ stay here with you! I _can’t_ leave you! That is utterly—utterly impossible! SOLNESS. [_With a sudden outburst._] But deuce take it—how about Ragnar then! It’s Ragnar that I—— KAIA. [_Looks at him with terrified eyes._] It is chiefly on Ragnar’s account, that—that you——? SOLNESS. [_Collecting himself._] No, no, of course not! You don’t understand me either. [_Gently and softly._] Of course it is _you_ I want to keep—you above everything, KAIA. But for that very reason, you must prevent Ragnar, too, from throwing up his situation. There, there,—now go home. KAIA. Yes, yes—good-night, then. SOLNESS. Good night. [_As she is going._] Oh, stop a moment! Are Ragnar’s drawings in there? KAIA. I did not see him take them with him. SOLNESS. Then just go and find them for me. I might perhaps glance over them, after all. KAIA. [_Happy._] Oh yes, please do! SOLNESS. For your sake, Kaia dear. Now, let me have them at once, please. [KAIA _hurries into the draughtsmen’s office, searches anxiously in the table-drawer finds a portfolio and brings it with her._ KAIA. Here are all the drawings. SOLNESS. Good. Put them down there on the table. KAIA. [_Putting down the portfolio._] Good night, then. [_Beseechingly._] And please, please think kindly of me. SOLNESS. Oh, that I always do. Good-night, my dear little Kaia. [_Glances to the right._] Go, go now! MRS. SOLNESS _and_ DR. HERDAL _enter by the door on the right. He is a stoutish, elderly man, with a round, good-humoured face, clean shaven, with thin, light hair, and gold spectacles._ MRS. SOLNESS. [_Still in the doorway._] Halvard, I cannot keep the doctor any longer. SOLNESS. Well then, come in here. MRS. SOLNESS. [_To KAIA, who is turning down the desk-lamp._] Have you finished the letter already, Miss Fosli? KAIA. [_In confusion._] The letter——? SOLNESS. Yes, it was quite a short one. MRS. SOLNESS. It must have been very short. SOLNESS. You may go now, Miss Fosli. And please come in good time to-morrow morning. KAIA. I will be sure to. Good-night, Mrs. Solness. [_She goes out by the hall door._ MRS. SOLNESS. She must be quite an acquisition to you, Halvard, this Miss Fosli. SOLNESS. Yes, indeed. She is useful in all sorts of ways. MRS. SOLNESS. So it seems. DR. HERDAL. Is she good at book-keeping too? SOLNESS. Well—of course she has had a good deal of practice during these two years. And then she is so nice and willing to do whatever one asks of her. MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, that must be very delightful—— SOLNESS. It is. Especially when one is not too much accustomed to that sort of thing. MRS. SOLNESS. [_In a tone of gentle remonstrance._] Can _you_ say that, Halvard? SOLNESS. Oh, no, no, my dear Aline; I beg your pardon. MRS. SOLNESS. There’s no occasion.—Well then, doctor, you will come back later on, and have a cup of tea with us? DR. HERDAL. I have only that one patient to see, and then I’ll come back. MRS. SOLNESS. Thank you. [_She goes out by the door on the right._ SOLNESS. Are you in a hurry, doctor? DR. HERDAL. No, not at all. SOLNESS. May I have a little chat with you? DR. HERDAL. With the greatest of pleasure. SOLNESS. Then let us sit down. [_He motions the doctor to take the rocking-chair, and sits down himself in the arm-chair. Looks searchingly at him._] Tell me—did you notice anything odd about Aline? DR. HERDAL. Do you mean just now, when she was here? SOLNESS. Yes, in her manner to me. Did you notice anything? DR. HERDAL. [_Smiling._] Well, I admit—one couldn’t well avoid noticing that your wife—h’m—— SOLNESS. Well? DR. HERDAL. —that your wife is not particularly fond of this Miss Fosli. SOLNESS. Is that all? I have noticed that myself. DR. HERDAL. And I must say I am scarcely surprised at it. SOLNESS. At what? DR. HERDAL. That she should not exactly approve of your seeing so much of another woman, all day and every day. SOLNESS. No, no, I suppose you are right there—and Aline too. But it’s impossible to make any change. DR. HERDAL. Could you not engage a clerk? SOLNESS. The first man that came to hand? No, thank you—that would never do for me. DR. HERDAL. But now, if your wife——? Suppose, with her delicate health, all this tries her too much? SOLNESS. Even then—I might almost say—it can make no difference. I _must_ keep Kaia Fosli. No one else could fill her place. DR. HERDAL. No one else? SOLNESS. [_Curtly._] No, no one. DR. HERDAL. [_Drawing his chair closer._] Now listen to me my dear Mr. SOLNESS. May I ask you a question, quite between ourselves? SOLNESS. By all means. DR. HERDAL. Women, you see—in certain matters, they have a deucedly keen intuition—— SOLNESS. They have, indeed. There is not the least doubt of that. But——? DR. HERDAL. Well, tell me now—if your wife can’t endure this Kaia Fosli——? SOLNESS. Well, what then? DR. HERDAL. —may she not have just—just the least little bit of reason for this instinctive dislike? SOLNESS. [_Looks at him and rises._] Oho! DR. HERDAL. Now don’t be offended—but _hasn’t_ she? SOLNESS. [_With curt decision._] No. DR. HERDAL. No reason of any sort? SOLNESS. No other reason than her own suspicious nature. DR. HERDAL. I know you have known a good many women in your time. SOLNESS. Yes, I have. DR. HERDAL. And have been a good deal taken with some of them, too. SOLNESS. Oh yes, I don’t deny it. DR. HERDAL. But as regards Miss Fosli, then? There is nothing of that sort in the case? SOLNESS. No; nothing at all—on _my_ side. DR. HERDAL. But on her side? SOLNESS. I don’t think you have any right to ask that question, doctor. DR. HERDAL. Well, you know, we were discussing your wife’s intuition. SOLNESS. So we were. And for that matter—[_lowers his voice_]—Aline’s intuition, as you call it—in a certain sense, it has not been so far astray. DR. HERDAL. Aha! there we have it! SOLNESS. [_Sits down._] Doctor Herdal—I am going to tell you a strange story—if you care to listen to it. DR. HERDAL. I like listening to strange stories. SOLNESS. Very well then. I daresay you recollect that I took Knut Brovik and his son into my employment—after the old man’s business had gone to the dogs. DR. HERDAL. Yes, so I have understood. SOLNESS. You see, they really are clever fellows, these two. Each of them has talent in his own way. But then the son took it into his head to get engaged; and the next thing, of course, was that he wanted to get married—and begin to build on his own account. That is the way with all these young people. DR. HERDAL. [_Laughing._] Yes, they have a bad habit of wanting to marry. SOLNESS. Just so. But of course that did not suit _my_ plans; for I needed Ragnar myself—and the old man too. He is exceedingly good at calculating bearing-strains and cubic contents—and all that sort of devilry, you know. DR. HERDAL. Oh yes, no doubt that’s indispensable. SOLNESS. Yes, it is. But Ragnar was absolutely bent on setting to work for himself. He would hear of nothing else. DR. HERDAL. But he has stayed with you all the same. SOLNESS. Yes, I’ll tell you how that came about. One day this girl, Kaia Fosli, came to see them on some errand or other. She had never been here before. And when I saw how utterly infatuated they were with each other, the thought occurred to me: if I could only get her into the office here, then perhaps Ragnar too would stay where he is. DR. HERDAL. That was not at all a bad idea. SOLNESS. Yes, but at the time I did not breathe a word of what was in my mind. I merely stood and looked at her—and kept on wishing intently that I could have her here. Then I talked to her a little, in a friendly way—about one thing and another. And then she went away. DR. HERDAL. Well? SOLNESS. Well then, next day, pretty late in the evening, when old Brovik and Ragnar had gone home, she came here again, and behaved as if I had made an arrangement with her. DR. HERDAL. An arrangement? What about? SOLNESS. About the very thing my mind had been fixed on. But I hadn’t said one single word about it. DR. HERDAL. That was most extraordinary. SOLNESS. Yes, was it not? And now she wanted to know what she was to do here—whether she could begin the very next morning, and so forth. DR. HERDAL. Don’t you think she did it in order to be with her sweetheart? SOLNESS. That was what occurred to me at first. But no, that was not it. She seemed to drift quite away from _him_—when once she had come here to me. DR. HERDAL. She drifted over to you, then? SOLNESS. Yes, entirely. If I happen to look at her when her back is turned, I can tell that she feels it. She quivers and trembles the moment I come near her. What do you think of _that_? DR. HERDAL. H’m—that’s not very hard to explain. SOLNESS. Well, but what about the other thing? That she believed I had said to her what I had only wished and willed—silently—inwardly—to myself? What do you say to _that_? Can you explain that, Dr. Herdal? DR. HERDAL. No, I won’t undertake to do that. SOLNESS. I felt sure you would not; and so I have never cared to talk about it till now.—But it’s a cursed nuisance to me in the long run, you understand. Here have I got to go on day after day pretending——. And it’s a shame to treat her so, too, poor girl. [_Vehemently._] But I _cannot_ do anything else. For if _she_ runs away from me—then Ragnar will be off too. DR. HERDAL. And you have not told your wife the rights of the story? SOLNESS. No. DR. HERDAL. Then why on earth don’t you? SOLNESS. [_Looks fixedly at him, and says in a low voice_:] Because I seem to find a sort of—of salutary self-torture in allowing Aline to do me an injustice. DR. HERDAL. [_Shakes his head._] I don’t in the least understand what you mean. SOLNESS. Well, you see—it is like paying off a little bit of a huge, immeasurable debt—— DR. HERDAL. To your wife? SOLNESS. Yes; and that always helps to relieve one’s mind a little. One can breathe more freely for a while, you understand. DR. HERDAL. No, goodness knows, I don’t understand at all—— SOLNESS. [_Breaking off, rises again._] Well, well, well—then we won’t talk any more about it. [_He saunters across the room, returns, and stops beside the table. Looks at the doctor with a sly smile._] I suppose you think you have drawn me out nicely now, doctor? DR. HERDAL. [_With some irritation._] Drawn you out? Again I have not the faintest notion what you mean, Mr. Solness. SOLNESS. Oh come, out with it; I have seen it quite clearly, you know. DR. HERDAL. _What_ have you seen? SOLNESS. [_In a low voice, slowly._] That you have been quietly keeping an eye upon me. DR. HERDAL. That _I_ have! And why in all the world should I do _that_? SOLNESS. Because you think that I——[_Passionately._] Well, devil take it—you think the same of me as Aline does. DR. HERDAL. And what does _she_ think about you? SOLNESS. [_Having recovered his self-control._] She has begun to think that I am—that I am—ill. DR. HERDAL. Ill! _You_! She has never hinted such a thing to me. Why, what can she think is the matter with you? SOLNESS. [_Leans over the back of the chair and whispers._] Aline has made up her mind that I am mad. _That_ is what she thinks. DR. HERDAL. [_Rising._] Why, my dear good fellow——! SOLNESS. Yes, on my soul she does! I tell you it is so. And she has got you to think the same! Oh, I can assure you, doctor, I see it in your face as clearly as possible. You don’t take me in so easily, I can tell you. DR. HERDAL. [_Looks at him in amazement._] Never, Mr. Solness—never has such a thought entered my mind. SOLNESS. [_With an incredulous smile._] Really? Has it not? DR. HERDAL. No, never! Nor your wife’s mind either, I am convinced. I could almost swear to that. SOLNESS. Well, I wouldn’t advise you to. For, in a certain sense, you see, perhaps—perhaps she is not so far wrong in thinking something of the kind. DR. HERDAL. Come now, I really must say—— SOLNESS. [_Interrupting, with a sweep of his hand._] Well, well, my dear doctor—don’t let us discuss this any further. We had better agree to differ. [_Changes to a tone of quiet amusement._] But look here now, doctor—h’m—— DR. HERDAL. Well? SOLNESS. Since you don’t believe that I am—ill—and crazy—and mad, and so forth—— DR. HERDAL. What then? SOLNESS. Then I daresay you fancy that I am an extremely happy man. DR. HERDAL. Is _that_ mere fancy? SOLNESS. [_Laughs._] No, no—of course not! Heaven forbid! Only think—to be Solness the master builder! Halvard Solness! What could be more delightful? DR. HERDAL. Yes, I must say it seems to me you have had the luck on your side to an astounding degree. SOLNESS. [_Suppresses a gloomy smile._] So I have. I can’t complain on _that_ score. DR. HERDAL. First of all that grim old robbers’ castle was burnt down for you. And _that_ was certainly a great piece of luck. SOLNESS. [_Seriously._] It was the home of Aline’s family. Remember that. DR. HERDAL. Yes, it must have been a great grief to _her_. SOLNESS. She has not got over it to this day—not in all these twelve or thirteen years. DR. HERDAL. Ah, but what followed must have been the worst blow for her. SOLNESS. The one thing with the other. DR. HERDAL. But you—yourself—_you_ rose upon the ruins. You began as a poor boy from a country village—and now you are at the head of your profession. Ah, yes, Mr. Solness, you have undoubtedly had the luck on your side. SOLNESS. [_Looking at him with embarrassment._] Yes, but that is just what makes me so horribly afraid. DR. HERDAL. Afraid? Because you have the luck on your side! SOLNESS. It terrifies me—terrifies me every hour of the day. For sooner or later the luck must turn, you see. DR. HERDAL. Oh nonsense! What should make the luck turn? SOLNESS. [_With firm assurance._] The younger generation. DR. HERDAL. Pooh! The younger generation! You are not laid on the shelf yet, I should hope. Oh no—your position here is probably firmer now than it has ever been. SOLNESS. The luck _will_ turn. I know it—I feel the day approaching. Some one or other will take it into his head to say: Give _me_ a chance! And then all the rest will come clamouring after him, and shake their fists at me and shout: Make room—make room—make room! Yes, just you see, doctor—presently the younger generation will come knocking at my door—— DR. HERDAL. [_Laughing._] Well, and what if they do? SOLNESS. What if they do? Then there’s an end of Halvard Solness. [_There is a knock at the door on the left._ SOLNESS. [_Starts._] What’s that? Did you not hear something? DR. HERDAL. Some one is knocking at the door. SOLNESS. [_Loudly._] Come in. HILDA WANGEL _enters by the hall door. She is of middle height, supple, and delicately built. Somewhat sunburnt. Dressed in a tourist costume, with skirt caught up for walking, a sailor’s collar open at the throat, and a small sailor hat on her head. Knapsack on back, plaid in strap, and alpenstock._ HILDA. [_Goes straight up to SOLNESS, her eyes sparkling with happiness._] Good evening! SOLNESS. [_Looks doubtfully at her._] Good evening—— HILDA. [_Laughs._] I almost believe you don’t recognise me! SOLNESS. No—I must admit that—just for the moment—— DR. HERDAL. [_Approaching._] But _I_ recognise you, my dear young lady—— HILDA. [_Pleased._] Oh, is it you that—— DR. HERDAL. Of course it is. [_To SOLNESS._] We met at one of the mountain stations this summer. [_To HILDA._] What became of the other ladies? HILDA. Oh, _they_ went westward. DR. HERDAL. They didn’t much like all the fun we used to have in the evenings. HILDA. No, I believe they didn’t. DR. HERDAL. [_Holds up his finger at her._] And I am afraid it can’t be denied that you flirted a little with us. HILDA. Well, that was better fun than to sit there knitting stockings with all those old women. DR. HERDAL. [_Laughs._] There I entirely agree with you! SOLNESS. Have you come to town this evening? HILDA. Yes, I have just arrived. DR. HERDAL. Quite alone, Miss Wangel? HILDA. Oh yes! SOLNESS. Wangel? Is your name Wangel? HILDA. [_Looks in amused surprise at him._] Yes, of course it is. SOLNESS. Then you must be a daughter of the district doctor up at Lysanger? HILDA. [_As before._] Yes, who else’s daughter should I be? SOLNESS. Oh, then I suppose we met up there, that summer when I was building a tower on the old church. HILDA. [_More seriously._] Yes, of course it was then we met. SOLNESS. Well, that is a long time ago. HILDA. [_Looks hard at him._] It is exactly the ten years. SOLNESS. You must have been a mere child then, I should think. HILDA. [_Carelessly._] Well, I was twelve or thirteen. DR. HERDAL. Is this the first time you have ever been up to town, Miss Wangel? HILDA. Yes, it is indeed. SOLNESS. And don’t you know any one here? HILDA. Nobody but you. And of course, your wife. SOLNESS. So you know _her_, too? HILDA. Only a little. We spent a few days together at the sanatorium. SOLNESS. Ah, up there? HILDA. She said I might come and pay her a visit if ever I came up to town. [_Smiles._] Not that that was necessary. SOLNESS. Odd that she should never have mentioned it. [HILDA _puts her stick down by the stove, takes off the knapsack and lays it and the plaid on the sofa._ DR. HERDAL _offers to help her. SOLNESS stands and gazes at her._ HILDA. [_Going towards him._] Well, now I must ask you to let me stay the night here. SOLNESS. I am sure there will be no difficulty about that. HILDA. For I have no other clothes than those I stand in, except a change of linen in my knapsack. And that has to go to the wash, for it’s very dirty. SOLNESS. Oh yes, that can be managed. Now I’ll just let my wife know—— DR. HERDAL. Meanwhile I will go and see my patient. SOLNESS. Yes, do; and come again later on. DR. HERDAL. [_Playfully, with a glance at HILDA._] Oh that I will, you may be very certain! [_Laughs._] So your prediction has come true, Mr. Solness! SOLNESS. How so? DR. HERDAL. The younger generation _did_ come knocking at your door. SOLNESS. [_Cheerfully._] Yes, but in a very different way from what I meant. DR. HERDAL. Very different, yes. That’s undeniable. [_He goes out by the hall-door._ SOLNESS _opens the door on the right and speaks into the side room._ SOLNESS. Aline! Will you come in here, please. Here is a friend of yours—Miss Wangel. