ACT SECOND

Allmers.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] Oh, my dear Rita, it is of no use demanding anything. Everything must be freely given.

Rita.

[Looks anxiously at him.] And that you cannot do henceforth?

Allmers.

No, I cannot. I must divide myself between Eyolf and you.

Rita.

But if Eyolf had never been born? What then?

Allmers.

[Evasively.] Oh, that would be another matter. Then I should have only you to care for.

Rita.

[Softly, her voice quivering.] Then I wish he had never been born.

Allmers.

[Flashing out.] Rita! You don’t know what you are saying!

Rita.

[Trembling with emotion.] It was in pain unspeakable that I brought him into the world. But I bore it all with joy and rapture for your sake.

Allmers.

[Warmly.] Oh yes, I know, I know.

Rita.

[With decision.] But there it must end. I will live my life—together with you—wholly with you. I cannot go on being only Eyolf’s mother—only his mother and nothing more. Iwillnot, I tell you! Icannot! I will be all in all to you! To you, Alfred!

Allmers.

But that is just what you are, Rita. Through our child——

Rita.

Oh—vapid, nauseous phrases—nothing else! No, Alfred, I am not to be put off like that. I was fitted tobecomethe child’s mother, but not to be a mother to him. You must take me as I am, Alfred.

Allmers.

And yet you used to be so fond of Eyolf.

Rita.

I was so sorry for him—because you troubled yourself so little about him. You kept him reading and grinding at books. You scarcely even saw him.

Allmers.

[Nodding slowly.] No; I was blind. The time had not yet come for me——

Rita.

[Looking in his face.] But now, I suppose, it has come?

Allmers.

Yes, at last. Now I see that the highest task I can have in the world is to be a true father to Eyolf.

Rita.

And to me?—what will you be to me?

Allmers.

[Gently.] I will always go on caring for you—with calm, deep tenderness. [He tries to take her hands.]

Rita.

[Avoiding him.] I don’t care a bit for your calm, deep tenderness. I want you utterly and entirely—and alone! Just as I had you in the first rich, beautiful days. [Vehemently and harshly.] Never, never will I consent to be put off with scraps and leavings, Alfred!

Allmers.

[In a conciliatory tone.] I should have thought there was happiness in plenty for all three of us, Rita.

Rita.

[Scornfully.] Then you are easy to please. [Seats herself at the table on the left.] Now listen to me.

Allmers.

[Approaching.] Well, what is it?

Rita.

[Looking up at him with a veiled glow in her eyes.] When I got your telegram yesterday evening——

Allmers.

Yes? What then?

Rita.

—then I dressed myself in white——

Allmers.

Yes, I noticed you were in white when I arrived.

Rita.

I had let down my hair——

Allmers.

Your sweet masses of hair——

Rita.

—so that it flowed down my neck and shoulders——

Allmers.

I saw it, I saw it. Oh, how lovely you were, Rita!

Rita.

There were rose-tinted shades over both the lamps. And we were alone, we two—the only waking beings in the whole house. And there was champagne on the table.

Allmers.

I did not drink any of it.

Rita.

[Looking bitterly at him.] No, that is true. [Laughs harshly.] "There stood the champagne, but you tasted it not"—as the poet says.

[She rises from the armchair, goes with an air of weariness over to the sofa, and seats herself, half reclining, upon it.

Allmers.

[Crosses the room and stands before her.] I was so taken up with serious thoughts. Ihad made up my mind to talk to you of our future, Rita—and first and foremost of Eyolf.

Rita.

[Smiling.] And so you did——

Allmers.

No, I had not time to—for you began to undress.

Rita.

Yes, and meanwhile you talked about Eyolf. Don’t you remember? You wanted to know all about little Eyolf’s digestion.

Allmers.

[Looking reproachfully at her.] Rita!

Rita.

And then you got into your bed, and slept the sleep of the just.

Allmers.

[Shaking his head.] Rita—Rita!

Rita.

[Lying at full length and looking up at him.] Alfred?

Allmers.

Yes?

Rita.

“There stood your champagne, but you tasted it not.”

Allmers.

[Almost harshly.] No. I did not taste it.

[He goes away from her and stands in the garden doorway.Ritalies for some time motionless, with closed eyes.

Rita.

