(SCENE.—At the "View," a shrub-covered hill behind the town. A little in the background, a beacon and a vane. Great stones arranged as seats around the beacon, and in the foreground. Farther back the outer fjord is seen, with islands and outstanding headlands. The open sea is not visible. It is a summer's evening, and twilight. A golden-red shimmer is in the air and over the mountain-tops in the far distance. A quartette is faintly heard singing below in the background. Young townsfolk, ladies and gentlemen, come up in pairs, from the right, and, talking familiarly, pass out beyond the beacon. A little after, BALLESTED enters, as guide to a party of foreign tourists with their ladies. He is laden with shawls and travelling bags.)
Ballested (pointing upwards with a stick). Sehen Sie, meine Herrschaften, dort, out there, liegt eine andere mountain, That wollen wir also besteigen, and so herunter. (He goes on with the conversation in French, and leads the party off to the left. HILDE comes quickly along the uphill path, stands still, and looks back. Soon after BOLETTE comes up the same way.)
Bolette. But, dear, why should we run away from Lyngstrand?
Hilde. Because I can't bear going uphill so slowly. Look—look at him crawling up!
Bolette. Ah! But you know how delicate he is.
Hilde. Do you think it's very—dangerous?
Bolette. I certainly do.
Hilde. He went to consult father this afternoon. I should like to know what father thinks about him.
Bolette. Father told me it was a thickening of the lungs, or something of the sort. He won't live to be old, father says.
Hilde. No! Did he say it? Fancy—that's exactly what I thought.
Bolette. For heaven's sake don't show it!
Hilde. How can you imagine such a thing? (In an undertone.) Look, here comes Hans crawling up. Don't you think you can see by the look of him that he's called Hans?
Bolette (whispering). Now do behave! You'd better!
(LYNGSTRAND comes in from the right, a parasol in his hand.)
Lyngstrand. I must beg the young ladies to excuse me for not getting along as quickly as they did.
Hilde. Have you got a parasol too, now?
Lyngstrand. It's your mother's. She said I was to use it as a stick. I hadn't mine with me.
Bolette. Are they down there still—father and the others?
Lyngstrand. Yes; your father looked in at the restaurant for a moment, and the others are sitting out there listening to the music. But they were coming up here presently, your mother said.
Hilde (stands looking at him). I suppose you're thoroughly tired out now?
Lyngstrand. Yes; I almost think I'm a little tired now. I really believe I shall have to sit down a moment. (He sits on one of the stones in the foreground.)
Hilde (standing in front of him). Do you know there's to be dancing down there on the parade?
Lyngstrand. Yes; I heard there was some talk about it.
Hilde. I suppose you think dancing's great fun?
Bolette (who begins gathering small flowers among the heather). Oh, Hilde! Now do let Mr. Lyngstrand get his breath.
Lyngstrand (to HILDE). Yes, Miss Hilde; I should very much like to dance—if only I could.
Hilde. Oh, I see! Haven't you ever learnt?
Lyngstrand. No, I've not. But it wasn't that I meant. I meant I couldn't because of my chest.
Hilde. Because of that weakness you said you suffered from?
Lyngstrand. Yes; because of that.
Hilde. Aren't you very sorry you've that—weakness?
Lyngstrand. Oh, no! I can't say I am (smiling), for I think it's because of it that everyone is so good, and friendly, and kind to me.
Hilde. Yes. And then, besides, it's not dangerous.
Lyngstrand. No; it's not at all dangerous. So I gathered from what your father said to me.
Hilde. And then it will pass away as soon as ever you begin travelling.
Lyngstrand. Of course it will pass away.
Bolette (with flowers). Look here, Mr. Lyngstrand, you are to put this in your button-hole.
Lyngstrand. Oh! A thousand thanks, Miss Wangel. It's really too good of you.
Hilde (looking down the path). There they are, coming along the road.
Bolette (also looking down). If only they know where to turn off. No; now they're going wrong.
Lyngstrand (rising). I'll run down to the turning and call out to them.
Hilde. You'll have to call out pretty loud.
Bolette. No; it's not worth while. You'll only tire yourself again.
Lyngstrand. Oh, it's so easy going downhill. (Goes off to the right.)
Hilde. Down-hill—yes. (Looking after him.) Why, he's actually jumping! And he never remembers he'll have to come up again.
Bolette. Poor fellow!
Hilde. If Lyngstrand were to propose, would you accept him?
Bolette. Are you quite mad?
Hilde. Of course, I mean if he weren't troubled with that "weakness." And if he weren't to die so soon, would you have him then?
Bolette. I think you'd better have him yourself!
Hilde. No, that I wouldn't! Why, he hasn't a farthing. He hasn't enough even to keep himself.
Bolette. Then why are you always going about with him?
Hilde. Oh, I only do that because of the weakness.
Bolette. I've never noticed that you in the least pity him for it!
Hilde. No, I don't. But I think it so interesting.
Bolette. What is?
Hilde. To look at him and make him tell you it isn't dangerous; and that he's going abroad, and is to be an artist. He really believes it all, and is so thoroughly happy about it. And yet nothing will ever come of it; nothing whatever. For he won't live long enough. I feel that's so fascinating to think of.
Bolette. Fascinating!
Hilde. Yes, I think it's most fascinating. I take that liberty.
Bolette. Hilde, you really are a dreadful child!
Hilde. That's just what I want to be—out of spite. (Looking down.) At last! I shouldn't think Arnholm liked coming up-hill. (Turns round.) By the way, do you know what I noticed about Arnholm at dinner?
Bolette. Well?
Hilde. Just think—his hair's beginning to come off—right on the top of his head.
Bolette. Nonsense! I'm sure that's not true.