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Appears in the doorway._] Who do you say it is? [_Sees HILDA._] Oh, is it you, Miss Wangel? [_Goes up to her and offers her hand._] So you have come to town after all. SOLNESS. Miss Wangel has this moment arrived; and she would like to stay the night here. MRS. SOLNESS. Here with us? Oh yes, certainly. SOLNESS. Till she can get her things a little in order, you know. MRS. SOLNESS. I will do the best I can for you. It’s no more than my duty. I suppose your trunk is coming on later? HILDA. I _have_ no trunk. MRS. SOLNESS. Well, it will be all right, I daresay. In the meantime, you must excuse my leaving you here with my husband, until I can get a room made a little comfortable for you. SOLNESS. Can we not give her one of the nurseries? _They_ are all ready as it is. MRS. SOLNESS. Oh yes. There we have room and to spare. [_To HILDA._] Sit down now, and rest a little. rj [_She goes out to the right._ [HILDA, _with her hands behind her back, strolls about the room and looks at various objects._ SOLNESS _stands in front, beside the table, also with his hands behind his back, and follows her with his eyes._ HILDA. [_Stops and looks at him._] Have you several nurseries? SOLNESS. There are three nurseries in the house. HILDA. That’s a lot. Then I suppose you have a great many children? SOLNESS. No. We have no child. But now _you_ can be the child here, for the time being. HILDA. For to-night, yes. I shall not cry. I mean to sleep as sound as a stone. SOLNESS. Yes, you must be very tired, I should think. HILDA. Oh no! But all the same—— It’s so delicious to lie and dream. SOLNESS. Do you dream much of nights? HILDA. Oh yes! Almost always. SOLNESS. What do you dream about most? HILDA. I sha’n’t tell you to-night. Another time—perhaps. [_She again strolls about the room, stops at the desk and turns over the books and papers a little._ SOLNESS. [_Approaching._] Are you searching for anything? HILDA. No, I am merely looking at all these things. [_Turns._] Perhaps I mustn’t? SOLNESS. Oh, by all means. HILDA. Is it _you_ that write in this great ledger? SOLNESS. No, it’s my book-keeper. HILDA. Is it a woman? SOLNESS. [_Smiles._] Yes. HILDA. One you employ here, in your office? SOLNESS. Yes. HILDA. Is she married? SOLNESS. No, she is single. HILDA. Oh, indeed! SOLNESS. But I believe she is soon going to be married. HILDA. That’s a good thing for _her_. SOLNESS. But not such a good thing for _me_. For then I shall have nobody to help me. HILDA. Can’t you get hold of some one else who will do just as well? SOLNESS. Perhaps _you_ would stay here and—and write in the ledger? HILDA. [_Measures him with a glance._] Yes, I daresay! No, thank you—nothing of that sort for me. [_She again strolls across the room, and sits down in the rocking-chair._ SOLNESS _too goes to the table._ HILDA. [_Continuing._] For there must surely be plenty of other things to be done here. [_Looks smilingly at him._] Don’t you think so, too? SOLNESS. Of course. First of all, I suppose, you want to make a round of the shops, and get yourself up in the height of fashion. HILDA. [_Amused._] No, I think I shall let _that_ alone! SOLNESS. Indeed? HILDA. For you must know I have run through all my money. SOLNESS. [_Laughs._] Neither trunk nor money, then! HILDA. Neither one nor the other. But never mind—it doesn’t matter now. SOLNESS. Come now, I like you for _that_. HILDA. Only for _that_? SOLNESS. For that among other things. [_Sits in the armchair._] Is your father alive still? HILDA. Yes, father’s alive. SOLNESS. Perhaps you are thinking of studying here? HILDA. No, that hadn’t occurred to me. SOLNESS. But I suppose you will be staying for some time? HILDA. That must depend upon circumstances. [_She sits awhile rocking herself and looking at him, half seriously, half with a suppressed smile. Then she takes off her hat and puts it on the table in front of her._ HILDA. Mr. Solness! SOLNESS. Well? HILDA. Have you a very bad memory? SOLNESS. A bad memory? No, not that I am aware of. HILDA. Then have you nothing to say to me about what happened up there? SOLNESS. [_In momentary surprise._] Up at Lysanger? [_Indifferently._] Why, it was nothing much to talk about, it seems to me. HILDA. [_Looks reproachfully at him._] How can you sit there and say such things? SOLNESS. Well, then, _you_ talk to me about it. HILDA. When the tower was finished, we had grand doings in the town. SOLNESS. Yes, I shall not easily forget that day. HILDA. [_Smiles._] Will you not? That comes well from _you_. SOLNESS. Comes well? HILDA. There was music in the churchyard—and many, many hundreds of people. We school-girls were dressed in white; and we all carried flags. SOLNESS. All yes, those flags—I can tell you I remember _them_! HILDA. Then you climbed right up the scaffolding, straight to the very top; and you had a great wreath with you; and you hung that wreath right away up on the weather-vane. SOLNESS. [_Curtly interrupting._] I always did that in those days. It is an old custom. HILDA. It was so wonderfully thrilling to stand below and look up at you. Fancy, if he should fall over! He—the master builder himself! SOLNESS. [_As if to divert her from the subject._] Yes, yes, yes, that might very well have happened, too. For one of those white-frocked little devils,—she went on in such a way, and screamed up at me so—— HILDA. [_Sparkling with pleasure._] “Hurra for Master Builder Solness!” Yes! SOLNESS. —and waved and flourished with her flag, so that I—so that it almost made me giddy to look at it. HILDA. [_In a lower voice, seriously._] That little devil—that was _I_. SOLNESS. [_Fixes his eyes steadily upon her._] I am sure of that now. It _must_ have been you. HILDA. [_Lively again._] Oh, it was so gloriously thrilling! I could not have believed there was a builder in the whole world that could build such a tremendously high tower. And then, that you yourself should stand at the very top of it, as large as life! And that you should not be the least bit dizzy! It was _that_ above everything that made one—made one dizzy to think of. SOLNESS. How could you be so certain that I was not——? HILDA. [_Scouting the idea._] No indeed! Oh no! I knew that instinctively. For if you had been, you could never have stood up there and sung. SOLNESS. [_Looks at her in astonishment.]_] Sung? Did _I_ sing? HILDA. Yes, I should think you did. SOLNESS. [_Shakes his head._] I have never sung a note in my life. HILDA. Yes indeed, you sang then. It sounded like harps in the air. SOLNESS. [_Thoughtfully._] This is very strange—all this. HILDA. [_Is silent awhile, looks at him and says in a low voice_:] But then,—it was after that—that the _real_ thing happened. SOLNESS. The real thing? HILDA. [_Sparkling with vivacity._] Yes, I surely don’t need to remind you of _that_? SOLNESS. Oh yes, do remind me a little of _that_, too. HILDA. Don’t you remember that a great dinner was given in your honour at the Club? SOLNESS. Yes, to be sure. It must have been the same afternoon, for I left the place next morning. HILDA. And from the Club you were invited to come round to our house to supper. SOLNESS. Quite right, Miss Wangel. It is wonderful how all these trifles have impressed themselves on your mind. HILDA. Trifles! I like that! Perhaps it was a trifle, too, that I was _alone_ in the room when you came in? SOLNESS. _Were_ you alone? HILDA. [_Without answering him._] You didn’t call me a little devil _then_? SOLNESS. No, I suppose I did not. HILDA. You said I was lovely in my white dress, and that I looked like a little princess. SOLNESS. I have no doubt you did, Miss Wangel.—And besides—I was feeling so buoyant and free that day—— HILDA. And then you said that when I grew up I should be _your_ princess. SOLNESS. [_Laughing a little._] Dear, dear—did I say _that_ too? HILDA. Yes, you did. And when I asked how long I should have to wait, you said that you would come again in ten years—like a troll—and carry me off—to Spain or some such place. And you promised you would buy me a kingdom there. SOLNESS. [_As before._] Yes, after a good dinner one doesn’t haggle about the halfpence. But did I really _say_ all that? HILDA. [_Laughs to herself._] Yes. And you told me, too, what the kingdom was to be called. SOLNESS. Well, what was it? HILDA. It was to be called the kingdom of Orangia,[26] you said. SOLNESS. Well, that was an appetising name. HILDA. No, I didn’t like it a bit; for it seemed as though you wanted to make game of me. SOLNESS. I am sure _that_ cannot have been my intention. HILDA. No, I should hope not—considering what you did next—— SOLNESS. What in the world did I do next? HILDA. Well, that’s the finishing touch, if you have forgotten _that_ too. I should have thought no one could help remembering such a thing as that. SOLNESS. Yes, yes, just give me a hint, and then perhaps——Well? HILDA. [_Looks fixedly at him._] You came and kissed me, Mr. SOLNESS. SOLNESS. [_Open-mouthed, rising from his chair._] _I_ did! HILDA. Yes, indeed you did. You took me in both your arms, and bent my head back, and kissed me—many times. SOLNESS. Now really, my dear Miss Wangel——! HILDA. [_Rises._] You surely cannot mean to deny it? SOLNESS. Yes, I do. I deny it altogether! HILDA. [_Looks scornfully at him._] Oh, indeed! [_She turns and goes slowly close up to the stove, where she remains standing motionless, her face averted from him, her hands behind her back. Short pause._ SOLNESS. [_Goes cautiously up behind her._] Miss Wangel——! HILDA. [_Is silent and does not move._] SOLNESS. Don’t stand there like a statue. You must have dreamt all this. [_Lays his hand on her arm._] Now just listen—— HILDA. [_Makes an impatient movement with her arm._] SOLNESS. [_As a thought flashes upon him._] Or——! Wait a moment! There is something under all this, you may depend! HILDA. [_Does not move._] SOLNESS. [_In a low voice, but with emphasis._] I must have _thought_ all that. I must have _wished_ it—have _willed_ it—have _longed_ to do it. And then——. May not that be the explanation? HILDA. [_Is still silent._] SOLNESS. [_Impatiently._] Oh very well, deuce take it all—then I _did_ do it, I suppose. HILDA. [_Turns her head a little, but without looking at him._] Then you admit it now? SOLNESS. Yes—whatever you like. HILDA. You came and put your arms round me? SOLNESS. Oh yes! HILDA. And bent my head back? SOLNESS. Very far back. HILDA. And kissed me? SOLNESS. Yes, I did HILDA. Many times? SOLNESS. As many as ever you like. HILDA. [_Turns quickly towards him and has once more the sparkling expression of gladness in her eyes._] Well, you see, I got it out of you at last! SOLNESS. [_With a slight smile._] Yes—just think of my forgetting such a thing as that. HILDA. [_Again a little sulky, retreats from him._] Oh, you have kissed so many people in your time, I suppose. SOLNESS. No, you mustn’t think _that_ of me. [_HILDA seats herself in the arm-chair. SOLNESS stands and leans against the rocking-chair. Looks observantly at her._] Miss Wangel! HILDA. Yes! SOLNESS. How _was_ it now? What came of all this—between us two? HILDA. Why, nothing more came of it. You know that quite well. For then the other guests came in, and then—bah! SOLNESS. Quite so! The others came in. To think of my forgetting _that_ too! HILDA. Oh, you haven’t really forgotten anything: you are only a little ashamed of it all. I am sure one doesn’t forget things of that kind. SOLNESS. No, one would suppose not. HILDA. [_Lively again, looks at him._] Perhaps you have even forgotten what day it was? SOLNESS. What day——? HILDA. Yes, on what day did you hang the wreath on the tower? Well? Tell me at once! SOLNESS. H’m—I confess I have forgotten the particular day. I only know it was ten years ago. Some time in the autumn. HILDA. [_Nods her head slowly several times._] It was ten years ago—on the 19th of September. SOLNESS. Yes, it must have been about that time. Fancy your remembering that too! [_Stops._] But wait a moment——! Yes—it’s the 19th of September to-day. HILDA. Yes, it is; and the ten years are gone. And you didn’t come—as you had promised me. SOLNESS. Promised you? Threatened, I suppose you mean? HILDA. I don’t think there was any sort of threat in _that_. SOLNESS. Well then, a little bit of fun. HILDA. Was _that_ all you wanted? To make fun of me? SOLNESS. Well, or to have a little joke with you! Upon my soul, I don’t recollect. But it must have been something of that kind; for you were a mere child then. HILDA. Oh, perhaps I wasn’t quite such a child either. Not such a mere chit as you imagine. SOLNESS. [_Looks searchingly at her._] Did you really and seriously expect me to come again? HILDA. [_Conceals a half-teasing smile._] Yes, indeed! I did expect _that_ of you. SOLNESS. That I should come back to your home, and take you away with me? HILDA. Just like a troll—yes. SOLNESS. And make a princess of you? HILDA. That’s what you promised. SOLNESS. And give you a kingdom as well? HILDA. [_Looks up at the ceiling._] Why not? Of course it need not have been an actual, every-day sort of a kingdom. SOLNESS. But something else just as good? HILDA. Yes, at least as good. [_Looks at him a moment._] I thought, if you could build the highest church-towers in the world, you could surely manage to raise a kingdom of one sort or another as well. SOLNESS. [_Shakes his head._] I can’t quite make you out, Miss Wangel. HILDA. Can you not? To me it seems all so simple. SOLNESS. No, I can’t make up my mind whether you mean all you say, or are simply having a joke with me. HILDA. [_Smiles._] Making fun of you, perhaps? I, too? SOLNESS. Yes, exactly. Making