TEKLA. He should call her Pussy—then I might get up a pretty little blush for his sake. Does he want me to?
ADOLPH. [Disarmed] You minx, I'm so angry with you, that I could bite you!
TEKLA. [Playfully] Come and bite me then!—Come!
[Opens her arms to him.]
ADOLPH. [Puts his hands around her neck and kisses her] Yes, I'll bite you to death!
TEKLA. [Teasingly] Look out—somebody might come!
ADOLPH. Well, what do I care! I care for nothing else in the world if I can only have you!
TEKLA. And when, you don't have me any longer?
ADOLPH. Then I shall die!
TEKLA. But you are not afraid of losing me, are you—as I am too old to be wanted by anybody else?
ADOLPH. You have not forgotten my words yet, Tekla! I take it all back now!
TEKLA. Can you explain to me why you are at once so jealous and so cock-sure?
ADOLPH. No, I cannot explain anything at all. But it's possible that the thought of somebody else having possessed you may still be gnawing within me. At times it appears to me as if our love were nothing but a fiction, an attempt at self-defence, a passion kept up as a matter of honor—and I can't think of anything that would give me more pain than to have HIM know that I am unhappy. Oh, I have never seen him—but the mere thought that a person exists who is waiting for my misfortune to arrive, who is daily calling down curses on my head, who will roar with laughter when I perish—the mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you, fascinates me, paralyses me!
TEKLA. Do you think I would let him have that joy? Do you think I would make his prophecy come true?
ADOLPH. No, I cannot think you would.
TEKLA. Why don't you keep calm then?
ADOLPH. No, you upset me constantly by your coquetry. Why do you play that kind of game?
TEKLA. It is no game. I want to be admired—that's all!
ADOLPH. Yes, but only by men!
TEKLA. Of course! For a woman is never admired by other women.
ADOLPH. Tell me, have you heard anything—from him—recently?
TEKLA. Not in the last sis months.
ADOLPH. Do you ever think of him?
TEKLA. No!—Since the child died we have broken off our correspondence.
ADOLPH. And you have never seen him at all?
TEKLA. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on the West Coast. But why is all this coming into your head just now?
ADOLPH. I don't know. But during the last few days, while I was alone, I kept thinking of him—how he might have felt when he was left alone that time.
TEKLA. Are you having an attack of bad conscience?
ADOLPH. I am.
TEKLA. You feel like a thief, do you?
ADOLPH. Almost!
TEKLA. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as you steal children or chickens? And you regard me as his chattel or personal property. I am very much obliged to you!
ADOLPH. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a good deal more than property—for there can be no substitute. TEKLA. Oh, yes! If you only heard that he had married again, all these foolish notions would leave you.—Have you not taken his place with me?
ADOLPH. Well, have I?—And did you ever love him?
TEKLA. Of course, I did!
ADOLPH. And then—
TEKLA. I grew tired of him!
ADOLPH. And if you should tire of me also?
TEKLA. But I won't!
ADOLPH. If somebody else should turn up—one who had all the qualities you are looking for in a man now—suppose only—then you would leave me?
TEKLA. No.
ADOLPH. If he captivated you? So that you couldn't live without him? Then you would leave me, of course?
TEKLA. No, that doesn't follow.
ADOLPH. But you couldn't love two at the same time, could you?
TEKLA. Yes! Why not?
ADOLPH. That's something I cannot understand.
TEKLA. But things exist although you do not understand them. All persons are not made in the same way, you know.
ADOLPH. I begin to see now!
TEKLA. No, really!
ADOLPH. No, really? [A pause follows, during which he seems to struggle with some—memory that will not come back] Do you know, Tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be painful?
TEKLA. And yet it used to be my foremost virtue In your mind, and one that you taught me.
ADOLPH. Yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding something behind that frankness of yours.
TEKLA. That's the new tactics, you know.
ADOLPH. I don't know why, but this place has suddenly become offensive to me. If you feel like it, we might return home—this evening!