Hilde. It is! And then he has wrinkles round both his eyes. Good gracious, Bolette, how could you be so much in love with him when he used to read with you?
Bolette (smiling). Yes. Can you believe it? I remember I once shed bitter tears because he thought Bolette was an ugly name.
Hilde. Only to think! (Looking down.) No! I say, do just look down here! There's the "Mermaid" walking along and chatting with him. Not with father. I wonder if those two aren't making eyes at one another.
Bolette. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! How can you stand there and say such a thing of her? Now, when everything was beginning to be so pleasant between us.
Hilde. Of course—just try and persuade yourself of that, my child! Oh, no! It will never be pleasant between us and her. For she doesn't belong to us at all. And we don't belong to her either. Goodness knows what father dragged her into the house for! I shouldn't wonder if some fine day she went mad under our very eyes.
Bolette. Mad! How can you think such a thing?
Hilde. Oh! it wouldn't be so extraordinary. Her mother went mad, too. She died mad—I know that.
Bolette. Yes, heaven only knows what you don't poke your nose into. But now don't go chattering about this. Do be good—for father's sake. Do you hear, Hilde?
(WANGEL, ELLIDA, ARNHOLM and LYNGSTRAND come up from the right.)
Ellida (pointing to the background). Out there it lies.
Arnholm. Quite right. It must be in that direction.
Ellida. Out there is the sea.
Bolette (to ARNHOLM). Don't you think it is delightful up here?
Arnholm. It's magnificent, I think. Glorious view!
Wangel. I suppose you never used to come up here?
Arnholm. No, never. In my time I think it was hardly accessible; there wasn't any path even.
Wangel. And no grounds. All this has been done during the last few years.
Bolette. And there, at the "Pilot's Mount," it's even grander than here.
Wangel. Shall we go there, Ellida?
Ellida (sitting down on one of the stones). Thanks, not I; but you others can. I'll sit here meanwhile.
Wangel. Then I'll stay with you. The girls can show Arnholm about.
Bolette. Would you like to go with us, Mr. Arnholm?
Arnholm. I should like to, very much. Does a path lead up there too?
Bolette. Oh yes. There's a nice broad path.
Hilde. The path is so broad that two people can walk along it comfortably, arm in arm.
Arnholm (jestingly). Is that really so, little Missie? (To BOLETTE.) Shall we two see if she is right?
Bolette (suppressing a smile). Very well, let's go. (They go out to the left, arm in arm.)
Hilde (to LYNGSTRAND). Shall we go too?
Lyngstrand. Arm in arm?
Hilde. Oh, why not? For aught I care!
Lyngstrand (taking her arm, laughing contentedly). This is a jolly lark.
Hilde. Lark?
Lyngstrand. Yes; because it looks exactly as if we were engaged.
Hilde. I'm sure you've never walked out arm in arm with a lady before, Mr. Lyngstrand. (They go off.)
Wangel (who is standing beside the beacon). Dear Ellida, now we have a moment to ourselves.
Ellida. Yes; come and sit down here, by me.
Wangel (sitting down). It is so free and quiet. Now we can have a little talk together.
Ellida. What about?
Wangel. About yourself, and then about us both. Ellida, I see very well that it can't go on like this.
Ellida. What do you propose instead?
Wangel. Perfect confidence, dear. A true life together—as before.
Ellida. Oh, if that could be! But it is so absolutely impossible!
Wangel. I think I understand you, from certain things you have let fall now and again.
Ellida (passionately). Oh, you do not! Don't say you understand!
Wangel. Yes. Yours is an honest nature, Ellida—yours is a faithful mind.
Ellida. It is.
Wangel. Any position in which you could feel safe and happy must be a completely true and real one.
Ellida (looking eagerly at him). Well, and then?
Wangel. You are not suited to be a man's second wife.
Ellida. What makes you think that?
Wangel. It has often flashed across me like a foreboding. Today it was clear to me. The children's memorial feast—you saw in me a kind of accomplice. Well, yes; a man's memories, after all, cannot be wiped out—not so mine, anyhow. It isn't in me.
Ellida. I know that. Oh! I know that so well.
Wangel. But you are mistaken all the same. To you it is almost as if the children's mother were still living—as if she were still here invisible amongst us. You think my heart is equally divided between you and her. It is this thought that shocks you. You see something immoral in our relation, and that is why you no longer can or will live with me as my wife.
Ellida (rising). Have you seen all that, Wangel—seen into all this?
Wangel. Yes; today I have at last seen to the very heart of it—to its utmost depths.
Ellida. To its very heart, you say? Oh, do not think that!
Wangel (rising). I see very well that there is more than this, dear Ellida.
Ellida (anxiously). You know there is more?
Wangel. Yes. You cannot bear your surroundings here. The mountains crush you, and weigh upon your heart. Nothing is open enough for you here. The heavens above you are not spacious enough. The air is not strong and bracing enough.
Ellida. You are right. Night and day, winter and summer, it weighs upon me—this irresistible home-sickness for the sea.
Wangel. I know it well, dear Ellida (laying his hands upon her head). And that is why the poor sick child shall go home to her own again.
Ellida. What do you mean?
Wangel. Something quite simple. We are going away.
Ellida. Going away?
Wangel. Yes. Somewhere by the open sea—a place where you can find a true home, after your own heart.
Ellida. Oh, dear, do not think of that! That is quite impossible. You can live happily nowhere on earth but here!
Wangel. That must be as it may. And, besides, do you think I can live happily here—without you?
Ellida. But I am here. And I will stay here. You have me.
Wangel. Have I, Ellida?
Ellida. Oh! don't speak of all this. Why, here you have all that you love and strive for. All your life's work lies here.