fun—of both of us. [_Looks at her._] Is it long since you found out that I was married? HILDA. I have known it all along. Why do you ask me _that_? SOLNESS. [_Lightly._] Oh, well, it just occurred to me. [_Looks earnestly at her, and says in a low voice._] What have you come for? HILDA. I want my kingdom. The time is up. SOLNESS. [_Laughs involuntarily._] What a girl you are! HILDA. [_Gaily._] Out with my kingdom, Mr. Solness! [_Raps with her fingers._] The kingdom on the table! SOLNESS. [_Pushing the rocking-chair nearer and sitting down._] Now, seriously speaking—what have you come for? What do you really want to do here? HILDA. Oh, first of all, I want to go round and look at all the things that you have built. SOLNESS. That will give you plenty of exercise. HILDA. Yes, I know you have built a tremendous lot. SOLNESS. I have indeed—especially of late years. HILDA. Many church-towers among the rest? Immensely high ones? SOLNESS. No. I build no more church-towers now. Nor churches either. HILDA. What _do_ you build then? SOLNESS. Homes for human beings. HILDA. [_Reflectively._] Couldn’t you build a little—a little bit of a church-tower over these homes as well? SOLNESS. [_Starting._] What do you mean by _that_? HILDA. I mean—something that points—points up into the free air. With the vane at a dizzy height. SOLNESS. [_Pondering a little._] Strange that you should say _that_—for that is just what I am most anxious to do. HILDA. [_Impatiently._] Why don’t you do it, then? SOLNESS. [_Shakes his head._] No, the people will not have it. HILDA. Fancy their not wanting it! SOLNESS. [_More lightly._] But now I am building a new home for myself—just opposite here. HILDA. For yourself? SOLNESS. Yes. It is almost finished. And on that there is a tower. HILDA. A high tower? SOLNESS. Yes. HILDA. Very high? SOLNESS. No doubt people will say it is _too_ high—too high for a dwelling-house. HILDA. I’ll go out and look at that tower the first thing to-morrow morning. SOLNESS. [_Sits resting his check on his hand, and gazes at her._] Tell me, Miss Wangel—what is your name? Your Christian name, I mean? HILDA. Why, Hilda, of course. SOLNESS. [_As before._] Hilda? Indeed? HILDA. Don’t you remember _that_? You called me Hilda yourself—that day when you misbehaved. SOLNESS. Did I really? HILDA. But then you said “_little_ Hilda”; and I didn’t like that. SOLNESS. Oh, you didn’t like that, Miss Hilda? HILDA. No, not at such a time as that. But—“Princess Hilda”—that will sound very well, I think. SOLNESS. Very well indeed. Princess Hilda of—of—what was to be the name of the kingdom? HILDA. Pooh! I won’t have anything to do with _that_ stupid kingdom. I have set my heart upon quite a different one! SOLNESS. [_Has leaned back in the chair, still gazing at her._] Isn’t it strange——? The more I think of it now, the more it seems to me as though I had gone about all these years torturing myself with—h’m—— HILDA. With what? SOLNESS. With the effort to recover something—some experience, which I seemed to have forgotten. But I never had the least inkling of what it could be. HILDA. You should have tied a knot in your pocket-handkerchief, Mr. Solness. SOLNESS. In that case, I should simply have had to go racking my brains to discover what the knot could mean. HILDA. Oh yes, I suppose there are trolls of _that_ kind in the world, too. SOLNESS. [_Rises slowly._] What a good thing it is that _you_ have come to me now. HILDA. [_Looks deeply into his eyes._] _Is_ it a good thing! SOLNESS. For I have been so lonely here. I have been gazing so helplessly at it all. [_In a lower voice._] I must tell you—I have begun to be so afraid—so terribly afraid of the younger generation. HILDA. [_With a little snort of contempt._] Pooh—is the younger generation a thing to be afraid of? SOLNESS. It is indeed. And that is why I have locked and barred myself in. [_Mysteriously_] I tell you the younger generation will one day come and thunder at my door! They will break in upon me! HILDA. Then I should say you ought to go out and open the door to the younger generation. SOLNESS. Open the door? HILDA. Yes. Let them come in to you on friendly terms, as it were. SOLNESS. No, no, no! The younger generation—it means retribution, you see. It comes, as if under a new banner, heralding the turn of fortune. HILDA. [_Rises, looks at him, and says with a quivering twitch of her lips._] Can _I_ be of any use to you, Mr. Solness? SOLNESS. Yes, you can indeed! For you, too, come—under a new banner, it seems to me. Youth marshalled against youth——! _DR. HERDAL comes in by the hall-door._ DR. HERDAL. What—you and Miss Wangel here still? SOLNESS. Yes. We have had no end of things to talk about. HILDA. Both old and new. DR. HERDAL. Have you really? HILDA. Oh, it has been the greatest fun. For Mr. Solness—he has such a miraculous memory. All the least little details he remembers instantly. _MRS. SOLNESS enters by the door on the right._ MRS. SOLNESS. Well, Miss Wangel, your room is quite ready for you now. HILDA. Oh, how kind you are to me! SOLNESS. [_To MRS. SOLNESS._] The nursery? MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, the middle one. But first let us go in to supper. SOLNESS. [_Nods to HILDA._] Hilda shall sleep in the nursery, she shall. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Looks at him._] Hilda? SOLNESS. Yes, Miss Wangel’s name is Hilda. I knew her when she was a child. MRS. SOLNESS. Did you really, Halvard? Well, shall we go? Supper is on the table. [_She takes_ DR. HERDAL’S _arm and goes out with him to the right._ HILDA _has meanwhile been collecting her travelling things._ HILDA. [_Softly and rapidly to SOLNESS._] Is it true, what you said? _Can_ I be of use to you? SOLNESS. [_Takes the things from her._] _You_ are the very being I have needed most. HILDA. [_Looks at him with happy, wondering eyes and clasps her hands._] But then, great heavens——! SOLNESS. [_Eagerly._] What——? HILDA. Then I _have_ my kingdom! SOLNESS. [_Involuntarily._] Hilda——! HILDA. [_Again with the quivering twitch of her lips._] _Almost_—I was going to say. [_She goes out to the right,_ SOLNESS _follows her._ ----- Footnote 26: In the original “Appelsinia,” “appelsin” meaning “orange.” ACT SECOND. _A prettily furnished small drawing-room in_ SOLNESS’S _house. In the back, a glass-door leading out to the verandah and garden. The right-hand corner is cut off transversely by a large bay-window, in which are flower-stands. The left-hand corner is similarly cut off by a transverse wall, in which is a small door papered like the wall. On each side, an ordinary door. In front, on the right, a console table with a large mirror over it. Well-filled stands of plants and flowers. In front, on the left, a sofa with a table and chairs. Further back, a bookcase. Well forward in the room, before the bay window, a small table and some chairs. It is early in the day._ SOLNESS _sits by the little table with_ RAGNAR BROVIK’S _portfolio open in front of him. He is turning the drawings over and closely examining some of them._ MRS. SOLNESS _moves about noiselessly with a small watering-pot, attending to her flowers. She is dressed in black as before. Her hat, cloak and parasol lie on a chair near the mirror. Unobserved by her,_ SOLNESS _now and again follows her with his eyes. Neither of them speaks._ KAIA FOSLI _enters quietly by the door on the left._ SOLNESS. [_Turns his head, and says in an off hand tone of indifference_] Well, is that you? KAIA. I merely wished to let you know that I have come. SOLNESS. Yes, yes, that’s all right. Hasn’t Ragnar come too? KAIA. No, not yet. He had to wait a little while to see the doctor. But he is coming presently to hear—— SOLNESS. How is the old man to-day? KAIA. Not well. He begs you to excuse him; he is obliged to keep his bed to-day. SOLNESS. Why, of course; by all means let him rest. But now, get to your work. KAIA. Yes. [_Pauses at the door._] Do you wish to speak to Ragnar when he comes? SOLNESS. No—I don’t know that I have anything particular to say to him. [KAIA _goes out again to the left._ SOLNESS _remains seated, turning over the drawings._ MRS. SOLNESS. [_Over beside the plants._] I wonder if he isn’t going to die now, as well? SOLNESS. [_Looks up at her._] As well as who? MRS. SOLNESS. [_Without answering._] Yes, yes—depend upon it, Halvard, old Brovik is going to die too. You’ll see that he will. SOLNESS. My dear Aline, ought you not to go out for a little walk? MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, I suppose I ought to. [_She continues to attend to the flowers._ SOLNESS. [_Bending over the drawings._] Is she still asleep? MRS. SOLNESS. [_Looking at him._] Is it Miss Wangel you are sitting there thinking about? SOLNESS. [_Indifferently._] I just happened to recollect her. MRS. SOLNESS. Miss Wangel was up long ago. SOLNESS. Oh, was she? MRS. SOLNESS. When I went in to see her, she was busy putting her things in order. [_She goes in front of the mirror and slowly begins to put on her hat._ SOLNESS. [_After a short pause._] So we have found a use for one of our nurseries after all, Aline. MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, we have. SOLNESS. That seems to me better than to have them all standing empty. MRS. SOLNESS. That emptiness is dreadful; you are right there. SOLNESS. [_Closes the portfolio, rises and approaches her._] You will find that we shall get on far better after this, Aline. Things will be more comfortable. Life will be easier—especially for _you_. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Looks at him._] After this? SOLNESS. Yes, believe me, Aline—— MRS. SOLNESS. Do you mean—because _she_ has come here? SOLNESS. [_Checking himself._] I mean, of course—when once we have moved into the new house. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Takes her cloak._] Ah, do you think so, Halvard? Will it be better then? SOLNESS. I can’t think otherwise. And surely you think so too? MRS. SOLNESS. I think nothing at all about the new house. SOLNESS. [_Cast down._] It’s hard for me to hear you say that; for you know it is mainly for your sake that I have built it. [_He offers to help her on with her cloak._ MRS. SOLNESS. [_Evades him._] The fact is, you do far too much for my sake. SOLNESS. [_With a certain vehemence._] No, no, you really mustn’t say that, Aline! I cannot bear to hear you say such things! MRS. SOLNESS. Very well, then I won’t say it, Halvard. SOLNESS. But I stick to what _I_ said. You’ll see that things will be easier for you in the new place. MRS. SOLNESS. Oh heavens—easier for me—— SOLNESS. [_Eagerly._] Yes, indeed they will! You may be quite sure of that! For you see—there will be so very, very much _there_ that will remind you of your own home—— MRS. SOLNESS. The home that used to be father’s and mother’s—and that was burnt to the ground—— SOLNESS. [_In a low voice._] Yes, yes, my poor Aline. That was a terrible blow for you. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Breaking out in lamentation._] You may build as much as ever you like, Halvard—you can never build up again a real home for _me_! SOLNESS. [_Crosses the room._] Well, in Heaven’s name, let us talk no more about it then. MRS. SOLNESS. We are not in the habit of talking about it. For you always put the thought away from you—— SOLNESS. [_Stops suddenly and looks at her._] Do I? And why should I do _that_? Put the thought away from me? MRS. SOLNESS. Oh yes, Halvard, I understand you very well. You are so anxious to spare me—and to find excuses for me too—as much as ever you can. SOLNESS. [_With astonishment in his eyes._] _You!_ Is it _you_—yourself, that you are talking about Aline? MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, who else should it be but myself? SOLNESS. [Involuntarily to himself.] _That_ too! MRS. SOLNESS. As for the old house, I wouldn’t mind so much about that. When once misfortune was in the air—why—— SOLNESS. Ah, you are right there. Misfortune will have its way—as the saying goes. MRS. SOLNESS. But it’s what came of the fire—the dreadful thing that followed——! _That_ is the thing! That, that, that! SOLNESS. [_Vehemently._] Don’t think about _that_, Aline! MRS. SOLNESS. Ah, that is exactly what I cannot help thinking about. And now, at last, I must speak about it, too; for I don’t seem able to bear it any longer. And then never to be able to forgive myself—— SOLNESS. [_Exclaiming._] Yourself——! MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, for I had duties on both sides—both towards you and towards the little ones. I ought to have hardened myself—not to have let the horror take such hold upon me—nor the grief for the burning of my home. [_Wrings her hands._] Oh, Halvard, if I had only had the strength! SOLNESS. [_Softly, much moved, comes closer._] Aline—you must promise me never to think these thoughts any more.—Promise me that, dear! MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, promise, promise! One can promise anything. SOLNESS. [_Clenches his hands and crosses the room._] Oh, but this is hopeless, hopeless! Never a ray of sunlight! Not so much as a gleam of brightness to light up our home! MRS. SOLNESS. This is no home, Halvard. SOLNESS. Oh no, you may well say that. [_Gloomily._] And God knows whether you are not right in saying that it will be no better for us in the new house, either. MRS. SOLNESS. It will never be any better. Just as empty—just as desolate—there as here. SOLNESS. [_Vehemently._] Why in all the world have we built it then! Can you tell me that? MRS. SOLNESS. No; you must answer that question for yourself. SOLNESS. [_Glances suspiciously at her._] What do you mean by _that_, Aline? MRS. SOLNESS. What do I mean? SOLNESS. Yes, in the devil’s name! You said it so strangely—as if you had some hidden meaning in it. MRS. SOLNESS. No, indeed, I assure you—— SOLNESS. [_Comes closer._] Oh, come now—I know what I know. I have both my eyes and my ears about me, Aline—you may depend upon that! MRS. SOLNESS. Why, what are you talking about? What is it? SOLNESS. [_Places himself in front of her._] Do you mean to say you don’t find a kind of lurking, hidden meaning in the most innocent word I happen to say? MRS. SOLNESS. _I_, do you say? _I_ do that? SOLNESS. [_Laughs._] Ho-ho-ho! It’s natural enough, Aline! When you have a sick man on your hands—— MRS. SOLNESS. [_Anxiously._] _Sick?_ Are you ill, Halvard? SOLNESS. [_Violently._] A half-mad man then! A crazy man! Call me what you will. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Feels blindly for a chair and sits down._] Halvard—for God’s sake—— SOLNESS. But you are wrong, both you and the doctor. I am not in the state you imagine. [_He walks up and down the room._ MRS. SOLNESS _follows him anxiously with her eyes. Finally he goes up to her._ SOLNESS. [_Calmly._] In reality there is nothing whatever the matter with me. MRS. SOLNESS. No, there isn’t, is there? But then what is it that troubles you so? SOLNESS. Why _this_, that I often feel ready to sink under this terrible burden of debt—— MRS. SOLNESS. Debt, do you say? But you owe no one anything, Halvard! SOLNESS. [_Softly, with emotion._] I owe a boundless debt to you—to you—to you, Aline. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Rises slowly._] What is behind all this? You may just as well tell me at once. SOLNESS. But there is nothing behind it! I have never done you any wrong—not wittingly and wilfully, at any rate. And yet—and yet it seems as though a crushing debt rested upon me and weighed me down. MRS. SOLNESS. A debt to me? SOLNESS. Chiefly to you. MRS. SOLNESS. Then you are—ill after all, Halvard. SOLNESS. [_Gloomily._] I suppose I must be—or not far from it. [_Looks towards the door to the right, which is opened at this moment._] Ah! now it grows lighter. HILDA WANGEL _comes in. She has made some alteration in her dress, and let down her skirt._ HILDA. Good morning, Mr. Solness! SOLNESS. [_Nods._] Slept well? HILDA. Quite deliciously! Like a child in a cradle. Oh—I lay and stretched myself like—like a princess! SOLNESS. [_Smiles a little._] You were thoroughly comfortable then? HILDA. I should think so. SOLNESS. And no doubt you dreamed, too. HILDA. Yes, I did. But _that_ was horrid. SOLNESS. Was it? HILDA. Yes, for I dreamed I was falling over a frightfully high, sheer precipice. Do you never have that kind of dream? SOLNESS. Oh yes—now and then—— HILDA. It’s tremendously thrilling—when you fall and fall—— SOLNESS. It seems to make one’s blood run cold. HILDA. Do you draw your legs up under you while you are falling? SOLNESS. Yes, as high as ever I can. HILDA. So do I. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Takes her parasol._] I must go into town now, Halvard. [_To HILDA._] And I’ll try to get one or two things that you may require. HILDA. [_Making a motion to throw her arms round her neck._] Oh, you dear, sweet Mrs. Solness! You are really much too kind to me! Frightfully kind—— MRS. SOLNESS. [_Deprecatingly, freeing herself._] Oh, not at all. It’s only my duty, so I am very glad to do it. HILDA. [_Offended, pouts._] But really, I think I am quite fit to be seen in the streets—now that I’ve put my dress to rights. Or do you think I am not? MRS. SOLNESS. To tell you the truth, I think people would stare at you a little. HILDA. [_Contemptuously._] Pooh! Is that all? That only amuses me. SOLNESS. [_With suppressed ill-humour._] Yes, but people might take it into their heads that _you_ were mad too, you see. HILDA. Mad? Are there so many mad people here in town, then? SOLNESS. [_Points to his own forehead._] Here you see _one_ at all events. HILDA. You—Mr. Solness! MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, don’t talk like that, my dear Halvard! SOLNESS. Have you not noticed _that_ yet? HILDA. No, I certainly have not. [_Reflects and laughs a little._] And yet—perhaps in one single thing. SOLNESS. Ah, do you hear _that_, Aline? MRS. SOLNESS. What is that one single thing, Miss Wangel? HILDA. No, I won’t say. SOLNESS. Oh yes, do! HILDA. No thank you—I am not so mad as that. MRS. SOLNESS. When you and Miss Wangel are alone, I daresay she will tell you, Halvard. SOLNESS. Ah—you think she will? MRS. SOLNESS. Oh yes, certainly. For you have known her so well in the past. Ever since she was a child—you tell me. [_She goes out by the door on the left._ HILDA. [_After a little while._] Does your wife dislike me very much? SOLNESS. Did you think you noticed anything of the kind? HILDA. Did you not notice it yourself? SOLNESS. [_Evasively._] Aline has become exceedingly shy with strangers of late years. HILDA. Has she really? SOLNESS. But if only you could get to know her thoroughly——! Ah, she is so good—so kind—so excellent a creature—— HILDA. [_Impatiently._] But if she is all that—what made her say that about her duty? SOLNESS. Her duty? HILDA. She said that she would go out and buy something for me, because it was her _duty_. Oh I can’t bear that ugly, horrid word! SOLNESS. Why not? HILDA. It sounds so cold, and sharp, and stinging. Duty—duty—duty. Don’t _you_ think so, too? Doesn’t it seem to sting you? SOLNESS. H’m—haven’t thought much about it. HILDA. Yes, it does. And if she is so good—as you say she is—why should she talk in that way? SOLNESS. But, good Lord, what would you have had her say, then? HILDA. She might have said she would do it because she had taken a tremendous fancy to me. She might have said something like that—something really warm and cordial, you understand. SOLNESS. [_Looks at her._] Is that how you would like to have it? HILDA. Yes, precisely. [_She wanders about the room, stops at the bookcase and looks at the books._] What a lot of books you have. SOLNESS. Yes, I have got together a good many. HILDA. Do you read them all, too? SOLNESS. I used to try to. Do you read much? HILDA. No, never! I have given it up. For it all seems so irrelevant. SOLNESS. That is just my feeling. [HILDA _wanders about a little, stops at the small table, opens the portfolio and turns over the contents._ HILDA. Are all these drawings yours? SOLNESS. No, they are drawn by a young man whom I employ to help me. HILDA. Some one you have taught? SOLNESS. Oh yes, no doubt he has learnt something from _me_, too. HILDA. [_Sits down._] Then I suppose he is very clever. [_Looks at a drawing._] Isn’t he? SOLNESS. Oh, he might be worse. For _my_ purpose—— HILDA. Oh yes—I’m sure he is frightfully clever. SOLNESS. Do you think you can see that in the drawings? HILDA. Pooh—these scrawlings! But if he has been learning from _you_—— SOLNESS. Oh, so far as that goes——there are plenty of people here that have learnt from _me_, and have come to little enough for all that. HILDA. [_Looks at him and shakes her head._] No, I can’t for the life of me understand how you can be so stupid. SOLNESS. Stupid? Do you think I am so very stupid? HILDA. Yes, I do indeed. If you are content to go about here teaching all these people—— SOLNESS. [_With a slight start._] Well, and why not? HILDA. [_Rises, half serious, half laughing._] No indeed, Mr. Solness! What can be the good of that? No one but _you_ should be allowed to build. You should stand quite alone—do it all yourself. Now you know it. SOLNESS. [_Involuntarily._] Hilda——! HILDA. Well! SOLNESS. How in the world did _that_ come into your head? HILDA. Do you think I am so very far wrong then? SOLNESS. No, that’s not what I mean. But now I’ll tell you something. HILDA. Well? SOLNESS. I keep on—incessantly—in silence and alone—brooding on that very thought. HILDA. Yes, that seems to me perfectly natural. SOLNESS. [_Looks somewhat searchingly at her._] Perhaps you have noticed it already? HILDA. No, indeed I haven’t. SOLNESS. But just now—when you said you thought I was—off my balance? In one thing, you said—— HILDA. Oh, I was thinking of something quite different. SOLNESS. What was it? HILDA. I am not going to tell you. SOLNESS. [_Crosses the room._] Well, well—as you please. [_Stops at the bow-window._] Come here, and I will show you something. HILDA. [_Approaching._] What is it? SOLNESS. Do you see—over there in the garden——? HILDA. Yes? SOLNESS. [_Points._] Right above the great quarry——? HILDA. That new house, you mean? SOLNESS. The one that is being built, yes. Almost finished. HILDA. It seems to have a very high tower. SOLNESS. The scaffolding is still up. HILDA. Is that your new house? SOLNESS. Yes. HILDA. The house you are soon going to move into? SOLNESS. Yes. HILDA. [_Looks at him._] Are there nurseries in _that_ house, too? SOLNESS. Three, as there are here. HILDA. And no child. SOLNESS. And there never will be one. HILDA. [_With a half-smile._] Well, isn’t it just as I said——? SOLNESS. That——? HILDA. That you _are_ a little—a little mad after all. SOLNESS. Was that what you were thinking of? HILDA. Yes, of all the empty nurseries I slept in. SOLNESS. [_Lowers his voice._] We _have_ had children—Aline and I. HILDA. [_Looks eagerly at him._] Have you——? SOLNESS. Two little boys. They were of the same age. HILDA. Twins, then. SOLNESS. Yes, twins. It’s eleven or twelve years ago now. HILDA. [_Cautiously._] And so both of them——? You have lost both the twins, then? SOLNESS. [_With quiet emotion._] We kept them only about three weeks. Or scarcely so much. [_Bursts forth._] Oh, Hilda, I can’t tell you what a good thing it is for me that you have come! For now at last I have some one I can talk to! HILDA. Can you not talk to—_her_, too? SOLNESS. Not about this. Not as I want to talk and must talk. [_Gloomily._] And not about so many other things, either. HILDA. [_In a subdued voice._] Was that all you meant when you said you needed me? SOLNESS. That was mainly what I meant—at all events, yesterday. For to-day I am not so sure—[_Breaking off._] Come here and let us sit down, Hilda. Sit there on the sofa—so that you can look into the garden. [_HILDA seats herself in the corner of the sofa. SOLNESS brings a chair closer._] Should you like to hear about it? HILDA. Yes, I shall love to sit and listen to you. SOLNESS. [_Sits down._] Then I will tell you all about it. HILDA. Now I can see both the garden and you, Mr. Solness. So now, tell away! Begin! SOLNESS. [_Points towards the bow-window._] Out there on the rising ground—where you see the new house—— HILDA. Yes? SOLNESS. Aline and I lived there in the first years of our married life. There was an old house up there that had belonged to her mother; and we inherited it, and the whole of the great garden with it. HILDA. Was there a tower on _that_ house, too? SOLNESS. No, nothing of the kind. From the outside it looked like a great, dark, ugly wooden box; but all the same, it was snug and comfortable enough inside. HILDA. Then did you pull down the ramshackle old place? SOLNESS. No, it was burnt down. HILDA. The whole of it? SOLNESS. Yes. HILDA. Was that a great misfortune for you? SOLNESS. That depends on how you look at it. As a builder, the fire was the making of me—— HILDA. Well, but——? SOLNESS. It was just after the birth of the two little boys—— HILDA. The poor little twins, yes. SOLNESS. They came healthy and bonny into the world. And they were growing too—you could see the difference from day to day. HILDA. Little children do grow quickly at first. SOLNESS. It was the prettiest sight in the world to see Aline lying with the two of them in her arms.—But then came the night of the fire—— HILDA. [_Excitedly._] What happened? Do tell me! Was any one burnt? SOLNESS. No, not that. Every one got safe and sound out of the house—— HILDA. Well, and what then——? SOLNESS. The fright had shaken Aline terribly. The alarm—the escape—the break-neck hurry—and then the ice-cold night air—for they had to be carried out just as they lay—both she and the little ones. HILDA. Was it too much for them? SOLNESS. Oh no, _they_ stood it well enough. But Aline fell into a fever, and it affected her milk. She would insist on nursing them herself; because it was her duty, she said. And both our little boys, they—[_Clenching his hands._]—they—oh! HILDA. They did not get over _that_? SOLNESS. No, _that_ they did not get over. _That_ was how we lost them. HILDA. It must have been terribly hard for you. SOLNESS. Hard enough for me; but ten times harder for Aline. [_Clenching his hands in suppressed fury._] Oh, that such things should be allowed to happen here in the world! [_Shortly and firmly._] From the day I lost them, I had no heart for building churches. HILDA. Did you not like building the church-tower in our town? SOLNESS. I didn’t like it. I know how free and happy I felt when that tower was finished. HILDA. _I_ know that, too. SOLNESS. And now I shall never—never build anything of that sort again! Neither churches nor church-towers. HILDA. [_Nods slowly._] Nothing but houses for people to live in. SOLNESS. Homes for human beings, Hilda. HILDA. But homes with high towers and pinnacles upon them. SOLNESS. If possible. [_Adopts a lighter tone._] But, as I said before, that fire was the making of me—as a builder, I mean. HILDA. Why don’t you call yourself an architect, like the others? SOLNESS. I have not been systematically enough taught for that. Most of what I know I have found out for myself. HILDA. But you succeeded all the same. SOLNESS. Yes, thanks to the fire. I laid out almost the whole of the garden in villa lots; and _there_ I was able to build after my own heart. So I came to the front with a rush. HILDA. [_Looks keenly at him._] You must surely be a very happy man, as matters stand with you. SOLNESS. [_Gloomily._] Happy? Do _you_ say that, too—like all the rest of them? HILDA. Yes, I should say you must be. If you could only cease thinking about the two little children—— SOLNESS. [_Slowly._] The two little children—they are not so easy to forget, Hilda. HILDA. [_Somewhat uncertainly._] Do you still feel their loss so much—after all these years? SOLNESS. [_Looks fixedly at her, without replying._] A happy man you said—— HILDA. Well, now, _are_ you not happy—in other respects? SOLNESS. [_Continues to look at her._] When I told you all this about the fire—h’m—— HILDA. Well? SOLNESS. Was there not one special thought that you—that you seized upon? HILDA. [Reflects in vain.] No. What thought should _that_ be? SOLNESS. [_With subdued emphasis._] It was simply and solely by that fire that I was enabled to build homes for human beings. Cosy, comfortable, bright homes, where father and mother and the whole troop of children can live in safety and gladness, feeling what a happy thing it is to be alive in the world—and most of all to belong to each other—in great things and in small. HILDA. [_Ardently._] Well, and is it not a great happiness for you to be able to build such beautiful homes? SOLNESS. The price, Hilda! The terrible price I had to pay for the opportunity! HILDA. But can you _never_ get over that? SOLNESS. No. That I might build homes for others, I had to forego—to forego for all time—the home that might have been my own. I mean a home for a troop of children—and for father and mother, too. HILDA. [_Cautiously._] But _need_ you have done that? For all time, you say? SOLNESS. [_Nods slowly._] _That_ was the price of this happiness that people talk about. [_Breathes heavily._] This happiness—h’m—this happiness was not to be bought any cheaper, Hilda. HILDA. [_As before._] But may it not come right even yet? SOLNESS. Never in this world—never. That is another consequence of the fire—and of Aline’s illness afterwards. HILDA. [_Looks at him with an indefinable expression._] And yet you build all these nurseries? SOLNESS. [_Seriously._] Have you never noticed, Hilda, how the impossible—how it seems to beckon and cry aloud to one? HILDA. [_Reflecting._] The impossible? [_With animation._] Yes, indeed! Is that how _you_ feel too? SOLNESS. Yes, I do. HILDA. Then there must be—a little of the troll in you too. SOLNESS. Why of the troll? HILDA. What would you call it, then? SOLNESS. [_Rises._] Well, well, perhaps you are right. [_Vehemently._] But how can I help turning into a troll, when this is how it always goes with me in everything—in everything! HILDA. How do you mean? SOLNESS. [_Speaking low, with inward emotion._] Mark what I say to you, Hilda. All that I have succeeded in doing, building, creating—all the beauty, security, cheerful comfort—ay, and magnificence too—[_Clenches his hands._] Oh, is it not terrible even to think of——! HILDA. _What_ is so terrible? SOLNESS. That all this I have to make up for, to pay for—not in money, but in human happiness. And not with my own happiness only, but with other people’s too. Yes, yes, do you see _that_, Hilda? That is the price which my position as an artist has cost me—and others. And every single day I have to look on while the price is paid for me anew. Over again, and over again—and over again for ever! HILDA. [_Rises and looks steadily at him._] Now I can see that you are thinking of—of _her_. SOLNESS. Yes, mainly of Aline. For Aline—_she_, too, had her vocation in life, just as much as I had mine. [_His voice quivers._] But her vocation has had to be stunted, and crushed, and shattered—in order that mine might force its way to—to a sort of great victory. For you must know that Aline—she, too, had a talent for building. HILDA. She! For building? SOLNESS. [_Shakes his head._] Not houses and towers, and spires—not such things as I work away at—— HILDA. Well, but _what_ then? SOLNESS. [_Softly, with emotion._] For building up the souls of little children, Hilda. For building up children’s souls in perfect balance, and in noble and beautiful forms. For enabling them to soar up into erect and full-grown human souls. _That_ was Aline’s talent. And there it all lies now—unused and unusable for ever—of no earthly service to any one—just like the ruins left by a fire. HILDA. Yes, but even if this were so——? SOLNESS. It is so! It is so! I know it! HILDA. Well, but in any case it is not _your_ fault. SOLNESS. [_Fixes his eyes on her, and nods slowly._] Ah, _that_ is the great, the terrible question. _That_ is the doubt that is gnawing me—night and day. HILDA. That? SOLNESS. Yes. Suppose the fault _was_ mine—in a certain sense. HILDA. Your fault! The fire! SOLNESS. All of it; the whole thing. And yet, perhaps—I may not have had anything to do with it. HILDA. [_Looks at him with a troubled expression._] Oh, Mr. Solness—if you can talk like that, I am afraid you must be—ill, after all. SOLNESS. H’m—I don’t think I shall ever be of quite sound mind on that point. RAGNAR BROVIK _cautiously opens the little door in the left-hand corner._ HILDA _comes forward._ RAGNAR. [_When he sees HILDA._] Oh. I beg pardon, Mr. Solness—— [_He makes a movement to withdraw._ SOLNESS. No, no, don’t go. Let us get it over. RAGNAR. Oh, yes—if only we could. SOLNESS. I hear your father is no better? RAGNAR. Father is fast growing weaker—and therefore I beg and implore you to write a few kind words for me on one of the plans! Something for father to read before he—— SOLNESS. [_Vehemently._] I won’t hear anything more about those drawings of yours! RAGNAR. Have you looked at them? SOLNESS. Yes—I have. RAGNAR. And they are good for nothing? And _I_ am good for nothing, too? SOLNESS. [_Evasively._] Stay here with me, Ragnar. You shall have everything your own way. And then you can marry Kaia, and live at your ease—and happily too, who knows? Only don’t think of building on your own account. RAGNAR. Well, well, then I must go home and tell father what you say—I promised I would.