[Suddenly springing up.] But let me tell you one thing, Alfred.

Allmers.

[Turning in the doorway.] Well?

Rita.

You ought not to feel quite so secure as you do!

Allmers.

Not secure?

Rita.

No, you ought not to be so indifferent! Not so certain of your property in me!

Allmers.

[Drawing nearer.] What do you mean by that?

Rita.

[With trembling lips.] Never in a single thought have I been untrue to you, Alfred! Never for an instant.

Allmers.

No, Rita, I know that—I, who know you so well.

Rita.

[With sparkling eyes.] But if you disdain me——!

Allmers.

Disdain! I don’t understand what you mean!

Rita.

Oh, you don’t know all that might rise up within me, if——

Allmers.

If?

Rita.

If I should ever see that you did not care for me—that you did not love me as you used to.

Allmers.

But, my dearest Rita—years bring a certain change with them—and that must one day occur even in us—as in every one else.

Rita.

Never in me! And I will not hear of any change in you either—I could not bear it, Alfred. I want to keep you to myself alone.

Allmers.

[Looking at her with concern.] You have a terribly jealous nature——

Rita.

I can’t make myself different from what I am. [Threateningly.] If you go and divide yourself between me and any one else——

Allmers.

What then——?

Rita.

Then I will take my revenge on you, Alfred!

Allmers.

How "take your revenge"?

Rita.

I don’t know how.—Oh yes, I do know, well enough!

Allmers.

Well?

Rita.

I will go and throw myself away——

Allmers.

Throw yourself away, do you say?

Rita.

Yes, that I will. I’ll throw myself straight into the arms of—of the first man that comes in my way!

Allmers.

[Looking tenderly at her and shaking his head.] That you will never do—my loyal, proud, true-hearted Rita!

Rita.

[Putting her arms round his neck.] Oh, you don’t know what I might come to be if you—if you did not love me any more.

Allmers.

Did not love you, Rita? How can you say such a thing!

Rita.

[Half laughing, lets him go.] Why should I not spread my nets for that—that road-maker man that hangs about here?

Allmers.

[Relieved.] Oh, thank goodness—you are only joking.

Rita.

Not at all. He would do as well as any one else.

Allmers.

Ah, but I suspect he is more or less taken up already.

Rita.

So much the better! For then I should take him away from some one else; and that is just what Eyolf has done to me.

Allmers.

Can you say that our little Eyolf has done that?

Rita.

[Pointing with her forefinger.] There, you see! You see! The moment you mention Eyolf’s name, you grow tender and your voice quivers! [Threateningly, clenching her hands.] Oh, you almost tempt me to wish——

Allmers.

[Looking at her anxiously.] What do I tempt you to wish, Rita?——

Rita.

[Vehemently, going away from him.] No, no, no—I won’t tell you that! Never!

Allmers.

[Drawing nearer to her.] Rita! I implore you—for my sake and for your own—do not let yourself be tempted into evil.

[BorgheimandAstacome up from the garden. They both show signs of restrained emotion. They look serious and dejected.Astaremains out on the verandah.Borgheimcomes into the room.

Borgheim.

So that is over—Miss Allmers and I have had our last walk together.

Rita.

[Looks at him with surprise.] Ah! And there is no longer journey to follow the walk?

Borgheim.

Yes, for me.

Rita.

For you alone?

Borgheim.

Yes, for me alone.

Rita.

[Glances darkly atAllmers.] Do you hear that? [Turns toBorgheim.] I’ll wager it is some one with the evil eye that has played you this trick.

Borgheim.

[Looks at her.] The evil eye?

Rita.

[Nodding.] Yes, the evil eye.

Borgheim.

Do you believe in the evil eye, Mrs. Allmers?

Rita.

Yes. I have begun to believe in the evil eye. Especially in a child’s evil eye.

Allmers.

[Shocked, whispers.] Rita—how can you——?

Rita.

[Speaking low.] It is you that make me so wicked and hateful, Alfred.

[Confused cries and shrieks are heard in the distance, from the direction of the fiord.

Borgheim.

[Going to the glass door.] What noise is that?

Asta.

[In the doorway.] Look at all those people running down to the pier!

Allmers.

What can it be? [Looks out for a moment.] No doubt it’s those street urchins at some mischief again.