Wangel. That must be as it may, I tell you. We are going away from here—are going somewhere—out there. That is quite settled now, dear Ellida.
Ellida. What do you think we should gain by that?
Wangel. You would regain your health and peace of mind.
Ellida. Hardly. And then you, yourself! Think of yourself, too! What of you?
Wangel. I would win you back again, my dearest.
Ellida. But you cannot do that! No, no, you can't do that, Wangel! That is the terrible part of it—heart-breaking to think of.
Wangel. That remains to be proved. If you are harbouring such thoughts, truly there is no other salvation for you than to go hence. And the sooner the better. Now this is irrevocably settled, do you hear?
Ellida. No! Then in heaven's name I had better tell you everything straight out. Everything just as it is.
Wangel. Yes, yes! Do.
Ellida. For you shall not ruin your happiness for my sake, especially as it can't help us in any way.
Wangel. I have your word now that you will tell me everything just as it is.
Ellida. I'll tell you everything as well as I can, and as far as I understand it. Come here and sit by me. (They sit down on the stones.)
Wangel. Well, Ellida, so—
Ellida. That day when you came out there and asked me if I would be yours, you spoke so frankly and honestly to me about your first marriage. It had been so happy, you said.
Wangel. And so it was.
Ellida. Yes, yes! I am sure of that, dear! It is not for that I am referring to it now. I only want to remind you that I, on my side, was frank with you. I told you quite openly that once in my life I had cared for another. That there had been a—a kind of engagement between us.
Wangel. A kind of—
Ellida. Yes, something of the sort. Well, it only lasted such a very short time. He went away; and after that I put an end to it. I told you all that.
Wangel. Why rake up all this now? It really didn't concern me; nor have I once asked you who he was!
Ellida. No, you have not. You are always so thoughtful for me.
Wangel (smiling). Oh, in this case I could guess the name well enough for myself.
Ellida. The name?
Wangel. Out in Skjoldviken and thereabouts there weren't many to choose from; or, rather, there was only a single one.
Ellida. You believe it was Arnholm!
Wangel. Well, wasn't it?
Ellida. No!
Wangel. Not he? Then I don't in the least understand.
Ellida. Can you remember that late in the autumn a large American ship once put into Skjoldviken for repairs?
Wangel. Yes, I remember it very well. It was on board that ship that the captain was found one morning in his cabin—murdered. I myself went out to make the post-mortem.
Ellida. Yes, it was you.
Wangel. It was the second mate who had murdered him.
Ellida. No one can say that. For it was never proved.
Wangel. There was enough against him anyhow, or why should he have drowned himself as he did?
Ellida. He did not drown himself. He sailed in a ship to the north.
Wangel (startled). How do you know?
Ellida (with an effort). Well, Wangel—it was this second mate to whom I was—betrothed.
Wangel (springing up). What! Is it possible!
Ellida. Yes, it is so. It was to him!
Wangel. But how on earth, Ellida! How did you come to betroth yourself to such a man? To an absolute stranger! What is his name?
Ellida. At that time he called himself Friman. Later, in his letters he signed himself Alfred Johnston.
Wangel. And where did he come from?
Ellida. From Finmark, he said. For the rest, he was born in Finland, had come to Norway there as a child with his father, I think.
Wangel. A Finlander, then?
Ellida. Yes, so he called himself.
Wangel. What else do you know about him?
Ellida. Only that he went to sea very young. And that he had been on long voyages.
Wangel. Nothing more?
Ellida. No. We never spoke of such things.
Wangel. Of what did you speak, then?
Ellida. We spoke mostly about the sea.
Wangel. Ah! About the sea—
Ellida. About storms and calm. Of dark nights at sea. And of the sea in the glittering sunshiny days we spoke also. But we spoke most of the whales, and the dolphins, and the seals who lie out there on the rocks in the midday sun. And then we spoke of the gulls, and the eagles, and all the other sea birds. I think—isn't it wonderful?—when we talked of such things it seemed to me as if both the sea beasts and sea birds were one with him.
Wangel. And with you?
Ellida. Yes; I almost thought I belonged to them all, too.
Wangel. Well, well! And so it was that you betrothed yourself to him?
Ellida. Yes. He said I must.
Wangel. You must? Had you no will of your own, then?
Ellida. Not when he was near. Ah! afterwards I thought it all so inexplicable.
Wangel. Were you often together?
Ellida. No; not very often. One day he came out to our place, and looked over the lighthouse. After that I got to know him, and we met now and again. But then that happened about the captain, and so he had to go away.
Wangel. Yes, yes. Tell me more about that.
Ellida. It was just daybreak when I had a note from him. He said in it I was to go out to him at the Bratthammer. You know the headland there between the lighthouse and Skjoldviken?
Wangel. I know, I know!
Ellida. I was to go out there at once, he wrote, because he wanted to speak to me.
Wangel. And you went?
Ellida. Yes. I could not do otherwise. Well, then he told me he had stabbed the captain in the night.
Wangel. He said that himself! Actually said so!
Ellida. Yes. But he had only acted rightly and justly, he said.
Wangel. Rightly and justly! Why did he stab him then?
Ellida. He wouldn't speak out about that. He said it was not fit for me to hear.
Wangel. And you believed his naked, bare word?
Ellida. Yes. It never occurred to me to do otherwise. Well, anyhow, he had to go away. But now, when he was to bid me farewell—. No; you never could imagine what he thought of—
Wangel. Well? Tell me.
Ellida. He took from his pocket a key-ring—and drew a ring that he always wore from his finger, and he took a small ring I had. These two he put on the key-ring. And then he said we should wed ourselves to the sea.
Wangel. Wed?