—Is this what I am to tell father—before he dies? SOLNESS. [_With a groan._] Oh tell him—tell him what you will, for me. Best to say nothing at all to him! [_With a sudden outburst._] I _cannot_ do anything else, Ragnar! RAGNAR. May I have the drawings to take with me? SOLNESS. Yes, take them—take them by all means! They are lying there on the table. RAGNAR. [_Goes to the table._] Thanks. HILDA. [_Puts her hand on the portfolio._] No, no; leave them here. SOLNESS. Why? HILDA. Because I want to look at them, too. SOLNESS. But you _have_ been——[_To RAGNAR._] Well, leave them here, then. RAGNAR. Very well. SOLNESS. And go home at once to your father. RAGNAR. Yes, I suppose I must. SOLNESS. [_As if in desperation._] Ragnar—you _must_ not ask me to do what is beyond my power! Do you hear, Ragnar? You _must_ not! RAGNAR. No, no. I beg your pardon—— [_He bows, and goes out by the corner door._ HILDA _goes over and sits down on a chair near the mirror._ HILDA. [_Looks angrily at SOLNESS._] That was a very ugly thing to do. SOLNESS. Do _you_ think so, too? HILDA. Yes, it was horribly ugly—and hard and bad and cruel as well. SOLNESS. Oh, you don’t understand my position. HILDA. No matter——. I say you ought not to be like that. SOLNESS. You said yourself, only just now, that no one but _I_ ought to be allowed to build. HILDA. _I_ may say such things—but _you_ must not. SOLNESS. I most of all, surely, who have paid so dear for my position. HILDA. Oh yes—with what you call domestic comfort—and that sort of thing. SOLNESS. And with my peace of soul into the bargain. HILDA. [_Rising._] Peace of soul! [_With feeling._] Yes, yes, you are right in that! Poor Mr. Solness—you fancy that—— SOLNESS. [_With a quiet, chuckling laugh._] Just sit down again, Hilda, and I’ll tell you something funny. HILDA. [_Sits down; with intent interest._] Well? SOLNESS. It sounds such a ludicrous little thing; for, you see, the whole story turns upon nothing but a crack in a chimney. HILDA. No more than that? SOLNESS. No, not to begin with. [_He moves a chair nearer to_ HILDA _and sits down._ HILDA. [_Impatiently, taps on her knee._] Well, now for the crack in the chimney! SOLNESS. I had noticed the split in the flue long, long before the fire. Every time I went up into the attic, I looked to see if it was still there. HILDA. And it _was_? SOLNESS. Yes; for no one else knew about it. HILDA. And you said nothing? SOLNESS. Nothing. HILDA. And did not think of repairing the flue either? SOLNESS. Oh yes, I thought about it—but never got any further. Every time I intended to set to work, it seemed just as if a hand held me back. Not to-day, I thought—to-morrow; and nothing ever came of it. HILDA. But why did you keep putting it off like that? SOLNESS. Because I was revolving something in my mind. [_Slowly, and in a low voice._] Through that little black crack in the chimney, I might, perhaps, force my way upwards—as a builder. HILDA. [_Looking straight in front of her._] That must have been thrilling. SOLNESS. Almost irresistible—quite irresistible. For at that time it appeared to me a perfectly simple and straightforward matter. I would have had it happen in the winter-time—a little before midday. I was to be out driving Aline in the sleigh. The servants at home would have made huge fires in the stoves. HILDA. For, of course, it was to be bitterly cold that day? SOLNESS. Rather biting, yes—and they would want Aline to find it thoroughly snug and warm when she came home. HILDA. I suppose she is very chilly by nature? SOLNESS. She _is_. And as we drove home, we were to see the smoke. HILDA. Only the smoke? SOLNESS. The smoke first. But when we came up to the garden gate, the whole of the old timber-box was to be a rolling mass of flames.—That is how I wanted it to be, you see. HILDA. Oh why, _why_ could it not have happened so! SOLNESS. You may well say that, Hilda. HILDA. Well, but now listen, Mr. Solness. Are you perfectly certain that the fire was caused by that little crack in the chimney! SOLNESS. No, on the contrary—I am perfectly certain that the crack in the chimney had nothing whatever to do with the fire. HILDA. What! SOLNESS. It has been clearly ascertained that the fire broke out in a clothes-cupboard—in a totally different part of the house. HILDA. Then what is all this nonsense you are talking about the crack in the chimney! SOLNESS. May I go on talking to you a little, Hilda? HILDA. Yes, if you’ll only talk sensibly—— SOLNESS. I will try to. [_He moves his chair nearer._ HILDA. Out with it, then, Mr. Solness. SOLNESS. [_Confidentially._] Don’t you agree with me, Hilda, that there exist special, chosen people who have been endowed with the power and faculty of _desiring_ a thing, _craving_ for a thing, _willing_ a thing—so persistently and so—so inexorably— that at last it has to _happen_? Don’t you believe that? HILDA. [_With an indefinable expression in her eyes._] If that is so, we shall see, one of these days, whether _I_ am one of the chosen. SOLNESS. It is not one’s self _alone_ that can do such great things. Oh, no—the helpers and the servers—they must do their part too, if it is to be of any good. But they never come of themselves. One has to call upon them very persistently—inwardly, you understand. HILDA. What are these helpers and servers? SOLNESS. Oh, we can talk about that some other time. For the present, let us keep to this business of the fire. HILDA. Don’t you think that fire would have happened all the same—even without your wishing for it? SOLNESS. If the house had been old Knut Brovik’s, it would never have burnt down so conveniently for him. I am sure of that; for he does not know how to call for the helpers—no, nor for the servers, either. [_Rises in unrest._] So you see, Hilda—it is my fault, after all, that the lives of the two little boys had to be sacrificed. And do you think it is not my fault, too, that Aline has never been the woman she should and might have been—and that she most longed to be? HILDA. Yes, but if it is all the work of those helpers and servers——? SOLNESS. Who called for the helpers and servers? It was I! And they came and obeyed my will. [_In increasing excitement._] _That_ is what people call having the luck on your side; but I must tell you what this sort of luck feels like! It feels like a great raw place here on my breast. And the helpers and servers keep on flaying pieces of skin off other people in order to close my sore!—But still the sore is not healed—never, never! Oh, if you knew how it can sometimes gnaw and burn. HILDA. [_Looks attentively at him._] You are ill, Mr. Solness. Very ill, I almost think. SOLNESS. Say _mad_; for that is what you mean. HILDA. No, I don’t think there is much amiss with your intellect. SOLNESS. With _what_ then? Out with it! HILDA. I wonder whether you were not sent into the world with a sickly conscience. SOLNESS. A sickly conscience? What devilry is that? HILDA. I mean that your conscience is feeble—too delicately built, as it were—hasn’t strength to take a grip of things—to lift and bear what is heavy. SOLNESS. [_Growls._] H’m! May I ask, then, what sort of a conscience one ought to have? HILDA. I should like _your_ conscience to be—to be thoroughly robust. SOLNESS. Indeed? Robust, eh? Is your own conscience robust, may I ask? HILDA. Yes, I think it is. I have never noticed that it wasn’t. SOLNESS. It has not been put very severely to the test, I should think. HILDA. [_With a quivering of the lips._] Oh, it was no such simple matter to leave father—I am so awfully fond of him. SOLNESS. Dear me! for a month or two—— HILDA. I think I shall never go home again. SOLNESS. Never? Then why did you leave him? HILDA. [_Half-seriously, half-banteringly._] Have you forgotten again that the ten years are up? SOLNESS. Oh nonsense. Was anything wrong at home? Eh? HILDA. [_Quite seriously._] It was this impulse within me that urged and goaded me to come—and lured and drew me on, as well. SOLNESS. [_Eagerly._] There, we have it! There we have it, Hilda! There is a troll in you too, as in me. For it’s the troll in one, you see—it is _that_ that calls to the powers outside us. And then you _must_ give in—whether you will or no. HILDA. I almost think you are right, Mr. Solness. SOLNESS. [_Walks about the room._] Oh, there are devils innumerable abroad in the world, Hilda, that one never _sees_! HILDA. Devils, too? SOLNESS. [_Stops._] Good devils and bad devils; light-haired devils and black-haired devils. If only you could always tell whether it is the light or dark ones that have got hold of you! [_Paces about._] Ho-ho! Then it would be simple enough! HILDA. [_Follows him with her eyes._] Or if one had a really vigorous, radiantly healthy conscience—so that one _dared_ to do what one _would_. SOLNESS. [_Stops beside the console table._] I believe, now, that most people are just as puny creatures as I am in that respect. HILDA. I shouldn’t wonder. SOLNESS. [_Leaning against the table._] In the sagas——. Have you read any of the old sagas? HILDA. Oh yes! When I used to read books, I—— SOLNESS. In the sagas you read about vikings, who sailed to foreign lands, and plundered and burned and killed men—— HILDA. And carried off women—— SOLNESS. ——and kept them in captivity—— HILDA. ——took them home in their ships—— SOLNESS. ——and behaved to them like—like the very worst of trolls. HILDA. [_Looks straight before her, with a half-veiled look._] I think _that_ must have been thrilling. SOLNESS. [_With a short, deep laugh._] To carry off women eh? HILDA. To be carried off. SOLNESS. [_Looks at her a moment._] Oh, indeed. HILDA. [_As if breaking the thread of the conversation._] But what made you speak of these vikings, Mr. Solness? SOLNESS. Why, _those_ fellows must have had robust consciences, if you like! When they got home again, they could eat and drink, and be as happy as children. And the women, too! They often would not leave them on any account. Can you understand that, Hilda? HILDA. Those women I can understand exceedingly well. SOLNESS. Oho! Perhaps you could do the same yourself? HILDA. Why not? SOLNESS. Live—of your own free will—with a ruffian like that? HILDA. If it was a ruffian I had come to love—— SOLNESS. _Could_ you come to love a man like that? HILDA. Good heavens, you know very well one can’t choose whom one is going to love. SOLNESS. [_Looks meditatively at her._] Oh no, I suppose it is the troll within one that’s responsible for that. HILDA. [_Half-laughing._] And all those blessëd devils, that _you_ know so well—both the light-haired and the dark-haired ones. SOLNESS. [_Quietly and warmly._] Then I hope with all my heart that the devils will choose carefully for you, Hilda. HILDA. For me they _have_ chosen already—once and for all. SOLNESS. [_Looks earnestly at her._] Hilda—you are like a wild bird of the woods. HILDA. Far from it. I don’t hide myself away under the bushes. SOLNESS. No, no. There is rather something of the bird of prey in you. HILDA. That is nearer it—perhaps. [_Very vehemently._] And why not a bird of prey? Why should not _I_ go a-hunting—I, as well as the rest? Carry off the prey I want—if only I can get my claws into it, and do with it as I will. SOLNESS. Hilda—do you know what you are? HILDA. Yes, I suppose I am a strange sort of bird. SOLNESS. No. You are like a dawning day. When I look at you—I seem to be looking towards the sunrise. HILDA. Tell me, Mr. Solness—are you certain that you have never called me to you? Inwardly, you know? SOLNESS. [_Softly and slowly._] I almost think I must have. HILDA. What did you want with me? SOLNESS. You are the younger generation, Hilda. HILDA. [_Smiles._] That younger generation that you are so afraid of? SOLNESS. [_Nods slowly._] And which, in my heart, I yearn towards so deeply. [HILDA _rises, goes to the little table, and fetches_ RAGNAK BROVIK’S _portfolio._ HILDA. [_Holds out the portfolio to him._] We were talking of these drawings—— SOLNESS. [_Shortly, waving them away._] Put those things away! I have seen enough of them. HILDA. Yes, but you have to write your approval on them. SOLNESS. Write my approval on them? Never! HILDA. But the poor old man is lying at death’s door! Can’t you give him and his son this pleasure before they are parted? And perhaps he might get the commission to carry them out, too. SOLNESS. Yes, that is just what he would get. He has made sure of that—has my fine gentleman! HILDA. Then, good heavens—if that is so—can’t you tell the least little bit of a lie for once in a way? SOLNESS. A lie? [_Raging._] Hilda—take those devil’s drawings out of my sight! HILDA. [_Draws the portfolio a little nearer to herself._] Well well, well—don’t bite me.—You talk of trolls—but I think you go on like a troll yourself. [_Looks round._] Where do you keep your pen and ink? SOLNESS. There is nothing of the sort in here. HILDA. [_Goes towards the door._] But in the office where that young lady is—— SOLNESS. Stay where you are, Hilda!—I ought to tell a lie, you say. Oh yes, for the sake of his old father I might well do that—for in my time I have crushed him, trodden him under foot—— HILDA. Him, too? SOLNESS. I needed room for myself. But this Ragnar—he must on no account be allowed to come to the front. HILDA. Poor fellow, there is surely no fear of that. If he has nothing in him—— SOLNESS. [_Comes closer, looks at her, and whispers._] If Ragnar Brovik gets his chance, he will strike _me_ to the earth. Crush me—as I crushed his father. HILDA. Crush you? Has he the ability for that? SOLNESS. Yes, you may depend upon it he has the ability! He is the younger generation that stands ready to knock at my door—to make an end of Halvard Solness. HILDA. [_Looks at him with quiet reproach._] And yet you would bar him out. Fie, Mr. Solness! SOLNESS. The fight I have been fighting has cost heart’s blood enough.