TEKLA. What kind of notion is that? I have barely arrived and I don't feel like starting on another trip.
ADOLPH. But I want to.
TEKLA. Well, what's that to me?—You can go!
ADOLPH. But I demand that you take the next boat with me!
TEKLA. Demand?—What are you talking about?
ADOLPH. Do you realise that you are my wife?
TEKLA. Do you realise that you are my husband?
ADOLPH. Well, there's a difference between those two things.
TEKLA. Oh, that's the way you are talking now!—You have never loved me!
ADOLPH. Haven't I?
TEKLA. No, for to love is to give.
ADOLPH. To love like a man is to give; to love like a woman is to take.—And I have given, given, given!
TEKLA. Pooh! What have you given?
ADOLPH. Everything!
TEKLA. That's a lot! And if it be true, then I must have taken it. Are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts now? And if I have taken anything, this proves only my love for you. A woman cannot receive anything except from her lover.
ADOLPH. Her lover, yes! There you spoke the truth! I have been your lover, but never your husband.
TEKLA. Well, isn't that much more agreeable—to escape playing chaperon? But if you are not satisfied with your position, I'll send you packing, for I don't want a husband.
ADOLPH. No, that's what I have noticed. For a while ago, when you began to sneak away from me like a thief with his booty, and when you began to seek company of your own where you could flaunt my plumes and display my gems, then I felt, like reminding you of your debt. And at once I became a troublesome creditor whom you wanted to get rid of. You wanted to repudiate your own notes, and in order not to increase your debt to me, you stopped pillaging my safe and began to try those of other people instead. Without having done anything myself, I became to you merely the husband. And now I am going to be your husband whether you like it or not, as I am not allowed to be your lover any longer.
TEKLA. [Playfully] Now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the sweet little idiot!
ADOLPH. Look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an idiot but oneself!
TEKLA. But that's what everybody thinks.
ADOLPH. And I am beginning to suspect that he—your former husband—was not so much of an idiot after all.
TEKLA. Heavens! Are you beginning to sympathise with—him?
ADOLPH. Yes, not far from it,
TEKLA. Well, well! Perhaps you would like to make his acquaintance and pour out your overflowing heart to him? What a striking picture! But I am also beginning to feel drawn to him, as I am growing more and more tired of acting as wetnurse. For he was at least a man, even though he had the fault of being married to me.
ADOLPH. There, you see! But you had better not talk so loud—we might be overheard.
TEKLA. What would it matter if they took us for married people?
ADOLPH. So now you are getting fond of real male men also, and at the same time you have a taste for chaste young men?
TEKLA. There are no limits to what I can like, as you may see. My heart is open to everybody and everything, to the big and the small, the handsome and the ugly, the new and the old—I love the whole world.
ADOLPH. Do you know what that means?
TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all. I just FEEL.
ADOLPH. It means that old age is near.
TEKLA. There you are again! Take care!
ADOLPH. Take care yourself!
TEKLA. Of what?
ADOLPH. Of the knife!
TEKLA. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with such dangerous things.
ADOLPH. I have quit playing.
TEKLA. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll show you that—you are mistaken. That is to say—you'll never see it, never know it, but all the rest of the world will know It. And you'll suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have another moment's peace. You'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, of being deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. For that's what married men never get.
ADOLPH. You hate me then?
TEKLA. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But that's probably because you are nothing to me but a child.