Ellida. Yes, so he said. And with that he threw the key-ring, and our rings, with all his might, as far as he could into the deep.
Wangel. And you, Ellida, you did all this?
Ellida. Yes—only think—it then seemed to me as if it must be so. But, thank God I—he went away.
Wangel. And when he was gone?
Ellida. Oh! You can surely understand that I soon came to my senses again—that I saw how absolutely mad and meaningless it had all been.
Wangel. But you spoke just now of letters. So you have heard from him since?
Ellida. Yes, I have heard from him. First I had a few short lines from Archangel. He only wrote he was going to America. And then he told me where to send an answer.
Wangel. And did you?
Ellida. At once. I wrote him, of course, that all must be at an end between us; and that he must no longer think of me, just as I should no longer think of him.
Wangel. But did he write again?
Ellida. Yes, he wrote again.
Wangel. And what was his answer to your communication?
Ellida. He took no notice of it. It was exactly as if I had never broken with him. He wrote quite composedly and calmly that I must wait for him. When he could have me he would let me know, and then I was to go to him at once.
Wangel. So he would not release you?
Ellida. No. Then I wrote again, almost word for word as I had before; or perhaps more firmly.
Wangel. And he gave in?
Ellida. Oh, no! Don't think that! He wrote quietly, as before—not a word of my having broken with him. Then I knew it was useless, and so I never wrote to him again.
Wangel. And you never heard from him?
Ellida. Oh, yes! I have had three letters since then. Once he wrote to me from California, and a second time from China. The last letter I had from him was from Australia. He wrote he was going to the gold-mines; but since then he has made no sign.
Wangel. This man has had a strange power over you, Ellida.
Ellida. Yes, yes! The terrible man!
Wangel. But you mustn't think of that any more. Never again—never! Promise me that, my dear, beloved Ellida. Now we must try another treatment for you. Fresher air than here within the fjords. The salt, fresh air of the sea! Dear, what say you to that?
Ellida. Oh! don't speak of it! Don't think of it! There is no help in this for me. I feel that so well. I can't shake it off—not even there.
Wangel. What, dear?—What do you really mean?
Ellida. I mean the horror of it, this incomprehensible power over the mind.
Wangel. But you have shaken it off—long since—when you broke with him. Why, all this is long past now.
Ellida (springing up). No; that it is not—it is not!
Wangel. Not past?
Ellida. No, Wangel, it is not past; and I fear it never will be—never, in all our life.
Wangel (in a pained voice). Do you mean to say that in your innermost heart you have never been able to forget this strange man?
Ellida. I had forgotten him; but then it was as if he had suddenly come back again.
Wangel. How long ago is that?
Ellida. It's about three years ago, now, or a little longer. It was just when I expected the child.
Wangel. Ah! at that time? Yes, Ellida—now I begin to understand many things.
Ellida. You are mistaken, dear. What has come to me? Oh! I believe nothing on earth will ever make it clear.
Wangel (looking sadly at her). Only to think that all these three years you have cared for another man. Cared for another. Not for me—but for another!
Ellida. Oh! you are so utterly mistaken! I care for no one but you.
Wangel (in a subdued voice). Why, then, in all this time have you not lived with me as my wife?
Ellida. Because of the horror that comes from the strange man.
Wangel. The horror?
Ellida. Yes, the horror. A horror so terrible—such as only the sea could hold. For now you shall hear, Wangel.
(The young townsfolk come back, bow, and pass out to the right. Together with them come ARNHOLM, BOLETTE, HILDE, and LYNGSTRAND.)
Bolette (as she passes by). Well, are you still walking about up here?
Ellida. Yes, it is so cool and pleasant up here on the heights.
Arnholm. We, for our part, are going down for a dance.
Wangel. All right. We'll soon come down—we also.
Hilde. Goodbye, for the present!
Ellida. Mr. Lyngstrand, will you wait one moment? (LYNGSTRAND Stops. ARNHOLM, BOLETTE and HILDE go out. To LYNGSTRAND.) Are you going to dance too?
Lyngstrand. No, Mrs. Wangel. I don't think I dare.
Ellida. No, you should be careful, you know—your chest. You're not quite well yet, you see.
Lyngstrand. Not quite.
Ellida (with some hesitation). How long may it be now since you went on that voyage?
Lyngstrand. That time when I contracted this weakness?
Ellida. Yes, that voyage you told me about this morning?
Lyngstrand. Oh! it's about—wait a moment—yes, it's a good three years now.
Ellida. Three years, then.
Lyngstrand. Perhaps a little more. We left America in February, and we were wrecked in March. It was the equinoctial gales we came in for.
Ellida (looking at WANGEL). So it was at that time—
Wangel. But, dear Ellida—
Ellida. Well, don't let me detain you, Mr. Lyngstrand. Now go down, but don't dance.
Lyngstrand. No, I'll only look on. (He goes out.)
Ellida. Johnston was on board too, I am quite certain of it.
Wangel. What makes you think so?
Ellida (without answering). He learnt on board that I had married another while he was away. And so that very hour this came over me.
Wangel. The horror?
Ellida. Yes, all of a sudden I see him alive right in front of me; or, rather a little in profile. He never looks at me, only he is there.
Wangel. How do you think he looks?
Ellida. Exactly as when I saw him last.
Wangel. Ten years ago?
Ellida. Yes; out there at Bratthammeren. Most distinctly of all I see his breastpin, with a large bluish-white pearl in it. The pearl is like a dead fish's eye, and it seems to glare at me.
Wangel. Good God! You are more ill than I thought. More ill than you yourself know, Ellida.
Ellida. Yes, yes! Help me if you can, for I feel how it is drawing closer and more close.