—And I am afraid, too, that the helpers and servers will not obey me any longer. HILDA. Then you must go ahead without them. There is nothing else for it. SOLNESS. It is hopeless, Hilda. The luck is bound to turn. A little sooner or a little later. Retribution is inexorable. HILDA. [_In distress, putting her hands over her ears._] Don’t talk like that! Do you want to kill me? To take from me what is more than my life? SOLNESS. And what is that? HILDA. The longing to see you great. To see you, with a wreath in your hand, high, high up upon a church-tower. [_Calm again._] Come, out with your pencil now. You must have a pencil about you? SOLNESS. [_Takes out his pocket-book._] I have one here. HILDA. [_Lays the portfolio on the sofa-table._] Very well. Now let us two sit down here, Mr. Solness. [_SOLNESS seats himself at the table. HILDA stands behind him, leaning over the back of the chair._] And now we will write on the drawings. We must write very, very nicely and cordially—for this horrid Ruar—or whatever his name is. SOLNESS. [_Writes a few words, turns his head and looks at her._] Tell me one thing, Hilda. HILDA. Yes! SOLNESS. If you have been waiting for me all these ten years—— HILDA. What then? SOLNESS. Why have you never written to me? Then I could have answered you. HILDA. [_Hastily._] No, no, no! That was just what I did not want. SOLNESS. Why not? HILDA. I was afraid the whole thing might fall to pieces.—But we were going to write on the drawings, Mr. Solness. SOLNESS. So we were. HILDA. [_Bends forward and looks over his shoulder while he writes._] Mind now, kindly and cordially! Oh how I hate—how I hate this Ruald—— SOLNESS. [_Writing._] Have you never really cared for any one, Hilda? HILDA. [_Harshly._] What do you say? SOLNESS. Have you never cared for any one? HILDA. For any one else, I suppose you mean? SOLNESS. [_Looks up at her._] For any one else, yes. Have you never? In all these ten years? Never? HILDA. Oh yes, now and then. When I was perfectly furious with you for not coming. SOLNESS. Then you did take an interest in other people, too? HILDA. A little bit—for a week or so. Good heavens, Mr. Solness, you surely know how such things come about. SOLNESS. Hilda—what is it you have come for? HILDA. Don’t waste time talking. The poor old man might go and die in the meantime. SOLNESS. Answer me Hilda. What do you want of me? HILDA. I want my kingdom. SOLNESS. H’m—— _He gives a rapid glance towards the door on the left, and then goes on writing on the drawings. At the same moment_ MRS. SOLNESS _enters; she has some packages in her hand._ MRS. SOLNESS. Here are a few things I have got for you, Miss Wangel. The large parcels will be sent later on. HILDA. Oh, how very, very kind of you! MRS. SOLNESS. Only my simple duty. Nothing more than that. SOLNESS. [_Reading over what he has written._] Aline! MRS. SOLNESS. Yes? SOLNESS. Did you notice whether the—the book-keeper was out there? MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, of course, she was there. SOLNESS. [_Puts the drawings in the portfolio._] H’m—— MRS. SOLNESS. She was standing at the desk, as she always is—when _I_ go through the room. SOLNESS. [_Rises._] Then I’ll give this to her, and tell her that—— HILDA. [_Takes the portfolio from him._] Oh, no, let me have the pleasure of doing that! [_Goes to the door, but turns._] What is her name? SOLNESS. Her name is Miss Fosli. HILDA. Pooh, that sounds so cold! Her Christian name, I mean? SOLNESS. Kaia—I believe. HILDA. [_Opens the door and calls out._] Kaia, come in here! Make haste! Mr. Solness wants to speak to you. _KAIA FOSLID appears at the door._ KAIA. [_Looking at him in alarm._] Here I am——? HILDA. [_Handing her the portfolio._] See here, Kaia! You can take this home; Mr. Solness has written on them now. KAIA. Oh, at last! SOLNESS. Give them to the old man as soon as you can. KAIA. I will go straight home with them. SOLNESS. Yes, do. Now Ragnar will have a chance of building for himself. KAIA. Oh, may he come and thank you for all——? SOLNESS. [_Harshly._] I won’t have any thanks! Tell him _that_ from me. KAIA. Yes, I will—— SOLNESS. And tell him at the same time that henceforward I do not require his services—nor yours either. KAIA. [_Softly and quiveringly._] Not mine either? SOLNESS. You will have other things to think of now, and to attend to; and that is a very good thing for you. Well, go home with the drawings now, Miss Fosli. At once! Do you hear? KAIA. [_As before._] Yes, Mr. Solness. [_She goes out._ MRS. SOLNESS. Heavens! what deceitful eyes she has. SOLNESS. She? That poor little creature? MRS. SOLNESS. Oh—I can see what I can see, Halvard.——Are you really dismissing them? SOLNESS. Yes. MRS. SOLNESS. Her as well? SOLNESS. Was not that what you wished? MRS. SOLNESS. But how can you get on without _her_——? Oh well, no doubt you have some one else in reserve, Halvard. HILDA. [_Playfully._] Well, _I_ for one am not the person to stand at that desk. SOLNESS. Never mind, never mind—it will be all right. Aline. Now all you have to do is to think about moving into our new home—as quickly as you can. This evening we will hang up the wreath—[_Turns to HILDA._]—right on the very pinnacle of the tower. What do you say to that, Miss Hilda? HILDA. [_Looks at him with sparkling eyes._] It will be splendid to see you so high up once more. SOLNESS. Me! MRS. SOLNESS. For Heaven’s sake, Miss Wangel, don’t imagine such a thing! My husband!—when he always gets so dizzy! HILDA. _He_ get dizzy! No, I know quite well he does not! MRS. SOLNESS. Oh yes, indeed he does. HILDA. But I have seen him with my own eyes right up at the top of a high church-tower! MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, I hear people talk of that; but it is utterly impossible—— SOLNESS. [_Vehemently._] Impossible—impossible, yes! But there I stood all the same! MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, how can you say so, Halvard? Why, you can’t even bear to go out on the second-storey balcony here. You have always been like that. SOLNESS. You may perhaps see something different this evening. MRS. SOLNESS. [_In alarm._] No, no, no! Please God I shall never see that. I will write at once to the doctor—and I am sure he won’t let you do it. SOLNESS. Why, Aline——! MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, you know you’re ill, Halvard. This _proves_ it! Oh God—Oh God! [_She goes hastily out to the right._ HILDA. [_Looks intently at him._] Is it so, or is it not? SOLNESS. That I turn dizzy? HILDA. That my master builder _dares_ not—_cannot_—climb as high as he builds? SOLNESS. Is that the way you look at it? HILDA. Yes. SOLNESS. I believe there is scarcely a corner in me that is safe from you. HILDA. [_Looks towards the bow-window._] Up there, then. Right up there—— SOLNESS. [_Approaches her._] You might have the topmost room in the tower, Hilda—there you might live like a princess. HILDA. [_Indefinably, between earnest and jest._] Yes, that is what you promised me. SOLNESS. _Did_ I really? HILDA. Fie, Mr. Solness! You said I should be a princess, and that you would give me a kingdom. And then you went and——Well! SOLNESS. [_Cautiously._] Are you quite certain that this is not a dream—a fancy, that has fixed itself in your mind? HILDA. [_Sharply._] Do you mean that you did not do it? SOLNESS. I scarcely know myself. [_More softly._] But now I know so _much_ for certain, that I——- HILDA. That you——? Say it at once! SOLNESS. ——that I _ought_ to have done it. HILDA. [_Exclaims with animation._] Don’t tell me _you_ can ever be dizzy! SOLNESS. This evening, then, we will hang up the wreath—Princess Hilda. HILDA. [_With a bitter curve of the lips._] Over your new home, yes. SOLNESS. Over the new house, which will never be a _home_ for me. [_He goes out through the garden door._ HILDA. [_Looks straight in front of her with a far-away expression, and whispers to herself. The only words audible are_]——frightfully thrilling—— ACT THIRD. _The large, broad verandah of_ SOLNESS’S _dwelling-house. Part of the house, with outer door leading to the verandah, is seen to the left. A railing along the verandah to the right. At the back, from the end of the verandah, a flight of steps leads down to the garden below. Tall old trees in the garden spread their branches over the verandah and towards the house. Far to the right, in among the trees, a glimpse is caught of the lower part of the new villa, with scaffolding round so much as is seen of the tower. In the background the garden is bounded by an old wooden fence. Outside the fence, a street with low, tumble-down cottages._ _Evening sky with sun-lit clouds._ _On the verandah, a garden bench stands along the wall of the house, and in front of the bench a long table. On the other side of the table, an arm-chair and some stools. All the furniture is of wicker-work._ MRS. SOLNESS, _wrapped in a large white crape shawl, sits resting in the arm-chair and gazes over to the right. Shortly after,_ HILDA WANGEL _comes up the flight of steps from the garden. She is dressed as in the last act, and wears her hat. She has in her bodice a little nosegay of small common flowers._ MRS. SOLNESS. [_Turning her head a little._] Have you been round the garden, Miss Wangel? HILDA. Yes, I have been taking a look at it. MRS. SOLNESS. And found some flowers too, I see. HILDA. Yes, indeed! There are such heaps of them in among the bushes. MRS. SOLNESS. Are there really? Still? You see I scarcely ever go there. HILDA. [_Closer._] What! Don’t you take a run down into the garden every day, then? MRS. SOLNESS. [_With a faint smile._] I don’t “run” anywhere, nowadays. HILDA. Well, but do you not go down now and then to look at all the lovely things there? MRS. SOLNESS. It has all become so strange to me. I am almost afraid to see it again. HILDA. Your own garden! MRS. SOLNESS. I don’t feel that it is _mine_ any longer. HILDA. What do you mean——? MRS. SOLNESS. No, no, it is not—not as it was in my mother’s and father’s time. They have taken away so much—so much of the garden, Miss Wangel. Fancy—they have parcelled it out—and built houses for strangers—people that I don’t know. And _they_ can sit and look in upon me from their windows. HILDA. [_With a bright expression._] Mrs. Solness! MRS. SOLNESS. Yes! HILDA. May I stay here with you a little? MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, by all means, if you care to. [HILDA _moves a stool close to the arm-chair and sits down._ HILDA. Ah—here one can sit and sun oneself like a cat. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Lays her hand softly on HILDA’S neck._] It is nice of you to be willing to sit with me. I thought you wanted to go in to my husband. HILDA. What should I want with him? MRS. SOLNESS. To help him, I thought. HILDA. No, thank you. And besides, he is not in. He is over there with his workmen. But he looked so fierce that I did not dare to talk to him. MRS. SOLNESS. He is so kind and gentle in reality. HILDA. _He!_ MRS. SOLNESS. You do not really know him yet, Miss Wangel. HILDA. [_Looks affectionately at her._] Are you pleased at the thought of moving over to the new house? MRS. SOLNESS. I _ought_ to be pleased; for it is what Halvard wants—— HILDA. Oh, not just on that account, surely. MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, yes, Miss Wangel; for it is only my duty to submit myself to him. But very often it is dreadfully difficult to force one’s mind to obedience. HILDA. Yes, that must be difficult indeed. MRS. SOLNESS. I can tell you it is—when one has so many faults as I have—— HILDA. When one has gone through so much trouble as you have—— MRS. SOLNESS. How do you know about that? HILDA. Your husband told me. MRS. SOLNESS. To me he very seldom mentions these things.—Yes, I can tell you I have gone through more than enough trouble in my life, Miss Wangel. HILDA. [_Looks sympathetically at her and nods slowly._] Poor Mrs. Solness. First of all there was the fire—— MRS. SOLNESS. [_With a sigh._] Yes, everything that was _mine_ was burnt. HILDA. And then came what was worse. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Looking inquiringly at her._] Worse? HILDA. The worst of all. MRS. SOLNESS. What do you mean? HILDA. [_Softly._] You lost the two little boys. MRS. SOLNESS. Oh yes, the boys. But, you see, _that_ was a thing apart. That was a dispensation of Providence; and in such things one can only bow in submission—yes, and be thankful, too. HILDA. Then you are so? MRS. SOLNESS. Not always, I am sorry to say. I know well enough that it is my duty—but all the same I _cannot_. HILDA. No, no, I think that is only natural. MRS. SOLNESS. And often and often I have to remind myself that it was a righteous punishment for me—— HILDA. Why? MRS. SOLNESS. Because I had not fortitude enough in misfortune. HILDA. But I don’t see that—— MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, no, no, Miss Wangel—do not talk to me any more about the two little boys. We ought to feel nothing but joy in thinking of _them_; for they are so happy—so happy now. No, it is the _small_ losses in life that cut one to the heart—the loss of all that other people look upon as almost nothing. HILDA. [_Lays her arms on MRS. SOLNESS’S knees, and looks up at her affectionately._] Dear Mrs. Solness—tell me what things you mean! MRS. SOLNESS. As I say, only little things. All the old portraits were burnt on the walls. And all the old silk dresses were burnt, that had belonged to the family for generations and generations. And all mother’s and grandmother’s lace—that was burnt, too. And only think—the jewels, too! [_Sadly._] And then all the dolls. HILDA. The dolls? MRS. SOLNESS. [_Choking with tears._] I had nine lovely dolls. HILDA. And _they_ were burnt too? MRS. SOLNESS. All of them. Oh, it was hard—so hard for me. HILDA. Had you put by all these dolls, then? Ever since you were little? MRS. SOLNESS. I had not put them by. The dolls and I had gone on living together. HILDA. After you were grown up? MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, long after that. HILDA. After you were married, too? MRS. SOLNESS. Oh yes, indeed. So long as he did not see it——. But they were all burnt up, poor things. No one thought of saving _them_. Oh, it is so miserable to think of. You mustn’t laugh at me, Miss Wangel. HILDA. I am not laughing in the least. MRS. SOLNESS. For you see, in a certain sense, there was life in them, too. I carried them under my heart—like little unborn children. DR. HERDAL, _with his hat in his hand, comes out through the door, and observes_ MRS. SOLNESS _and HILDA._ DR. HERDAL. Well, Mrs. Solness, so you are sitting out here catching cold? MRS. SOLNESS. I find it so pleasant and warm here to-day. DR. HERDAL. Yes, yes. But is there anything going on here? I got a note from you. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Rises._] Yes, there is something I must talk to you about. DR. HERDAL. Very well; then perhaps we had better go in. [_To HILDA._] Still in your mountaineering dress, Miss Wangel? HILDA. [_Gaily, rising._] Yes—in full uniform! But to-day I am not going climbing and breaking my neck. We two will stop quietly below and look on, doctor. DR. HERDAL. What are we to look on at? MRS. SOLNESS. [_Softly, in alarm, to HILDA._] Hush, hush—for God’s sake! He is coming! Try to get that idea out of his head. And let us be friends, Miss Wangel. Don’t you think we can? HILDA. [_Throws her arms impetuously round MRS. SOLNESS’S neck._] Oh, if we only could! MRS. SOLNESS. [_Gently disengages herself._] There, there, there! There he comes, doctor. Let me have a word with you. DR. HERDAL. Is it about _him_! MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, to be sure it’s about him. Do come in. _She and the doctor enter the house. Next moment_ SOLNESS _comes up from the garden by the flight of steps. A serious look comes over_ HILDA’S _face._ SOLNESS. [_Glances at the house-door, which is closed cautiously from within._] Have you noticed, Hilda, that as soon as I come, she goes? HILDA. I have noticed that as soon as you come, you _make_ her go. SOLNESS. Perhaps so. But I cannot help it. [_Looks observantly at her._] Are you cold, Hilda? I think you look cold. HILDA. I have just come up out of a tomb. SOLNESS. What do you mean by _that_? HILDA. That I have got chilled through and through, Mr. Solness. SOLNESS. [_Slowly._] I believe I understand—— HILDA. What brings you up here just now? SOLNESS. I caught sight of you from over there. HILDA. But then you must have seen her too? SOLNESS. I knew she would go at once if I came. HILDA. Is it very painful for you that she should avoid you in this way? SOLNESS. In one sense, it’s a relief as well. HILDA. Not to have her before your eyes? SOLNESS. Yes. HILDA. Not to be always seeing how heavily the loss of the little boys weighs upon her? SOLNESS. Yes. Chiefly that. [HILDA _drifts across the verandah with her hands behind her back, stops at the railing and looks out over the garden._ SOLNESS. [_After a short pause._] Did you have a long talk with her? [_HILDA stands motionless and does not answer._ SOLNESS. Had you a long talk, I asked? [_HILDA is silent as before._ SOLNESS. What was she talking about, Hilda? [_HILDA continues silent._ SOLNESS. Poor Aline! I suppose it was about the little boys. HILDA. [_A nervous shudder runs through her; then she nods hurriedly once or twice._ SOLNESS. She will never get over it—never in this world. [_Approaches her._] Now you are standing there again like a statue; just as you stood last night. HILDA. [_Turns and looks at him, with great serious eyes._] I am going away. SOLNESS. [_Sharply._] Going away! HILDA. Yes. SOLNESS. But I won’t allow you to! HILDA. What am I to do _here_ now? SOLNESS. Simply to be here, Hilda! HILDA. [_Measures him with a look._] Oh, thank you. You know it wouldn’t end _there_. SOLNESS. [_Heedlessly._] So much the better! HILDA. [_Vehemently._] I _cannot_ do any harm to one whom I _know_! I can’t take away anything that belongs to her. SOLNESS. Who wants you to do that? HILDA. [_Continuing._] A stranger, yes! for that is quite a different thing! A person I have never set eyes on. But one that I have come into close contact with——! Oh no! Oh no! Ugh! SOLNESS. Yes, but I never proposed you should. HILDA. Oh, Mr. Solness, you know quite well what the end of it would be. And that is why I am going away. SOLNESS. And what is to become of _me_ when you are gone? What shall I have to live for _then_?—After that? HILDA. [_With the indefinable look in her eyes._] It is surely not so hard for _you_. You have your duties to her. Live for those duties. SOLNESS. Too late. These powers—these—these—— HILDA. ——devils—— SOLNESS. Yes, these devils! And the troll within me as well—they have drawn all the life-blood out of her. [_Laughs in desperation._] They did it for my _happiness_! Yes, yes! [_Sadly._] And now she is dead—for my sake. And I am chained alive to a dead woman. [_In wild anguish._] _I—I_ who cannot live without joy in life! [HILDA _moves round the table and seats herself on the bench, with her elbows on the table, and her head supported by her hands._ HILDA. [_Sits and looks at him awhile._] What will you build next? SOLNESS. [_Shakes his head._] I don’t believe I shall build much more. HILDA. Not those cosy, happy homes for mother and father, and for the troop of children? SOLNESS. I wonder whether there will be any use for such homes in the coming time. HILDA. Poor Mr. Solness! And you have gone all these ten years—and staked your whole life—on that alone. SOLNESS. Yes, you may well say so, Hilda. HILDA. [_With an outburst._] Oh, it all seems to me so foolish—so foolish! SOLNESS. All what? HILDA. Not to be able to grasp at your own happiness—at your own life! Merely because some one you know happens to stand in the way! SOLNESS. One whom you have no right to set aside. HILDA. I wonder whether one really _has not_ the right! And yet, and yet——. Oh! if one could only sleep the whole thing away! [_She lays her arms flat down on the table, rests the left side of her head on her hands, and shuts her eyes._ SOLNESS. [_Turns the arm-chair and sits down at the table._] Had you a cosy, happy home—up there with your father, Hilda? HILDA. [_Without stirring, answers as if half asleep._] I had only a cage. SOLNESS. And you are determined not to go back to it? HILDA. [_As before._] The wild bird never wants to go into the cage. SOLNESS. Rather range through the free air—— HILDA. [_Still as before._] The bird of prey loves to range—— SOLNESS. [_Lets his eyes rest on her._] If only one had the viking-spirit in life—— HILDA. [_In her usual voice; opens her eyes but does not move._] And the other thing? Say what _that_ was! SOLNESS. A robust conscience. [HILDA _sits erect on the bench, with animation. Her eyes have once more the sparkling expression of gladness._ HILDA. [_Nods to him._] _I_ know what you are going to build next! SOLNESS. Then you know more than I do, Hilda. HILDA. Yes, builders are such stupid people. SOLNESS. What is it to be then? HILDA. [_Nods again._] The castle. SOLNESS. What castle? HILDA. _My_ castle, of course. SOLNESS. Do you want a castle now? HILDA. Don’t you owe me a kingdom, I should like to know? SOLNESS. You say I do. HILDA. Well—you admit you owe me this kingdom. And you can’t have a kingdom without a royal castle, I should think! SOLNESS. [_More and more animated._] Yes, they usually go together. HILDA. Good! Then build it for me! This moment! SOLNESS. [_Laughing._] Must you have that on the instant, too? HILDA. Yes, to be sure! For the ten years are up now, and I am not going to wait any longer. So—out with the castle, Mr. Solness! SOLNESS. It’s no light matter to owe _you_ anything, Hilda. HILDA. You should have thought of that before. It is too late now. So—[_tapping the table_]—the castle on the table! It is _my_ castle! I will have it _at once_! SOLNESS. [_More seriously, leans over towards her, with his arms on the table._] What sort of castle have you imagined, Hilda? [_Her expression becomes more and more veiled. She seems gazing inwards at herself._ HILDA. [_Slowly._] My castle shall stand on a height—on a very great height—with a clear outlook on all sides, so that I can see far—far around. SOLNESS. And no doubt it is to have a high tower! HILDA. A tremendously high tower. And at the very top of the tower there shall be a balcony. And I will stand out upon it—— SOLNESS. [_Involuntarily clutches at his forehead._] How can you like to stand at such a dizzy height——? HILDA. Yes, I will! Right up there will I stand and look down on the other people—on those that are building churches, and homes for mother and father and the troop of children. And _you_ may come up and look on at it, too. SOLNESS. [_In a low tone._] Is the builder to be allowed to come up beside the princess? HILDA. If the builder _will_. SOLNESS. [_More softly._] Then I think the builder will come. HILDA. [_Nods._] The builder—he will come. SOLNESS. But he will never be able to build any more. Poor builder! HILDA. [_Animated._] Oh yes, he will! We two will set to work together. And then we will build the loveliest—the very loveliest—thing in all the world. SOLNESS. [_Intently._] Hilda—tell me what that is! HILDA. [_Looks smilingly at him, shakes her head a little, pouts, and speaks as if to a child._] Builders—they are such very—very stupid people. SOLNESS. Yes, no doubt they are stupid. But now tell me what it is—the loveliest thing in the world—that we two are to build together? HILDA. [_Is silent a little while, then says with an indefinable expression in her eyes._] Castles in the air. SOLNESS. Castles in the air? HILDA. [_Nods._] Castles in the air, yes! Do you know what sort of thing a castle in the air is? SOLNESS. It is the loveliest thing in the world, you say. HILDA. [_Rises with vehemence, and makes a gesture of repulsion with her hand._] Yes, to be sure it is! Castles in the air—they are so easy to take refuge in. And so easy to build, too—[_looks scornfully at him_]—especially for the builders who have a—a dizzy conscience. SOLNESS. [_Rises._] After this day we two will build together, Hilda. HILDA. [_With a half-dubious smile._] A real castle in the air? SOLNESS. Yes. One with a firm foundation under it. RAGNAR BROVIK _comes out from the house. He is carrying a large, green wreath with flowers and silk ribbons._ HILDA. [_With an outburst of pleasure._] The wreath! Oh, that will be glorious! SOLNESS. [_In surprise._] Have _you_ brought the wreath Ragnar? RAGNAR. I promised the foreman I would. SOLNESS. [_Relieved._] Ah, then I suppose your father is better? RAGNAR. No. SOLNESS. Was he not cheered by what I wrote? RAGNAR. It came too late. SOLNESS. Too late! RAGNAR. When she came with it he was unconscious. He had had a stroke. SOLNESS. Why, then, you must go home to him! You must attend to your father! RAGNAR. He does not need me any more. SOLNESS. But surely you ought to be with him. RAGNAR. _She_ is sitting by his bed. SOLNESS. [_Rather uncertainly._] Kaia? RAGNAR. [_Looking darkly at him._] Yes—Kaia. SOLNESS. Go home, Ragnar—both to him and to her. Give me the wreath. RAGNAR. [_Suppresses a mocking smile._] You don’t mean that you yourself——? SOLNESS. I will take it down to them myself. [_Takes the wreath from him._] And now you go home; we don’t require you to-day. RAGNAR. I know you do not require me any more; but to-day I shall remain. SOLNESS. Well, remain then, since you are bent upon it. HILDA. [_At the railing._] Mr. Solness, I will stand here and look on at you. SOLNESS. At me! HILDA. It will be fearfully thrilling. SOLNESS. [_In a low tone._] We will talk about that presently, Hilda. [_He goes down the flight of steps with the wreath, and away through the garden._ HILDA. [_Looks after him, then turns to RAGNAR._] I think you might at least have thanked him. RAGNAR. Thanked him? Ought I to have thanked _him_? HILDA. Yes, of course you ought! RAGNAR. I think it is rather _you_ I ought to thank. HILDA. How can you say such a thing? RAGNAR. [_Without answering her._] But I advise you to take care, Miss Wangel! For you don’t know _him_ rightly yet. HILDA. [_Ardently._] Oh, no one knows him as I do! RAGNAR. [_Laughs in exasperation._] Thank him, when he has held me down year after year! When he made father disbelieve in me—made me disbelieve in myself! And all merely that he might——! HILDA. [_As if divining something._] That he might——? Tell me at once! RAGNAR. That he might keep her with him. HILDA. [_With a start towards him._] The girl at the desk. RAGNAR. Yes. HILDA. [_Threateningly, clenching her hands._] That is not true! You are telling falsehoods about him! RAGNAR. I would not believe it either until to-day—when she said so herself. HILDA. [_As if beside herself._] _What_ did she say? I _will_ know! At once! at once! RAGNAR. She said that he had taken possession of her mind—her whole mind—centred all her thoughts upon himself alone. She says that she can never leave him—that she will remain here, where _he_ is—— HILDA. [_With flashing eyes._] She will not be allowed to! RAGNAR. [_As if feeling his way._] Who will not allow her? HILDA. [_Rapidly._] _He_ will not either! RAGNAR. Oh no—I understand the whole thing now. After this, she would merely be—in the way. HILDA. You understand nothing—since you can talk like that! No, _I_ will tell you why he kept hold of her. RAGNAR. Well then, why? HILDA. In order to keep hold of _you_. RAGNAR. Has he told you so? HILDA. No, but it is so. It _must_ be so! [_Wildly._] I will—I _will_ have it so! RAGNAR. And at the very moment when _you_ came—he let her go. HILDA. It was _you_—_you_ that he let go! What do you suppose he cares about strange women like her? RAGNAR. [_Reflects._] Is it possible that all this time he has been afraid of me? HILDA. _He_ afraid! I would not be so conceited if I were you. RAGNAR. Oh, he must have seen long ago that I had something in me, too. Besides—cowardly—that is just what he is, you see. HILDA. He! Oh yes, I am likely to believe _that_! RAGNAR. In a certain sense he is cowardly—he, the great master builder. He is not afraid of robbing others of their life’s happiness—as he has done both for my father and for me. But when it comes to climbing up a paltry bit of scaffolding—he will do anything rather than _that_. HILDA. Oh, you should just have seen him high, high up—at the dizzy height where I once saw him. RAGNAR. Did you see that? HILDA. Yes, indeed I did. How free and great he looked as he stood and fastened the wreath to the church vane! RAGNAR. I know that he ventured that, _once_ in his life—one solitary time. It is a legend among us younger men. But no power on earth would induce him to do it again. HILDA. To-day he will do it again! RAGNAR. [_Scornfully._] Yes, I daresay! HILDA. We shall see it! RAGNAR. That neither you nor I will see. HILDA. [_With uncontrollable vehemence._] I _will_ see it! I _will_ and I _must_ see it! RAGNAR. But he will not do it. He simply dare not do it. For you see he cannot get over this infirmity—master builder though he be. _MRS. SOLNESS comes from the house on to the verandah._ MRS. SOLNESS. [_Looks around._] Is he not here? Where has he gone to? RAGNAR. Mr. Solness is down with the men. HILDA. He took the wreath with him. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Terrified._] Took the wreath with him! Oh God! oh God! Brovik—you must go down to him! Get him to come back here! RAGNAR. Shall I say you want to speak to him, Mrs. Solness? MRS. SOLNESS. Oh yes, do!—No, no—don’t say that _I_ want anything! You can say that somebody is here, and that he must come at once. RAGNAR. Good. I will do so, Mrs. Solness. [_He goes down the flight of steps and away through the garden._ MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, Miss Wangel, you can’t think how anxious I feel about him. HILDA. Is there anything in this to be so terribly frightened about? MRS. SOLNESS. Oh yes; surely you can understand. Just think, if he were really to do it! If he should take it into his head to climb up the scaffolding! HILDA. [_Eagerly._] Do you think he will? MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, one can never tell what he might take into his head. I am afraid there is nothing he mightn’t think of doing. HILDA. Aha! Perhaps you too think that he is—well——? MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, I don’t know what to think about him now. The doctor has been telling me all sorts of things; and putting it all together with several things I have heard him say—— DR. HERDAL _looks out, at the door._ DR. HERDAL. Is he not coming soon? MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, I think so. I have sent for him at any rate. DR. HERDAL. [_Advancing._] I am afraid you will have to go in, my dear lady—— MRS. SOLNESS. Oh no! Oh no! I shall stay out here and wait for Halvard. DR. HERDAL. But some ladies have just come to call on you—— MRS. SOLNESS. Good heavens, _that_ too! And just at this moment! DR. HERDAL. They say they positively must see the ceremony. MRS. SOLNESS. Well, well, I suppose I must go to them after all. It is my duty. HILDA. Can’t you ask the ladies to go away? MRS. SOLNESS. No, that would never do. Now that they are here, it is my duty to see them. But do you stay out here in the meantime—and receive him when he comes. DR. HERDAL. And try to occupy his attention as long as possible—— MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, do, dear Miss Wangel. Keep as firm hold of him as ever you can. HILDA. Would it not be best for you to do that? MRS. SOLNESS. Yes; God knows that is my duty. But when one has duties in so many directions—— DR. HERDAL. [_Looks towards the garden._] There he is coming. MRS. SOLNESS. And I have to go in! DR. HERDAL. [_To HILDA._] Don’t say anything about _my_ being here. HILDA. Oh no! I daresay I shall find something else to talk to Mr. Solness about. MRS. SOLNESS. And be sure you keep firm hold of him. I believe you can do it best. [MRS. SOLNESS _and_ DR. HERDAL _go into the house._ HILDA _remains standing on the verandah._ SOLNESS _comes from the garden, up the flight of steps._ SOLNESS. Somebody wants me, I hear. HILDA. Yes; it is I, Mr. Solness. SOLNESS. Oh, is it you, Hilda? I was afraid it might be Aline or the Doctor. HILDA. You are very easily frightened, it seems! SOLNESS. Do you think so? HILDA. Yes; people say that you are afraid to climb about—on the scaffoldings, you know. SOLNESS. Well, that is quite a special thing. HILDA. Then it is true that you are afraid to do it? SOLNESS. Yes, I am. HILDA. Afraid of falling down and killing yourself? SOLNESS. No, not of that. HILDA. Of what, then? SOLNESS. I am afraid of retribution, Hilda. HILDA. Of retribution? [_Shakes her head._] I don’t understand that. SOLNESS. Sit down, and I will tell you something. HILDA. Yes, do! At once! [_She sits on a stool by the railing, and looks expectantly at him._ SOLNESS. [_Throws his hat on the table._] You know that I began by building churches. HILDA. [_Nods._] I know that well. SOLNESS. For, you see, I came as a boy from a pious home in the country; and so it seemed to me that this church-building was the noblest task I could set myself. HILDA. Yes, yes. SOLNESS. And I venture to say that I built those poor little churches with such honest and warm and heartfelt devotion that—that—— HILDA. That——? Well? SOLNESS. Well, that I think that he ought to have been pleased with me. HILDA. _He?