Chapter 15

Wangel.

The suspicion has often crossed my mind; but to-day I saw it clearly. The children’s little commemoration—you looked on me as a sort of accomplice.—Well yes; a man’s memories are not to be wiped out—not mine, at all events. It is not in my nature.

Ellida.

I know that. Oh, I know it so well.

Wangel.

But you are mistaken, none the less. It seems to you almost as though the children’s mother were still alive. You feel her invisible presence in our midst. You think that my heart is equally divided between you and her. It is this idea thatrevolts you. You see, as it were, something immoral in our relation; and that is why you cannot, or will not, live with me any more as my wife.

Ellida.

[Rises.] Have you seen all this, Wangel? Seen through all this?

Wangel.

Yes, to-day I have at last seen through it—into the very depths.

Ellida.

Into the very depths, you say. Oh, you mustn’t think that.

Wangel.

[Rises.] I know very well that there is more than this, dear Ellida.

Ellida.

[Apprehensively.] You know that there is more?

Wangel.

Yes. There is this: that you cannot endure your surroundings here. The mountains oppress you and weigh upon your spirits. There is not light enough for you here—the horizon is not wide enough—the air not strong and stimulating enough for you.

Ellida.

There you are quite right. Night and day, winter and summer, it is upon me—this haunting home-sickness for the sea.

Wangel.

I know it well, dear Ellida. [Lays his handupon her head.] And therefore the poor sick child must go to its own home again.

Ellida.

How do you mean?

Wangel.

Quite literally. We will move.

Ellida.

Move!

Wangel.

Yes. Out somewhere by the open sea,—to some place where you may find a real home, after your own heart.

Ellida.

Oh, my dear, you mustn’t think of that! It’s quite impossible. You could never live happily anywhere in the world but here.

Wangel.

That must be as it may. And besides—do you think I can live happily here—without you?

Ellida.

But here I am; and here I will remain. Am I not yours?

Wangel.

Areyou mine, Ellida?

Ellida.

Oh, please say no more of that scheme. Here you have all that is life and breath to you. Your whole life-work lies here, and here only.

Wangel.

That must be as it may, I say. We will move from here—move seaward somewhere. My mind is made up beyond recall, dear Ellida.

Ellida.

Oh, but what do you suppose we shall gain bythat?

Wangel.

You will regain your health and peace of mind.

Ellida.

I doubt it. But you yourself! Think of yourself too. What wouldyougain?

Wangel.

I should regain you, my dearest.

Ellida.

But that you cannot do! No, no, you cannot, Wangel! That is just the terrible, the heart-breaking part of it.

Wangel.

That remains to be seen. If you are haunted by such thoughts here, then assuredly there is nothing for it but to get you away from here. And the sooner the better. My mind is made up beyond recall, I tell you.

Ellida.

No! Rather than that,—Heaven help me—I will tell you everything without reserve, exactly as it is.

Wangel.

Yes, yes—do!

Ellida.

You shall not make yourself unhappy for my sake; especially as it would do us no good, after all.

Wangel.

You have promised to tell me everything—exactly as it stands.

Ellida.

I will tell you as well as I can,—and as far as I understand things.—Come here and sit by me.

[They seat themselves upon the stones.

Wangel.

Well, Ellida? Well——?

Ellida.

That day when you came out there and asked me if I could and would be yours—you spoke to me frankly and openly about your first marriage. You said it had been very happy.

Wangel.

And so it was.

Ellida.

Yes, yes; I do not doubt it, dear. That is not why I speak of it now. I only want to remind you that I, on my side, was frank with you. I told you quite openly that I had once in my life cared for some one else. That it had come to—a sort of betrothal between us.

Wangel.

A sort of——?

Ellida.

Yes, something of the kind. Well, it lastedonly a very short time. He went away; and afterwards I broke it off. All this I told you.

Wangel.

But, dear Ellida, why go back upon all this? After all, it did not really concern me. I have never even asked you who he was.

Ellida.

No, you have not. You are always so considerate to me.

Wangel.

[Smiling.] Well, in this case,—I scarcely needed to be told his name.

Ellida.

His name?

Wangel.

Out at Skioldvik and in those parts there were not many to choose from. Or rather, there was only one man——

Ellida.

I suppose you think it was—Arnholm.

Wangel.

Yes—was it not?

Ellida.

No.

Wangel.

It was not? Well then I am certainly at a loss.

Ellida.

Do you remember that, in the late autumn one year, a large American ship came into Skioldvik for repairs?

Wangel.

Yes, I remember it well. It was on board her that the captain was found murdered in his cabin one morning. I remember going to make the post-mortem.

Ellida.

Yes, you did.

Wangel.

It was said to be the second mate who had killed him.

Ellida.

No one can tell that! It was never proved.

Wangel.

No; but I think there is no doubt about it. Else why should he have gone and drowned himself?

Ellida.

He did not drown himself. He escaped in a vessel bound for the north.