Wangel. And you have gone about in this state three whole years, bearing for yourself this secret suffering, without confiding in me.
Ellida. But I could not; not till it became necessary for your own sake. If I had confided in you I should also have had to confide to you the unutterable.
Wangel. Unutterable?
Ellida. No, no, no! Do not ask. Only one thing, nothing more. Wangel, when shall we understand that mystery of the boy's eyes?
Wangel. My dear love, Ellida, I assure you it was only your own fancy. The child had exactly the same eyes as other normal children have.
Ellida. No, he had not. And you could not see it! The child's eyes changed colour with the sea. When the fjord lay bathed in sunshine, so were his eyes. And so in storm. Oh, I saw it, if you did not!
Wangel (humouring her). Maybe. But even if it were true, what then?
Ellida (in lower voice, and coming nearer). I have seen such eyes before.
Wangel. Well? Where?
Ellida. Out at Bratthammeren, ten years ago.
Wangel (stepping back). What does it mean?
Ellida (whispers, trembling). The child had the strange man's eyes.
Wangel (cries out reluctantly). Ellida!
Ellida (clasps her hands despairingly about her head). Now you understand why I would not, why I dared not, live with you as your wife. (She turns suddenly and rushes off over the heights.)
Wangel (hurrying after her and calling). Ellida, Ellida! My poor unhappy Ellida!
(SCENE.—A more remote part of DOCTOR WANGEL'S garden. It is boggy and overshadowed by large old trees. To the right is seen the margin of a dank pond. A low, open fence separates the garden from the footpath, and the fjord in the background. Beyond is the range of mountains, with its peaks. It is afternoon, almost evening. BOLETTE sits on a stone seat, and on the seat lie some books and a work-basket. HILDE and LYNGSTRAND, both with fishing-tackle, walk along the bank of the pond.)
Hilde (making a sign to LYNGSTRAND). I can see a large one.
Lyngstrand (looking). Where?
Hilde (pointing). Can't you see? He's down there. Good gracious! There's another! (Looks through the trees.) Out there. Now he's coming to frighten him away!
Bolette (looking up). Who's coming?
Hilde. Your tutor, Miss!
Bolette. Mine?
Hilde. Yes. Goodness knows he never was mine.
(ARNHOLM enters from between the trees.)
Arnholm. Are there fish in the pond now?
Hilde. There are some very ancient carp.
Arnholm. No! Are the old carp still alive?
Hilde. Yes; they're pretty tough. But now we're going to try and get rid of some of them.
Arnholm. You'd better try out there at the fjord.
Lyngstrand. No; the pond is—well—so to say—more mysterious.
Hilde. Yes; it's fascinating here. Have you been in the sea?
Arnholm. Yes; I've come straight from the baths.
Hilde. I suppose you kept in the enclosure?
Arnholm. Yes; I'm not much of a swimmer.
Hilde. Can you swim on your back?
Arnholm. No.
Hilde. I can. (To LYNGSTRAND.) Let's try out there on the other side. (They go off along the pond.)
Arnholm (coming closer to BOLETTE). Are you sitting all alone here, Bolette?
Bolette. Yes; I generally do.
Arnholm. Isn't your mother down here in the garden?
Bolette. No—she's sure to be out with father.
Arnholm. How is she this afternoon?
Bolette. I don't quite know. I forgot to ask.
Arnholm. What books have you there?
Bolette. The one's something about botany. And the other's a geography.
Arnholm. Do you care about such things?
Bolette. Yes, if only I had time for it. But, first of all, I've to look after the housekeeping.
Arnholm. Doesn't your mother help you—your stepmother—doesn't she help with that?
Bolette. No, that's my business. Why, I saw to that during the two years father was alone. And so it has been since.
Arnholm. But you're as fond as ever of reading.
Bolette. Yes, I read all the useful books I can get hold of. One wants to know something about the world. For here we live so completely outside of all that's going on—or almost.
Arnholm. Now don't say that, dear Bolette.
Bolette. Yes! I think we live very much as the carp down there in the pond. They have the fjord so near them, where the shoals of wild fishes pass in and out. But the poor, tame house-fishes know nothing, and they can take no part in that.
Arnholm. I don't think it would fare very well with them if they could get out there.
Bolette. Oh! it would be much the same, I expect.
Arnholm. Moreover, you can't say that one is so completely out of the world here—not in the summer anyhow. Why, nowadays this is quite a rendezvous for the busy world—almost a terminus for the time being.
Bolette. Ah, yes! you who yourself are only here for the time being—it is easy for you to make fun of us.
Arnholm. I make fun? How can you think that?
Bolette. Well, all that about this being a rendezvous, and a terminus for the busy world—that's something you've heard the townsfolk here saying. Yes—they're in the habit of saying that sort of thing.
Arnholm. Well, frankly, I've noticed that, too.
Bolette. But really there's not an atom of truth in it. Not for us who always live here. What good is it to us that the great strange world comes hither for a time on its way North to see the midnight sun? We ourselves have no part in that; we see nothing of the midnight sun. No! We've got to be good, and live our lives here in our carp pond.
Arnholm (sitting down by her). Now tell me, dear Bolette, isn't there something or other—something definite you are longing for?
Bolette. Perhaps.
Arnholm. What is it, really? What is it you are longing for?
Bolette. Chiefly to get away.
Arnholm. That above all, then?
Bolette. Yes; and then to learn more. To really know something about everything.
Arnholm. When I used to teach you, your father often said he would let you go to college.
Bolette. Yes, poor father! He says so many things. But when it comes to the point he—there's no real stamina in father.
Arnholm. No, unfortunately you're right there. He has not exactly stamina. But have you ever spoken to him about it—spoken really earnestly and seriously?
Bolette. No, I've not quite done that.