ADOLPH. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how it was while the storm swept over us? Then you lay there like an infant in arms and just cried. Then you had to sit on my lap, and I had to kiss your eyes to sleep. Then I had to be your nurse; had to see that you fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes to the cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. I had to sit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you were afraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have a single friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility of public opinion. I had to talk courage into you until my mouth was dry and my head ached. I had to make myself believe that I was strong. I had to force myself into believing in the future. And so I brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. Then you admired me. Then I was the man—not that kind of athlete you had just left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instilled new nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your empty brain with a new store of electricity. And then I gave you back your reputation. I brought you new friends, furnished you with a little court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let themselves be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and my house. Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition then where I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes you were St. Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart—or little Karin, whom King Eric loved. And I turned public attention in your direction. I compelled the clamorous herd to see you with my own infatuated vision. I plagued them with your personality, forced you literally down their throats, until that sympathy which makes everything possible became yours at last—and you could stand on your own feet. When you reached that far, then my strength was used up, and I collapsed from the overstrain—in lifting you up, I had pushed myself down. I was taken ill, and my illness seemed an annoyance to you at the moment when all life had just begun to smile at you—and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your heart, there was a secret desire to get rid of your creditor and the witness of your rise. Your love began to change into that of a grown-up sister, and for lack of better I accustomed myself to the new part of little brother. Your tenderness for me remained, and even increased, but it was mingled with a suggestion of pity that had in it a good deal of contempt. And this changed into open scorn as my talent withered and your own sun rose higher. But in some mysterious way the fountainhead of your inspiration seemed to dry up when I could no longer replenish it—or rather when you wanted to show its independence of me. And at last both of us began to lose ground. And then you looked for somebody to put the blame on. A new victim! For you are weak, and you can never carry your own burdens of guilt and debt. And so you picked me for a scapegoat and doomed me to slaughter. But when you cut my thews, you didn't realise that you were also crippling yourself, for by this time our years of common life had made twins of us. You were a shoot sprung from my stem, and you wanted to cut yourself loose before the shoot had put out roots of its own, and that's why you couldn't grow by yourself. And my stem could not spare its main branch—and so stem and branch must die together.
TEKLA. What you mean with all this, of course, is that you have written my books.
ADOLPH. No, that's what you want me to mean in order to make me out a liar. I don't use such crude expressions as you do, and I spoke for something like five minutes to get in all the nuances, all the halftones, all the transitions—but your hand-organ has only a single note in it.
TEKLA. Yes, but the summary of the whole story is that you have written my books.
ADOLPH. No, there is no summary. You cannot reduce a chord into a single note. You cannot translate a varied life into a sum of one figure. I have made no blunt statements like that of having written your books.
TEKLA. But that's what you meant!
ADOLPH. [Beyond himself] I did not mean it.
TEKLA. But the sum of it—
ADOLPH. [Wildly] There can be no sum without an addition. You get an endless decimal fraction for quotient when your division does not work out evenly. I have not added anything.
TEKLA. But I can do the adding myself.
ADOLPH. I believe it, but then I am not doing it.
TEKLA. No, but that's what you wanted to do.
ADOLPH. [Exhausted, closing his eyes] No, no, no—don't speak to me—you'll drive me into convulsions. Keep silent! Leave me alone! You mutilate my brain with your clumsy pincers—you put your claws into my thoughts and tear them to pieces!
(He seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight ahead while his thumbs are bent inward against the palms of his hands.)
TEKLA. [Tenderly] What is it? Are you sick?
(ADOLPH motions her away.)
TEKLA. Adolph!
(ADOLPH shakes his head at her.)
TEKLA. Adolph.
ADOLPH. Yes.
TEKLA. Do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago?
ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I admit!
TEKLA. And do you ask my pardon?
ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, I ask your pardon—if you only won't speak to me!
TEKLA. Kiss my hand then!
ADOLPH. [Kissing her hand] I'll kiss your hand—if you only don't speak to me!
TEKLA. And now you had better go out for a breath of fresh air before dinner.
ADOLPH. Yes, I think I need it. And then we'll pack and leave.
TEKLA. No!
ADOLPH. [On his feet] Why? There must be a reason.
TEKLA. The reason is that I have promised to be at the concert to-night.
ADOLPH. Oh, that's it!
TEKLA. Yes, that's it. I have promised to attend—
ADOLPH. Promised? Probably you said only that you might go, and that wouldn't prevent you from saying now that you won't go.