Wangel.

[Starts.] How do you know that?

Ellida.

[With an effort.] Because, Wangel—because it was that second mate to whom I—was betrothed.

Wangel.

[Starting up.] What do you say? Can this be possible?

Ellida.

Yes,—he was the man.

Wangel.

But how in the world, Ellida——? How could you do such a thing! Go and engage yourself to such a man as that! A man you knew nothing on earth about!—What was his name?

Ellida.

He called himself Friman[18]then. Afterwards, in his letters, he signed himself Alfred Johnston.

Wangel.

And where did he come from?

Ellida.

From Finmark, he said. He was born over in Finland though. He had come across the frontier as a child,—with his father I think.

Wangel.

He was a Quæn, then.

Ellida.

Yes, I believe they are called so.

Wangel.

What more do you know of him?

Ellida.

Only that he went to sea very young, and that he had made long voyages.

Wangel

Nothing else?

Ellida.

No; we never talked about such things.

Wangel.

What did you talk about then?

Ellida.

Mainly about the sea.

Wangel.

Ah——! About the sea?

Ellida.

About storm and calm. About dark nights at sea. About the sea in the glittering sunshine, too. But we talked most about the whales, and the porpoises, and the seals that lie out upon the reefs and bask in the midday sun. And then we spoke of the gulls and the eagles, and all the other sea-birds, you know. And—is it not strange?—when we talked of such things, it seemed to me as though both the sea-animals and the sea-birds were akin to him.

Wangel.

And you yourself——?

Ellida.

Yes, I almost thought that I, too, was akin to all of them.

Wangel.

Yes, yes.—And that was how you came to betroth yourself to him?

Ellida.

Yes; he said I was to do it.

Wangel.

Was to? Had you no will of your own?

Ellida.

Not when he was near. Oh—afterwards it all seemed so utterly inexplicable to me.

Wangel.

Did you see him often?

Ellida.

No, not very often. He went over the lighthouse one day; that is how I came to know him. And afterwards we used to meet occasionally. But then came this affair about the captain; and he had to go away.

Wangel.

Oh yes, let me hear about that!

Ellida.

It was in the dusk of the early morning that I got a line from him. It said that I must come out to him at Bratthammer[19]—you know, the headland between the lighthouse and Skioldvik.

Wangel.

Yes, yes—I know it well.

Ellida.

I must come there immediately, the note said for he wanted to speak to me.

Wangel.

And you went?

Ellida.

Yes. I could not help it. Well—he told me that he had stabbed the captain in the night.

Wangel.

He told you himself! Said it straight out!

Ellida.

Yes. But he had only done what was right and just, he said.

Wangel.

Right and just? What reason did he give, then, for stabbing him?

Ellida.

He would not tell me the reason. He said it was not a thing for me to hear about.

Wangel.

And you believed him, on his bare word?

Ellida.

Yes, I never thought of doubting him. Well, at all events he had to go away. But when he was on the point of saying good-bye to me——No, you could never imagine what he did.

Wangel.

Well, tell me then.

Ellida.

He took a key-ring out of his pocket, and drew off his finger a ring he used to wear. Then he took from me a little ring that I had, and these two he slipped together on the key-ring. And then he said that now we two should together be wedded to the sea.

Wangel.

Wedded——?

Ellida.

Yes, so he said. And then he flung the large ring and the two small ones as far as ever he could into the deep water.

Wangel.

And you, Ellida? Did you agree to that?

Ellida.

Yes, would you believe it, I thought at the time that it was all as it should be.—But, thank heaven, then he went away!

Wangel.

And when once he was away?

Ellida.

Oh, you may be sure I soon came to my senses again. I saw how utterly stupid and meaningless the whole thing had been.

Wangel.

But you said something about letters. Did you hear from him afterwards?

Ellida.

Yes, I heard from him. First, I got a line or two from Archangel. He said nothing but that he was going over to America; and he told me where to address an answer.

Wangel.

Did you write?

Ellida.

Immediately. I said, of course, that all must beover between us—that he must never think of me again, as I meant never to think any more of him.

Wangel.

And did he write again, in spite of that?

Ellida.

Yes, he wrote again.

Wangel.

And what was his answer to what you had said?

Ellida.

Not a word. He wrote just as if I had never broken with him. He told me quite calmly that I must wait for him. When he was ready for me he would let me know, and then I was to come to him at once.

Wangel.

Then he would not release you?

Ellida.

No. So I wrote again, almost word for word the same as before: only more strongly.

Wangel.

And did he give way then?

Ellida.

Oh no, far from it. He wrote as calmly as before. Never a word about my having broken with him. Then I saw it was useless, so I wrote to him no more.

Wangel.

And did not hear from him either?

Ellida.

Yes, I have had three letters from him since. Once he wrote from California and once from China. The last letter I got from him was from Australia. He said he was going to the goldmines; and since then I have heard nothing from him.