Arnholm. But really you ought to. Before it is too late, Bolette, why don't you?
Bolette. Oh! I suppose it's because there's no real stamina in me either. I certainly take after father in that.
Arnholm. Hm—don't you think you're unjust to yourself there?
Bolette. No, unfortunately. Besides, father has so little time for thinking of me and my future, and not much desire to either. He prefers to put such things away from him whenever he can. He is so completely taken up with Ellida.
Arnholm. With whom? What?
Bolette. I mean that he and my stepmother—(breaks off). Father and mother suffice one another, as you see.
Arnholm. Well, so much the better if you were to get away from here.
Bolette. Yes; but I don't think I've a right to; not to forsake father.
Arnholm. But, dear Bolette, you'll have to do that sometime, anyhow. So it seems to me the sooner the better.
Bolette. I suppose there is nothing else for it. After all, I must think of myself, too. I must try and get occupation of some sort. When once father's gone, I have no one to hold to. But, poor father! I dread leaving him.
Arnholm. Dread?
Bolette. Yes, for father's sake.
Arnholm. But, good heavens! Your stepmother? She is left to him.
Bolette. That's true. But she's not in the least fit to do all that mother did so well. There is so much she doesn't see, or that she won't see, or that she doesn't care about. I don't know which it is.
Arnholm. Um, I think I understand what you mean.
Bolette. Poor father! He is weak in some things. Perhaps you've noticed that yourself? He hasn't enough occupation, either, to fill up his time. And then she is so thoroughly incapable of helping him; however, that's to some extent his own fault.
Arnholm. In what way?
Bolette. Oh! father always likes to see happy faces about him. There must be sunshine and joy in the house, he says. And so I'm afraid he often gives her medicine which will do her little good in the long run.
Arnholm. Do you really think that?
Bolette. Yes; I can't get rid of the thought. She is so odd at times. (Passionately.) But isn't it unjust that I should have to stay at home here? Really it's not of any earthly use to father. Besides, I have a duty towards myself, too, I think.
Arnholm. Do you know what, Bolette? We two must talk these matters over more carefully.
Bolette. Oh! That won't be much use. I suppose I was created to stay here in the carp pond.
Arnholm. Not a bit of it. It depends entirely upon yourself.
Bolette (quickly). Do you think so?
Arnholm. Yes, believe me, it lies wholly and solely in your own hands.
Bolette. If only that were true! Will you perhaps put in a good word for me with father?
Arnholm. Certainly. But first of all I must speak frankly and freely with you yourself, dear.
Bolette (looks out to the left). Hush! don't let them notice anything. We'll speak of this later.
(ELLIDA enters from the left. She has no hat on, but a large shawl is thrown over her head and shoulders.)
Ellida (with restless animation). How pleasant it is here! How delightful it is here!
Arnholm (rising). Have you been for a walk?
Ellida. Yes, a long, long lovely walk up there with Wangel. And now we're going for a sail.
Bolette. Won't you sit down?
Ellida. No, thanks; I won't sit down.
Bolette (making room on seat). Here's a pleasant seat.
Ellida (walking about). No, no, no! I'll not sit down—not sit down!
Arnholm. I'm sure your walk has done you good. You look quite refreshed.
Ellida. Oh, I feel so thoroughly well—I feel so unspeakably happy. So safe, so safe! (Looking out to the left.) What great steamer is that coming along there?
Bolette (rising, and also looking out). It must be the large English ship.
Arnholm. It's passing the buoy. Does it usually stop here?
Bolette. Only for half an hour. It goes farther up the fjord.
Ellida. And then sails away again tomorrow—away over the great open sea—right over the sea. Only think! to be with them. If one could. If only one could!
Arnholm. Have you never been any long sea voyage, Mrs. Wangel?
Ellida. Never; only those little trips in the fjord here.
Bolette (with a sigh). Ah, no! I suppose we must put up with the dry land.
Arnholm. Well, after all, that really is our home.
Ellida. No; I don't think it is.
Arnholm. Not the land?
Ellida. No; I don't believe so. I think that if only men had from the beginning accustomed themselves to live on the sea, or in the sea perhaps, we should be more perfect than we are—both better and happier.
Arnholm. You really think that?
Ellida. Yes. I should like to know if we should not. I've often spoken to Wangel about it.
Arnholm. Well, and he?
Ellida. He thinks it might be so.
Arnholm (jestingly). Well, perhaps! But it can't be helped. We've once for all entered upon the wrong path, and have become land beasts instead of sea beasts. Anyhow, I suppose it's too late to make good the mistake now.
Ellida. Yes, you've spoken a sad truth. And I think men instinctively feel something of this themselves. And they bear it about with them as a secret regret and sorrow. Believe me—herein lies the deepest cause for the sadness of men. Yes, believe me, in this.
Arnholm. But, my dearest Mrs. Wangel, I have not observed that men are so extremely sad. It seems to me, on the contrary, that most of them take life easily and pleasantly—and with a great, quiet, unconscious joy.
Ellida. Oh! no, it is not so. The joy is, I suppose, something like our joy at the long pleasant summer days—it has the presentiment of the dark days coming. And it is this presentiment that casts its shadows over the joy of men, just as the driving clouds cast their shadow over the fjords. It lies there so bright and blue—and of a sudden.
Arnholm. You shouldn't give way to such sad thoughts. Just now you were so glad and so bright.
Ellida. Yes, yes, so I was. Oh, this—this is so stupid of me. (Looking about her uneasily.) If only Wangel would come! He promised me so faithfully he would. And yet he does not come. Dear Mr. Arnholm, won't you try and find him for me?
Arnholm. Gladly!
Ellida. Tell him he must come here directly now. For now I can't see him.