TEKLA. No, I am not like you: I keep my word.
ADOLPH. Of course, promises should be kept, but we don't have to live up to every little word we happen to drop. Perhaps there is somebody who has made you promise to go.
TEKLA. Yes.
ADOLPH. Then you can ask to be released from your promise because your husband is sick.
TEKLA, No, I don't want to do that, and you are not sick enough to be kept from going with me.
ADOLPH. Why do you always want to drag me along? Do you feel safer then?
TEKLA. I don't know what you mean.
ADOLPH. That's what you always say when you know I mean something that—doesn't please you.
TEKLA. So-o! What is it now that doesn't please me?
ADOLPH. Oh, I beg you, don't begin over again—Good-bye for a while!
(Goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to the right.)
(TEKLA is left alone. A moment later GUSTAV enters and goes straight up to the table as if looking for a newspaper. He pretends not to see TEKLA.)
TEKLA. [Shows agitation, but manages to control herself] Oh, is it you?
GUSTAV. Yes, it's me—I beg your pardon!
TEKLA. Which way did you come?
GUSTAV. By land. But—I am not going to stay, as—
TEKLA. Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't.—Well, it was some time ago—
GUSTAV. Yes, some time.
TEKLA. You have changed a great deal.
GUSTAV. And you are as charming as ever, A little younger, if anything. Excuse me, however—I am not going to spoil your happiness by my presence. And if I had known you were here, I should never—
TEKLA. If you don't think it improper, I should like you to stay.
GUSTAV. On my part there could be no objection, but I fear—well, whatever I say, I am sure to offend you.
TEKLA. Sit down a moment. You don't offend me, for you possess that rare gift—which was always yours—of tact and politeness.
GUSTAV. It's very kind of you. But one could hardly expect—that your husband might regard my qualities in the same generous light as you.
TEKLA. On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in very sympathetic terms.
GUSTAV. Oh!—Well, everything becomes covered up by time, like names cut in a tree—and not even dislike can maintain itself permanently in our minds.
TEKLA. He has never disliked you, for he has never seen you. And as for me, I have always cherished a dream—that of seeing you come together as friends—or at least of seeing you meet for once in my presence—of seeing you shake hands—and then go your different ways again.
GUSTAV. It has also been my secret longing to see her whom I used to love more than my own life—to make sure that she was in good hands. And although I have heard nothing but good of him, and am familiar with all his work, I should nevertheless have liked, before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to take good care of the treasure Providence has placed in his possession. In that way I hoped also to lay the hatred that must have developed instinctively between us; I wished to bring some peace and humility into my soul, so that I might manage to live through the rest of my sorrowful days.
TEKLA. You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understood me. I thank you for it!
GUSTAV. Oh, I am a man of small account, and have always been too insignificant to keep you in the shadow. My monotonous way of living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons—all that could not satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty. I admit it. But you understand—you who have searched the human soul—what it cost me to make such a confession to myself.
TEKLA. It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's own shortcomings—and it's not everybody that's capable of it. [Sighs] But yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliable nature—one that I had to respect—but—
GUSTAV. Not always—not at that time! But suffering purifies, sorrow ennobles, and—I have suffered!
TEKLA. Poor Gustav! Can you forgive me? Tell me, can you?
GUSTAV. Forgive? What? I am the one who must ask you to forgive.
TEKLA. [Changing tone] I believe we are crying, both of us—we who are old enough to know better!
GUSTAV. [Feeling his way] Old? Yes, I am old. But you—you grow younger every day.
(He has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on the left and sits down on it, whereupon TEKLA sits down on the sofa.)
TEKLA. Do you think so?
GUSTAV. And then you know how to dress.
TEKLA. I learned that from you. Don't you remember how you figured out what colors would be most becoming to me?
GUSTAV. No.
TEKLA. Yes, don't you remember—hm!—I can even recall how you used to be angry with me whenever I failed to have at least a touch of crimson about my dress.