Wangel.

That man must have had an extraordinary power over you, Ellida.

Ellida.

Oh yes, yes. That terrible man!

Wangel.

But you must not think any more about it. Never! Promise me that, my dear, my precious Ellida! We will try another cure for you now—a fresher air than this of the inner fiord. The salt-laden, sweeping sea-breezes, dear! What do you say to that?

Ellida.

Oh, don’t speak of it! Don’t think of such a thing! There is no help for me in that! I know, I feel, that I should not be able to throw it off out there either.

Wangel.

To throw what off, dear? What do you mean?

Ellida.

I mean the terror of him. His unfathomable power over my soul——

Wangel.

But youhavethrown it off! Long ago; when you broke with him. It is all over, long ago.

Ellida.

[Springs up.] No, that is just what it is not!

Wangel.

Not over!

Ellida.

No, Wangel—it is not over! And I am afraid it never will be over. Never in this life.

Wangel.

[In a choked voice.] Do you mean to say that you have never in your heart of hearts been able to forget that strange man?

Ellida.

I had forgotten him. But then, all at once, he seemed to come again.

Wangel.

How long ago is that?

Ellida.

It is about three years ago now, or a little more. It was whilst—before the child was born.

Wangel.

Ah!It was then, was it? In that case, Ellida—I begin to understand much more clearly.

Ellida.

You are wrong, dear! This thing that has come over me—oh, I don’t think it can ever be understood.

Wangel.

[Looks at her, pained.] To think that for allthese three years your heart has been given to another man. To another! Not to me,—but to another!

Ellida.

Oh, you utterly misunderstand me. I love no one but you.

Wangel.

[In a low tone.] How is it, then, that for all that time you have refused to live with me as my wife?

Ellida.

That is because of the dread the strange man has cast over me.

Wangel.

Dread——?

Ellida.

Yes, dread. Such a dread, such a terror, as can arise only from the sea. For now I must tell you, Wangel——

[The young townspeople come back from the left, bow, and go out to the right. With them comeArnholm,Boletta,Hilda,andLyngstrand.

Boletta.

[As they pass by.] What! Still up here?

Ellida.

Yes, it’s so delightfully cool up here on the heights.

Arnholm.

For our part, we are going down to have a dance.

Wangel.

Very well. We will come too, in a little while.

Hilda.

Good-bye for the present then.

Ellida.

Mr. Lyngstrand—will you please wait a moment?

[Lyngstrandstops.Arnholm,Boletta,andHildago out to the right.

Ellida.

[ToLyngstrand.] Are you going to dance too?

Lyngstrand.

No, Mrs. Wangel, I’m afraid I must not.

Ellida.

No, you ought to be careful. That weakness in your chest—you have not quite got over it yet.

Lyngstrand.

No, not thoroughly.

Ellida.

[Somewhat hesitatingly.] How long is it now since you made that voyage——?

Lyngstrand.

When I got the lesion?

Ellida.

Yes, that voyage you were telling us about this morning.

Lyngstrand.

Oh well, it must be about—wait a bit—yes, it was just three years ago.

Ellida.

Three years?

Lyngstrand.

Or a little more. We left America in February, and we were wrecked in March. We got into the equinoctial gales.

Ellida.

[Looking atWangel.] You see that was the time——

Wangel.

But, my dear Ellida——?

Ellida.

Well, don’t let us detain you, Mr. Lyngstrand, Go; but don’t dance.

Lyngstrand.

No, I shall only look on.

[He goes out to the right.

Wangel.

Dear Ellida—why did you cross-question him about that voyage?

Ellida.

Johnston was in the same ship. Of that I am perfectly certain.

Wangel.

What makes you think so?

Ellida.

[Without answering.] He came to know, during the voyage, that I had married some one else, while he was away. And then—at the very same moment, this came upon me!

Wangel.

This dread?

Ellida.

Yes. Sometimes, without the smallest warning, I suddenly see him stand bodily before me. Or rather a little to one side. He never looks at me; he is only there.

Wangel.

How does he appear to you?

Ellida.

Just as I saw him last.

Wangel.

Ten years ago?

Ellida.

Yes. Out at Bratthammer. I see his scarf-pin most distinctly of all, with a large, bluish-white pearl in it. That 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 know yourself, Ellida.

Ellida.

Yes, yes,—help me if you can! For I feel it closing round me more and more.

Wangel.

And you have been in this state for three whole years. You have suffered this secret anguish without confiding in me!

Ellida.

Oh I could not! Not till now, when it becamenecessary for your own sake. If I had told you all this—then I must also have told you—the unspeakable.

Wangel.

The unspeakable——?

Ellida.

[Evasively.] No, no, no! Do not ask! Only one thing more, and I have done.—Wangel—how shall we fathom the mystery—of the child’s eyes——?

Wangel.

My own dear Ellida, I assure you it was pure imagination on your part. The child had exactly the same eyes as other normal children.

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