Arnholm. Not see him?
Ellida. Oh! you don't understand. When he is not by me I often can't remember how he looks. And then it is as if I had quite lost him. That is so terribly painful. But do go, please. (She paces round the pond.)
Bolette (to ARNHOLM). I will go with you—you don't know the way.
Arnholm. Nonsense, I shall be all right.
Bolette (aside). No, no, no. I am anxious. I'm afraid he is on board the steamer.
Arnholm. Afraid?
Bolette. Yes. He usually goes to see if there are any acquaintances of his. And there's a restaurant on board.
Arnholm. Ah! Come then.
(He and BOLETTE go off. ELLIDA stands still awhile, staring down at the pond. Now and again she speaks to herself in a low voice, and breaks off. Along the footpath beyond the garden fence a STRANGER in travelling dress comes from the left. His hair and beard are bushy and red. He has a Scotch cap on, and a travelling bag with strap across his shoulders.)
The Stranger (goes slowly along by the fence and peeps into the garden. When he catches sight of ELLIDA he stands still, looks at her fixedly and searchingly, and speaks in a low voice). Good-evening, Ellida!
Ellida (turns round with a cry). Oh dear! have you come at last!
The Stranger. Yes, at last.
Ellida (looking at him astonished and frightened). Who are you? Do you seek anyone here?
The Stranger. You surely know that well enough, Ellida.
Ellida (starting). What is this! How do you address me? Whom are you looking for?
The Stranger. Well, I suppose I'm looking for you.
Ellida (shuddering). Oh! (She stares at him, totters back, uttering a half-suffocating cry.) The eyes!—the eyes!
The Stranger. Are you beginning to recognise me at last? I knew you at once, Ellida.
Ellida. The eyes! Don't look at me like that! I shall cry for help!
The Stranger. Hush, hush! Do not fear. I shan't hurt you.
Ellida (covering her eyes with her hands). Do not look at me like that, I say!
The Stranger (leaning with his arms on the garden fence). I came with the English steamer.
Ellida (stealing a frightened look at him). What do you want with me?
The Stranger. I promised you to come as soon as I could—
Ellida. Go—go away! Never, never come here again! I wrote to you that everything must be over between us—everything! Oh! you know that!
The Stranger (imperturbably, and not answering her). I would gladly have come to you sooner; but I could not. Now, at last I am able to, and I am here, Ellida.
Ellida. What is it you want with me? What do you mean? Why have you come here?
The Stranger. Surely you know I've come to fetch you.
Ellida (recoils in terror). To fetch me! Is that what you mean?
The Stranger. Of course.
Ellida. But surely you know that I am married?
The Stranger. Yes, I know.
Ellida. And yet—and yet you have come to—to fetch me!
The Stranger. Certainly I have.
Ellida (seizing her head with both her hands). Oh! this misery—this horror! This horror!
The Stranger. Perhaps you don't want to come?
Ellida (bewildered). Don't look at me like that.
The Stranger. I was asking you if you didn't want to come.
Ellida. No, no, no! Never in all eternity! I will not, I tell you. I neither can nor will. (In lower tone.) I dare not.
The Stranger (climbs over the fence, and comes into the garden). Well, Ellida, let me tell you one thing before I go.
Ellida (wishes to fly, but cannot. She stands as one paralysed with terror, and leans for support against the trunk of a tree by the pond). Don't touch me! Don't come near me! No nearer! Don't touch me, I say!
The Stranger (cautiously coming a few steps nearer). You need not be so afraid of me, Ellida.
Ellida (covering her eyes with her hands). Don't look at me like that.
The Stranger. Do not be afraid—not afraid.
(WANGEL comes through the garden, from the left.)
Wangel (still half-way between the trees). Well, you've had to wait for me a long while.
Ellida (rushes towards him, clings fast to his arm, and cries out). Oh! Wangel! Save me! You save me—if you can!
Wangel. Ellida! What in heaven's name!
Ellida. Save me, Wangel! Don't you see him there? Why, he is standing there!
Wangel (looking thither). That man? (Coming nearer.) May I ask you who you are, and what you have come into this garden for?
The Stranger (motions with a nod towards ELLIDA). I want to talk to her.
Wangel. Oh! indeed. So I suppose it was you. (To ELLIDA.) I hear a stranger has been to the house and asked for you?
The Stranger. Yes, it was I.
Wangel. And what do you want with my wife? (Turning round.) Do you know him, Ellida?
Ellida (in a low voice and wringing her hands). Do I know him! Yes, yes, yes!
Wangel (quickly). Well!
Ellida. Why, it is he, Wangel!—he himself! He who you know!
Wangel. What! What is it you say? (Turning.) Are you the Johnston who once...
The Stranger. You may call me Johnston for aught I care! However, that's not my name.
Wangel. It is not?
The Stranger. It is—no longer. No!
Wangel. And what may you want with my wife? For I suppose you know the lighthouse-keeper's daughter has been married this long time, and whom she married, you of course also know.
The Stranger. I've known it over three years.
Ellida (eagerly). How did you come to know it?
The Stranger. I was on my way home to you, Ellida. I came across an old newspaper. It was a paper from these parts, and in it there was that about the marriage.
Ellida (looking straight in front of her). The marriage! So it was that!
The Stranger. It seemed so wonderful to me. For the rings—why that, too, was a marriage, Ellida.
Ellida (covering her face with her hands). Oh!—Wangel. How dare you?
The Stranger. Have you forgotten that?
Ellida (feeling his look, suddenly cries out). Don't stand there and look at me like that!
Wangel (goes up to him). You must deal with me, and not with her. In short—now that you know the circumstances—what is it you really want here? Why do you seek my wife?