GUSTAV. No, not angry! I was never angry with you.
TEKLA. Oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to think—do you remember? For that was something I couldn't do at all.
GUSTAV. Of course, you could. It's something every human being does. And you have become quite keen at it—at least when you write.
TEKLA. [Unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] Well, my dear Gustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and especially in a peaceful way like this.
GUSTAV. Well, I can hardly be called a troublemaker, and you had a pretty peaceful time with me.
TEKLA. Perhaps too much so.
GUSTAV. Oh! But you see, I thought you wanted me that way. It was at least the impression you gave me while we were engaged.
TEKLA. Do you think one really knows what one wants at that time? And then the mammas insist on all kinds of pretensions, of course.
GUSTAV. Well, now you must be having all the excitement you can wish. They say that life among artists is rather swift, and I don't think your husband can be called a sluggard.
TEKLA. You can get too much of a good thing.
GUSTAV. [Trying a new tack] What! I do believe you are still wearing the ear-rings I gave you?
TEKLA. [Embarrassed] Why not? There was never any quarrel between us—and then I thought I might wear them as a token—and a reminder—that we were not enemies. And then, you know, it is impossible to buy this kind of ear-rings any longer. [Takes off one of her ear-rings.]
GUSTAV. Oh, that's all right, but what does your husband say of it?
TEKLA. Why should I mind what he says?
GUSTAV. Don't you mind that?—But you may be doing him an injury. It is likely to make him ridiculous.
TEKLA. [Brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] He was that before!
GUSTAV. [Rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back the ear-ring] May I help you, perhaps?
TEKLA. Oh—thank you!
GUSTAV. [Pinching her ear] That tiny ear!—Think only if your husband could see us now!
TEKLA. Wouldn't he howl, though!
GUSTAV. Is he jealous also?
TEKLA. Is he? I should say so!
[A noise is heard from the room on the right.]
GUSTAV. Who lives in that room?
TEKLA. I don't know.—But tell me how you are getting along and what you are doing?
GUSTAV. Tell me rather how you are getting along?
(TEKLA is visibly confused, and without realising what she is doing, she takes the cover off the wax figure.)
GUSTAV. Hello! What's that?—Well!—It must be you!
TEKLA. I don't believe so.
GUSTAV. But it is very like you.
TEKLA. [Cynically] Do you think so?
GUSTAV. That reminds me of the story—you know it—"How could your majesty see that?"
TEKLA, [Laughing aloud] You are impossible!—Do you know any new stories?
GUSTAV. No, but you ought to have some.
TEKLA. Oh, I never hear anything funny nowadays.
GUSTAV. Is he modest also?
TEKLA. Oh—well—
GUSTAV. Not an everything?
TEKLA. He isn't well just now.
GUSTAV. Well, why should little brother put his nose into other people's hives?
TEKLA. [Laughing] You crazy thing!
GUSTAV. Poor chap!—Do you remember once when we were just married—we lived in this very room. It was furnished differently in those days. There was a chest of drawers against that wall there—and over there stood the big bed.
TEKLA. Now you stop!
GUSTAV. Look at me!
TEKLA. Well, why shouldn't I?
[They look hard at each other.]
GUSTAV. Do you think a person can ever forget anything that has made a very deep impression on him?
TEKLA. No! And our memories have a tremendous power. Particularly the memories of our youth.
GUSTAV. Do you remember when I first met you? Then you were a pretty little girl: a slate on which parents and governesses had made a few scrawls that I had to wipe out. And then I filled it with inscriptions that suited my own mind, until you believed the slate could hold nothing more. That's the reason, you know, why I shouldn't care to be in your husband's place—well, that's his business! But it's also the reason why I take pleasure in meeting you again. Our thoughts fit together exactly. And as I sit here and chat with you, it seems to me like drinking old wine of my own bottling. Yes, it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal in flavour! And now, when I am about to marry again, I have purposely picked out a young girl whom I can educate to suit myself. For the woman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is not, he becomes hers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy.