_ What _he_? SOLNESS. He who was to have the churches, of course! He to whose honour and glory they were dedicated. HILDA. Oh, indeed! But are you certain, then, that—that he was not—pleased with you? SOLNESS. [_Scornfully._] _He_ pleased with _me_! How can you talk so, Hilda? He who gave the troll in me leave to lord it just as it pleased. He who bade them be at hand to serve me, both day and night—all these—all these—— HILDA. Devils—— SOLNESS. Yes, of both kinds. Oh no, he made me feel clearly enough that he was not pleased with me. [_Mysteriously._] You see, that was really the reason why he made the old house burn down. HILDA. Was that why? SOLNESS. Yes, don’t you understand? He wanted to give me the chance of becoming an accomplished master in my own sphere—so that I might build all the more glorious churches for him. At first I did not understand what he was driving at; but all of a sudden it flashed upon me. HILDA. When was that? SOLNESS. It was when I was building the church-tower up at Lysanger. HILDA. I thought so. SOLNESS. For you see, Hilda—up there, amidst those new surroundings, I used to go about musing and pondering within myself. Then I saw plainly why he had taken my little children from me. It was that I should have nothing else to attach myself to. No such thing as love and happiness, you understand. I was to be only a master builder—nothing else. And all my life long I was to go on building for him. [_Laughs._] But I can tell you nothing came of _that_! HILDA. What did you do, then? SOLNESS. First of all, I searched and tried my own heart—— HILDA. And then? SOLNESS. Then I did the _impossible_—I no less than _he_. HILDA. The impossible? SOLNESS. I had never before been able to climb up to a great, free height. But that day I did it. HILDA. [_Leaping up._] Yes, yes, you did! SOLNESS. And when I stood there, high over everything, and was hanging the wreath over the vane, I said to him: Hear me now, thou Mighty One! From this day forward I will be a free builder—I too, in my sphere—just as thou in thine. I will never more build churches for thee—only homes for human beings. HILDA. [_With great sparkling eyes._] _That_ was the song that I heard through the air! SOLNESS. But afterwards his turn came. HILDA. What do you mean by _that_? SOLNESS. [_Looks despondently at her._] Building homes for human beings—is not worth a rap, Hilda. HILDA. Do you say _that_ now? SOLNESS. Yes, for now I see it. Men have no use for these homes of theirs—to be happy in. And I should not have had any use for such a home, if I had had one. [_With a quiet, bitter laugh._] See, that is the upshot of the whole affair, however far back I look. Nothing really built; nor anything sacrificed for the chance of building. Nothing, nothing! the whole is nothing! HILDA. Then you will never build anything more? SOLNESS. [_With animation._] On the contrary; I am just going to begin! HILDA. What, then? What will you build? Tell me at once! SOLNESS. I believe there is only one possible dwelling-place for human happiness—and that is what I am going to build now. HILDA. [_Looks fixedly at him._] Mr. Solness—you mean our castles in the air. SOLNESS. The castles in the air—yes. HILDA. I am afraid you would turn dizzy before we got half-way up. SOLNESS. Not if I can mount hand in hand with you, Hilda. HILDA. [_With an expression of suppressed resentment._] Only with me? Will there be no others of the party? SOLNESS. Who else should there be? HILDA. Oh—that girl—that Kaia at the desk. Poor thing—don’t you want to take her with you too? SOLNESS. Oho! Was it about her that Aline was talking to you? HILDA. Is it so—or is it not? SOLNESS. [_Vehemently._] I will not answer such a question You must believe in me, wholly and entirely! HILDA. All these ten years I have believed in you so utterly—so utterly. SOLNESS. You must go on believing in me! HILDA. Then let me see you stand free and high up! SOLNESS. [_Sadly._] Oh Hilda—it is not every day that I can do that. HILDA. [_Passionately._] I will have you do it! I will have it! [_Imploringly._] Just once more, Mr. Solness! Do the _impossible_ once again! SOLNESS. [_Stands and looks deep into her eyes._] If I try it, Hilda, I will stand up there and talk to him as I did that time before. HILDA. [_In rising excitement._] What will you say to him? SOLNESS. I will say to him: Hear me, Mighty Lord—thou may’st judge me as seems best to thee. But hereafter I will build nothing but the loveliest thing in the world—— HILDA. [_Carried away._] Yes—yes—yes! SOLNESS. —build it together with a princess, whom I love—— HILDA. Yes, tell him that! Tell him that! SOLNESS. Yes. And then I will say to him: Now I shall go down and throw my arms round her and kiss her—— HILDA. —many times! Say that! SOLNESS. —many, many times, I will say. HILDA. And then——? SOLNESS. Then I will wave my hat—and come down to the earth—and do as I said to him. HILDA. [_With outstretched arms._] Now I see you again as I did when there was song in the air! SOLNESS. [_Looks at her with his head bowed._] How have you become what you are, Hilda? HILDA. How have you made me what I am? SOLNESS. [_Shortly and firmly._] The princess shall have her castle. HILDA. [_Jubilant, clapping her hands._] Oh, Mr. Solness——! My lovely, lovely castle. Our castle in the air! SOLNESS. On a firm foundation. [_In the street a crowd of people has assembled, vaguely seen through the trees. Music of wind-instruments is heard far away behind the new house._ MRS. SOLNESS, _with a fur collar round her neck,_ DOCTOR HERDAL _with her white shawl on his arm, and some ladies, come out on the verandah._ RAGNAR BROVIK _comes at the same time up from the garden._ MRS. SOLNESS. [_To RAGNAR._] Are we to have music, too? RAGNAR. Yes. It’s the band of the Mason’s Union. [_To SOLNESS._] The foreman asked me to tell you that he is ready now to go up with the wreath. SOLNESS. [_Takes his hat._] Good. I will go down to him myself. MRS. SOLNESS. [_Anxiously._] What have you to do down there, Halvard? SOLNESS. [_Curtly._] I must be down below with the men. MRS. SOLNESS. Yes, down below—only down below. SOLNESS. That is where I always stand—on everyday occasions. [_He goes down the flight of steps and away through the garden._ MRS. SOLNESS. [_Calls after him over the railing._] But do beg the man to be careful when he goes up! Promise me that, Halvard! DR. HERDAL. [_To MRS. SOLNESS._] Don’t you see that I was right? He has given up all thought of that folly. MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, what a relief! Twice workmen have fallen, and each time they were killed on the spot. [_Turns to HILDA._] Thank you, Miss Wangel, for having kept such a firm hold upon him. I should never have been able to manage him. DR. HERDAL. [_Playfully._] Yes, yes, Miss Wangel, you know how to keep firm hold on a man, when you give your mind to it. [MRS. SOLNESS _and_ DR. HERDAL _go up to the ladies, who are standing nearer to the steps and looking over the garden._ HILDA _remains standing beside the railing in the foreground._ RAGNAR _goes up to her._ RAGNAR. [_With suppressed laughter, half whispering._] Miss Wangel—do you see all those young fellows down in the street? HILDA. Yes. RAGNAR. They are my fellow students, come to look at the master. HILDA. What do they want to look at _him_ for? RAGNAR. They want to see how he daren’t climb to the top of his own house. HILDA. Oh, _that_ is what those boys want, is it? RAGNAR. [_Spitefully and scornfully._] He has kept us down so long—now we are going to see him keep quietly down below himself. HILDA. You will not see that—not this time. RAGNAR. [_Smiles._] Indeed! Then where shall we see him? HILDA. High—high up by the vane! That is where you will see him! RAGNAR. [_Laughs._] Him! Oh yes, I daresay! HILDA. His _will_ is to reach the top—so at the top you shall see him. RAGNAR. His _will_, yes; that I can easily believe. But he simply _cannot_ do it. His head would swim round, long, long before he got half-way. He would have to crawl down again on his hands and knees. DR. HERDAL. [_Points across._] Look! There goes the foreman up the ladders. MRS. SOLNESS. And of course he has the wreath to carry too. Oh, I do hope he will be careful! RAGNAR. [_Stares incredulously and shouts._] Why, but it’s—— HILDA. [_Breaking out in jubilation._] It is the master builder himself? MRS. SOLNESS. [_Screams with terror._] Yes, it is Halvard! Oh my great God——! Halvard! Halvard! DR. HERDAL. Hush! Don’t shout to him! MRS. SOLNESS. [_Half beside herself._] I must go to him! I must get him to come down again! DR. HERDAL. [_Holds her._] Don’t move, any of you! Not a sound! HILDA. [_Immovable, follows SOLNESS with her eyes._] He climbs and climbs. Higher and higher! Higher and higher! Look! Just look! RAGNAR. [_Breathless._] He _must_ turn now. He can’t possibly help it. HILDA. He climbs and climbs. He will soon be at the top now. MRS. SOLNESS. Oh, I shall die of terror. I cannot bear to see it DR. HERDAL. Then don’t look up at him. HILDA. There he is standing on the topmost planks Right at the top! DR. HERDAL. Nobody must move! Do you hear? HILDA. [_Exulting, with quiet intensity._] At last! At last! Now I see him great and free again! RAGNAR. [_Almost voiceless._] But this is im—— HILDA. So I have seen him all through these ten years. How secure he stands! Frightfully thrilling all the same. Look at him! Now he is hanging the wreath round the vane! RAGNAR. I feel as if I were looking at something utterly impossible. HILDA. Yes, it is the _impossible_ that he is doing now! [_With the indefinable expression in her eyes._] Can you see any one else up there with him? RAGNAR. There is no one else. HILDA. Yes, there is one he is striving with. RAGNAR. You are mistaken. HILDA. Then do you hear no song in the air, either? RAGNAR. It must be the wind in the tree-tops. HILDA. I hear a song—a mighty song! [_Shouts in wild jubilation and glee._] Look, look! Now he is waving his hat! He is waving it to us down here! Oh, wave, wave back to him! For now it is finished! [_Snatches the white shawl from the Doctor, waves it, and shouts up to SOLNESS._] Hurrah for Master Builder Solness! DR. HERDAL. Stop! Stop! For God’s sake——! [_The ladies on the verandah wave their pocket-handkerchiefs, and the shouts of “Hurrah” are taken up in the street below. Then they are suddenly silenced, and the crowd bursts out into a shriek of horror. A human body, with planks and fragments of wood, is vaguely perceived crashing down behind the trees._ MRS. SOLNESS AND THE LADIES. [_At the same time._] He is falling! He is falling! [MRS. SOLNESS _totters, falls backwards, swooning, and is caught, amid cries and confusion, by the ladies. The crowd in the street breaks down the fence and storms into the garden. At the same time_ DR. HERDAL, _too, rushes down thither. A short pause._ HILDA. [_Stares fixedly upwards and says, as if petrified._] _My_ Master Builder. RAGNAR. [_Supports himself, trembling, against the railing._] He must be dashed to pieces—killed on the spot. ONE OF THE LADIES. [_Whilst Mrs. Solness is carried into the house._] Run down for the doctor—— RAGNAR. I can’t stir a foot—— ANOTHER LADY. Then call to some one! RAGNAR. [_Tries to call out._] How is it? Is he alive? A VOICE. [_Below, in the garden._] Mr. Solness is dead! OTHER VOICES. [_Nearer._] The head is all crushed.—He fell right into the quarry. HILDA. [_Turns to Ragnar, and says quietly._] I can’t see him up there now. RAGNAR. This is terrible. So, after all, he could not do it. HILDA. [_As if in quiet spell-bound triumph._] But he mounted right to the top. And I heard harps in the air. [_Waves her shawl in the air, and shrieks with wild intensity._] _My—my_ Master Builder! BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN LONDON ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Transcriber’s Note There are quite a few instances of missing punctuation. The conventional period following the character’s name is sometimes missing and has been added for consistency’s sake without further comment. Those missing from setting and stage direction are also added without comment, since there is no obvious purpose to be served by the omission. However, the restoration of punctuation missing from dialogue is noted below, since the punctuation can be expressive. Several instances of dubious ‘?’ marks have been corrected, based on context. A line at 45.22 ends with no punctuation, which could plausibly be either an exclamation or a question mark. A stage direction at 93.10 ends with an exclamation which perhaps should be a colon. A line at 362.9 also ends with no punction which could be a full stop or exclamation. A line at 172.18 lacks punctuation should be a full stop or exclamation. At line 362.13 punctuation could be also be a full top of exclamation. Volume I of this series included errata for each succeeding volume, and noted the following for Volume X. Each of these was corrected in printing. Other errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. 19.23 a whole flood of sunshine[.] Added. 34.15 Isn’t that good news, [’]Hedda? Removed. 36.27 write him a cordial, friendly letter[.] Added. 43.21 And for Eilert Lövb[e/o]rg, Thea. Replaced. 47.30 stands between Eilert Lövb[e/o]rg and me. Replaced. 52.6 are still wanting[,/.] Replaced. 58.25 how can you be so indifferent about it[./?] Replaced. 127.25 And no one _must_ know it[.] Added.\how could you treat 148.7 her so heartlessly[./?] Replaced. 177.23 to see under that lamp[.] Added. 201.15 No, [on/no]; I suppose you can’t. Transposed. 205.2 [_In nervous exaltation._][.] My God! My God!' Removed. 215.20 had gone to the dogs[.] Added. 217.18 That was most extraordinary[.] Added. 228.2 And don’t you know any one here[?] Added. 240.20 But did I really _say_ all that[?] Added. 243.8 then I _did_ do it, I suppose[.] Added. 259.24 moved into the new house[.] Added. 275.4 What was it[?] Added. 298.27 I should think[.] Added. 320.9 and bu[li/il]t houses for strangers Transposed. 331.13 You have your duties to her[.] Added. 338.28 [I ]promised the foreman I would. Restored? 361.5 he has the wreath to carry too[.] Added. 364.2 Stop! Stop[!] For God’s sake——! Added.