The Stranger. I promised Ellida to come to her as soon as I could.
Wangel. Ellida, again—!
The Stranger. And Ellida promised faithfully she would wait for me until I came.
Wangel. I notice you call my wife by her first name. This kind of familiarity is not customary with us here.
The Stranger. I know that perfectly. But as she first, and above all, belongs to me—
Wangel. To you, still—
Ellida (draws back behind WANGEL). Oh! he will never release me!
Wangel. To you? You say she belongs to you?
The Stranger. Has she told you anything about the two rings—my ring and Ellida's?
Wangel. Certainly. And what then? She put an end to that long ago. You have had her letters, so you know this yourself.
The Stranger. Both Ellida and I agreed that what we did should have all the strength and authority of a real and full marriage.
Ellida. But you hear, I will not! Never on earth do I wish to know anything more of you. Do not look at me like that. I will not, I tell you!
Wangel. You must be mad to think you can come here, and base any claim upon such childish nonsense.
The Stranger. That's true. A claim, in your sense, I certainly have not.
Wangel. What do you mean to do, then? You surely do not imagine you can take her from me by force, against her own will?
The Stranger. No. What would be the good of that? If Ellida wishes to be with me she must come freely.
Ellida (starts, crying out). Freely!
Wangel. And you actually believe that—
Ellida (to herself). Freely!
Wangel. You must have taken leave of your senses! Go your ways. We have nothing more to do with you.
The Stranger (looking at his watch). It is almost time for me to go on board again. (Coming nearer.) Yes, yes, Ellida, now I have done my duty. (Coming still nearer.) I have kept the word I gave you.
Ellida (beseechingly drawing away). Oh! don't touch me!
The Stranger. And so now you must think it over till tomorrow night—
Wangel. There is nothing to think over here. See that you get away.
The Stranger (still to ELLIDA). Now I'm going with the steamer up the fjord. Tomorrow night I will come again, and then I shall look for you here. You must wait for me here in the garden, for I prefer settling the matter with you alone; you understand?
Ellida (in low, trembling tone). Do you hear that, Wangel?
Wangel. Only keep calm. We shall know how to prevent this visit.
The Stranger. Goodbye for the present, Ellida. So tomorrow night—
Ellida (imploringly). Oh! no, no! Do not come tomorrow night! Never come here again!
The Stranger. And should you then have a mind to follow me over the seas—
Ellida. Oh, don't look at me like that!
The Stranger. I only mean that you must then be ready to set out.
Wangel. Go up to the house, Ellida.
Ellida. I cannot! Oh, help me! Save me, Wangel!
The Stranger. For you must remember that if you do not go with me tomorrow, all is at an end.
Ellida (looks tremblingly at him). Then all is at an end? Forever?
The Stranger (nodding). Nothing can change it then, Ellida. I shall never again come to this land. You will never see me again, nor hear from me either. Then I shall be as one dead and gone from you forever.
Ellida (breathing with difficulty). Oh!
The Stranger. So think carefully what you do. Goodbye! (He goes to the fence and climbs over it, stands still, and says.) Yes, Ellida; be ready for the journey tomorrow night. For then I shall come and fetch you. (He goes slowly and calmly down the footpath to the right.)
Ellida (looking after him for a time). Freely, he said; think—he said that I must go with him freely!
Wangel. Only keep calm. Why, he's gone now, and you'll never see him again.
Ellida. Oh! how can you say that? He's coming again tomorrow night!
Wangel. Let him come. He shall not meet you again in any case.
Ellida (shaking her head). Ah, Wangel! Do not believe you can prevent him.
Wangel. I can, dearest; only trust me.
Ellida (pondering, and not listening to him). Now when he's been here tomorrow night—and then when he has gone over seas in the steamer—
Wangel. Yes; what then?
Ellida. I should like to know if he will never, never come back again.
Wangel. No, dear Ellida. You may be quite sure of that. What should he do here after this? Now that he has learnt from your own lips that you will have nothing more to do with him. With that the whole thing is over.
Ellida (to herself). Tomorrow, then, or never!
Wangel. And should it ever occur to him to come here again—
Ellida. Well?
Wangel. Why, then, it is in our power to make him harmless.
Ellida. Oh! do not think that!
Wangel. It is in our power, I tell you. If you can get rid of him in no other way, he must expiate the murder of the captain.
Ellida (passionately). No, no, no! Never that! We know nothing about the murder of the captain! Nothing whatever!
Wangel. Know nothing? Why, he himself confessed it to you!
Ellida. No, nothing of that. If you say anything of it I shall deny it. He shall not be imprisoned. He belongs out there—to the open sea. He belongs out there!
Wangel (looks at her and says slowly). Ah! Ellida—Ellida!
Ellida (clinging passionately to him). Oh! dear, faithful one—save me from this man!
Wangel (disengaging himself gently). Come, come with me! (LYNGSTRAND and HILDE, both with fishing tackle, come in from the right, along the pond.)
Lyngstrand (going quickly up to ELLIDA). Now, Mrs. Wangel, you must hear something wonderful.
Wangel. What is it?
Lyngstrand. Fancy! We've seen the American!
Wangel. The American?
Hilde. Yes, I saw him, too.
Lyngstrand. He was going round the back of the garden, and thence on board the great English steamer.
Wangel. How do you know the man?
Lyngstrand. Why, I went to sea with him once. I felt so certain he'd been drowned—and now he's very much alive!
Wangel. Do you know anything more about him?
Lyngstrand. No. But I'm sure he's come to revenge himself upon his faithless sailor-wife.
Wangel. What do you mean?
Hilde. Lyngstrand's going to use him for a work of art.
Wangel. I don't understand one word.