TEKLA. Are you going to marry again?
GUSTAV. Yes, I want to try my luck once more, but this time I am going to make a better start, so that it won't end again with a spill.
TEKLA. Is she good looking?
GUSTAV. Yes, to me. But perhaps I am too old. It's queer—now when chance has brought me together with you again—I am beginning to doubt whether it will be possible to play the game over again.
TEKLA. How do you mean?
GUSTAV. I can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and the old wounds are beginning to break open. You are a dangerous woman, Tekla!
TEKLA. Am I? And my young husband says that I can make no more conquests.
GUSTAV. That means he has ceased to love you.
TEKLA. Well, I can't quite make out what love means to him.
GUSTAV. You have been playing hide and seek so long that at last you cannot find each other at all. Such things do happen. You have had to play the innocent to yourself, until he has lost his courage. There ARE some drawbacks to a change, I tell you—there are drawbacks to it, indeed.
TEKLA. Do you mean to reproach—
GUSTAV. Not at all! Whatever happens is to a certain extent necessary, for if it didn't happen, something else would—but now it did happen, and so it had to happen.
TEKLA. YOU are a man of discernment. And I have never met anybody with whom I liked so much to exchange ideas. You are so utterly free from all morality and preaching, and you ask so little of people, that it is possible to be oneself in your presence. Do you know, I am jealous of your intended wife!
GUSTAV. And do you realise that I am jealous of your husband?
TEKLA. [Rising] And now we must part! Forever!
GUSTAV. Yes, we must part! But not without a farewell—or what do you say?
TEKLA. [Agitated] No!
GUSTAV. [Following after her] Yes!—Let us have a farewell! Let us drown our memories—you know, there are intoxications so deep that when you wake up all memories are gone. [Putting his arm around her waist] You have been dragged down by a diseased spirit, who is infecting you with his own anaemia. I'll breathe new life into you. I'll make your talent blossom again in your autumn days, like a remontant rose. I'll——
(Two LADIES in travelling dress are seen in the doorway leading to the veranda. They look surprised. Then they point at those within, laugh, and disappear.)
TEKLA. [Freeing herself] Who was that?
GUSTAV. [Indifferently] Some tourists.
TEKLA. Leave me alone! I am afraid of you!
GUSTAV. Why?
TEKLA. You take my soul away from me!
GUSTAV. And give you my own in its place! And you have no soul for that matter—it's nothing but a delusion.
TEKLA. You have a way of saying impolite things so that nobody can be angry with you.
GUSTAV. It's because you feel that I hold the first mortgage on you—Tell me now, when—and—where?
TEKLA. No, it wouldn't be right to him. I think he is still in love with me, and I don't want to do any more harm.
GUSTAV. He does not love you! Do you want proofs?
TEKLA, Where can you get them?
GUSTAV. [Picking up the pieces of the photograph from the floor] Here! See for yourself!
TEKLA. Oh, that's an outrage!
GUSTAV. Do you see? Now then, when? And where?
TEKLA. The false-hearted wretch!
GUSTAV. When?
TEKLA. He leaves to-night, with the eight-o'clock boat.
GUSTAV. And then—
TEKLA. At nine! [A noise is heard from the adjoining room] Who can be living in there that makes such a racket?
GUSTAV. Let's see! [Goes over and looks through the keyhole] There's a table that has been upset, and a smashed water caraffe—that's all! I shouldn't wonder if they had left a dog locked up in there.—At nine o'clock then?
TEKLA. All right! And let him answer for it himself.—What a depth of deceit! And he who has always preached about truthfulness, and tried to teach me to tell the truth!—But wait a little—how was it now? He received me with something like hostility—didn't meet me at the landing—and then—and then he made some remark about young men on board the boat, which I pretended not to hear—but how could he know? Wait—and then he began to philosophise about women—and then the spectre of you seemed to be haunting him—and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the art of the time—exactly in accordance with your old speculations!
GUSTAV. No, really!
TEKLA. No, really?—Oh, now I understand! Now I begin to see what a hideous creature you are! You have been here before and stabbed him to death! It was you who had been sitting there on the sofa; it was you who made him think himself an epileptic—that he had to live in celibacy; that he ought to rise in rebellion against his wife; yes, it was you!—How long have you been here?
GUSTAV. I have been here a week.
TEKLA. It was you, then, I saw on board the boat?
GUSTAV. It was.
TEKLA. And now you were thinking you could trap me?
GUSTAV. It has been done.
TEKLA. Not yet!
GUSTAV. Yes!
TEKLA. Like a wolf you went after my lamb. You came here with a villainous plan to break up my happiness, and you were carrying it out, when my eyes were opened, and I foiled you.
GUSTAV. Not quite that way, if you please. This is how it happened in reality. Of course, it has been my secret hope that disaster might overtake you. But I felt practically certain that no interference on my part was required. And besides, I have been far too busy to have any time left for intriguing. But when I happened to be moving about a bit, and happened to see you with those young men on board the boat, then I guessed the time had come for me to take a look at the situation. I came here, and your lamb threw itself into the arms of the wolf. I won his affection by some sort of reminiscent impression which I shall not be tactless enough to explain to you. At first he aroused my sympathy, because he seemed to be in the same fix as I was once. But then he happened to touch old wounds—that book, you know, and "the idiot"—and I was seized with a wish to pick him to pieces, and to mix up these so thoroughly that they couldn't be put together again—and I succeeded, thanks to the painstaking way in which you had done the work of preparation. Then I had to deal with you. For you were the spring that had kept the works moving, and you had to be taken apart—and what a buzzing followed!—When I came in here, I didn't know exactly what to say. Like a chess-player, I had laid a number of tentative plans, of course, but my play had to depend on your moves. One thing led to the other, chance lent me a hand, and finally I had you where I wanted you.—Now you are caught!
TEKLA. No!
GUSTAV. Yes, you are! What you least wanted has happened. The world at large, represented by two lady tourists—whom I had not sent for, as I am not an intriguer—the world has seen how you became reconciled to your former husband, and how you sneaked back repentantly into his faithful arms. Isn't that enough?
TEKLA. It ought to be enough for your revenge—But tell me, how can you, who are so enlightened and so right-minded—how is it possible that you, who think whatever happens must happen, and that all our actions are determined in advance—
GUSTAV. [Correcting her] To a certain extent determined.
TEKLA. That's the same thing!
GUSTAV. No!
TEKLA. [Disregarding him] How is it possible that you, who hold me guiltless, as I was driven by my nature and the circumstances into acting as I did—how can you think yourself entitled to revenge—?
GUSTAV. For that very reason—for the reason that my nature and the circumstances drove me into seeking revenge. Isn't that giving both sides a square deal? But do you know why you two had to get the worst of it in this struggle?
(TEKLA looks scornful.)
GUSTAV. And why you were doomed to be fooled? Because I am stronger than you, and wiser also. You have been the idiot—and he! And now you may perceive that a man need not be an idiot because he doesn't write novels or paint pictures. It might be well for you to bear this in mind.
TEKLA. Are you then entirely without feelings?
GUSTAV. Entirely! And for that very reason, you know, I am capable of thinking—in which you have had no experience whatever-and of acting—in which you have just had some slight experience.
TEKLA. And all this merely because I have hurt your vanity?
GUSTAV. Don't call that MERELY! You had better not go around hurting other people's vanity. They have no more sensitive spot than that.
TEKLA. Vindictive wretch—shame on you!
GUSTAV. Dissolute wretch—shame on you!
TEKLA. Oh, that's my character, is it?
GUSTAV. Oh, that's my character, is it?—You ought to learn something about human nature in others before you give your own nature free rein. Otherwise you may get hurt, and then there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth.
TEKLA. You can never forgive:—
GUSTAV. Yes, I have forgiven you!
TEKLA. You!
GUSTAV. Of course! Have I raised a hand against you during all these years? No! And now I came here only to have a look at you, and it was enough to burst your bubble. Have I uttered a single reproach? Have I moralised or preached sermons? No! I played a joke or two on your dear consort, and nothing more was needed to finish him.—But there is no reason why I, the complainant, should be defending myself as I am now—Tekla! Have you nothing at all to reproach yourself with?
TEKLA. Nothing at all! Christians say that our actions are governed by Providence; others call it Fate; in either case, are we not free from all liability?
GUSTAV. In a measure, yes; but there is always a narrow margin left unprotected, and there the liability applies in spite of all. And sooner or later the creditors make their appearance. Guiltless, but accountable! Guiltless in regard to one who is no more; accountable to oneself and one's fellow beings.
TEKLA. So you came here to dun me?
GUSTAV. I came to take back what you had stolen, not what you had received as a gift. You had stolen my honour, and I could recover it only by taking yours. This, I think, was my right—or was it not?
TEKLA. Honour? Hm! And now you feel satisfied?
GUSTAV. Now I feel satisfied. [Rings for a waiter.]
TEKLA. And now you are going home to your fiancee?
GUSTAV. I have no fiancee! Nor am I ever going to have one. I am not going home, for I have no home, and don't want one.
(A WAITER comes in.)
GUSTAV. Get me my bill—I am leaving by the eight o'clock boat.
(THE WAITER bows and goes out.)
TEKLA. Without making up?
GUSTAV. Making up? You use such a lot of words that have lost their—meaning. Why should we make up? Perhaps you want all three of us to live together? You, if anybody, ought to make up by making good what you took away, but this you cannot do. You just took, and what you took you consumed, so that there is nothing left to restore.—Will it satisfy you if I say like this: forgive me that you tore my heart to pieces; forgive me that you disgraced me; forgive me that you made me the laughing-stock of my pupils through every week-day of seven long years; forgive me that I set you free from parental restraints, that I released you from the tyranny of ignorance and superstition, that I set you to rule my house, that I gave you position and friends, that I made a woman out of the child you were before? Forgive me as I forgive you!—Now I have torn up your note! Now you can go and settle your account with the other one!
TEKLA. What have you done with him? I am beginning to suspect—something terrible!
GUSTAV. With him? Do you still love him?
TEKLA. Yes!
GUSTAV. And a moment ago it was me! Was that also true?
TEKLA. It was true.
GUSTAV. Do you know what you are then?
TEKLA. You despise me?
GUSTAV. I pity you. It is a trait—I don't call it a fault—just a trait, which is rendered disadvantageous by its results. Poor Tekla! I don't know—but it seems almost as if I were feeling a certain regret, although I am as free from any guilt—as you! But perhaps it will be useful to you to feel what I felt that time.—Do you know where your husband is?
TEKLA. I think I know now—he is in that room in there! And he has heard everything! And seen everything! And the man who sees his own wraith dies!
(ADOLPH appears in the doorway leading to the veranda. His face is white as a sheet, and there is a bleeding scratch on one cheek. His eyes are staring and void of all expression. His lips are covered with froth.)
GUSTAV. [Shrinking back] No, there he is!—Now you can settle with him and see if he proves as generous as I have been.—Good-bye!
(He goes toward the left, but stops before he reaches the door.)
TEKLA. [Goes to meet ADOLPH with open arms] Adolph!
(ADOLPH leans against the door-jamb and sinks gradually to the floor.)
TEKLA. [Throwing herself upon his prostrate body and caressing him] Adolph! My own child! Are you still alive—oh, speak, speak!—Please forgive your nasty Tekla! Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me!—Little brother must say something, I tell him!—No, good God, he doesn't hear! He is dead! O God in heaven! O my God! Help!
GUSTAV. Why, she really must have loved HIM, too!—Poor creature!
(Curtain.)