Borgheim.

[Calls, leaning over the verandah railings.] I say, you boys down there! What’s the matter?

[Several voices are heard answering indistinctly and confusedly.

Rita.

What do they say?

Borgheim.

They say it’s a child that’s drowned.

Allmers.

A child drowned?

Asta.

[Uneasily.] A little boy, they say.

Allmers.

Oh, they can all swim, every one of them.

Rita.

[Shrieks in terror.] Where is Eyolf?

Allmers.

Keep quiet—quiet. Eyolf is down in the garden, playing.

Asta.

No, he wasn’t in the garden.—

Rita.

[With upstretched arms.] Oh, if only it isn’t he!

Borgheim.

[Listens, and calls down.] Whose child is it, do you say?

[Indistinct voices are heard.BorgheimandAstautter a suppressed cry, and rush out through the garden.

Allmers.

[In an agony of dread.] It isn’t Eyolf! Itisn’tEyolf, Rita!

Rita.

[On the verandah, listening.] Hush! Be quiet! Let me hear what they are saying!

[Ritarushes back with a piercing shriek, into the room.

Allmers.

[Following her.] What did they say?

Rita.

[Sinking down beside the armchair on the left.] They said: “The crutch is floating!”

Allmers.

[Almost paralysed.] No! No! No!

Rita.

[Hoarsely.] Eyolf! Eyolf! Oh, but theymustsave him!

Allmers.

[Half distracted.] They must, they must! So precious a life!

[He rushes down through the garden.

ACT SECOND

A little narrow glen by the side of the fiord, onAllmers’sproperty. On the left, lofty old trees overarch the spot. Down the slope in the background a brook comes leaping, and loses itself among the stones on the margin of the wood. A path winds along by the brook-side. To the right there are only a few single trees, between which the fiord is visible. In front is seen the corner of a boat-shed with a boat drawn up. Under the old trees on the left stands a table with a bench and one or two chairs, all made of thin birch-staves. It is a heavy, damp day, with driving mist-wreaths.

Alfred Allmers, dressed as before, sits on the bench, leaning his arms on the table. His hat lies before him. He gazes absently and immovably out over the water.

PresentlyAsta Allmerscomes down the wood-path. She is carrying an open umbrella.

Asta.

[Goes quietly and cautiously up to him.] You ought not to sit down here in this gloomy weather, Alfred.

Allmers.

[Nods slowly without answering.]

Asta.

[Closing her umbrella.] I have been searching for you such a long time.

Allmers.

[Without expression.] Thank you.

Asta.

[Moves a chair and seats herself close to him.] Have you been sitting here long? All the time?

Allmers.

[Does not answer at first. Presently he says.] No, I cannot grasp it. It seems so utterly impossible.

Asta.

[Laying her hand compassionately on his arm.] Poor Alfred!

Allmers.

[Gazing at her.] Is it really true then, Asta? Or have I gone mad? Or am I only dreaming? Oh, if it were only a dream! Just think, if I were to waken now!

Asta.

Oh, if I could only waken you!

Allmers.

[Looking out over the water.] How pitiless the fiord looks to-day, lying so heavy and drowsy—leaden-grey—withsplashes of yellow—and reflecting the rain-clouds.

Asta.

[Imploringly.] Oh, Alfred, don’t sit staring out over the fiord!

Allmers.

[Not heeding her.] Over the surface, yes. But in the depths—there sweeps the rushing undertow——

Asta.

[In terror.] Oh, for God’s sake—don’t think of the depths!

Allmers.

[Looking gently at her.] I suppose you think he is lying close outside here? But he is not, Asta. You must not think that. You must remember how fiercely the current sweeps out here—straight to the open sea.

Asta.

[Throws herself forward against the table, and, sobbing, buries her face in her hands.] Oh, God! Oh, God!

Allmers.

[Heavily.] So you see, little Eyolf has passed so far—far away from us now.

Asta.

[Looks imploringly up at him.] Oh, Alfred, don’t say such things!

Allmers.

Why, you can reckon it out for yourself—you that are so clever. In eight-and-twenty hours—nine-and-twenty hours——Let me see——! Let me see——!

Asta.

[Shrieking and stopping her ears.] Alfred!

Allmers.

[Clenching his hand firmly upon the table.] Can you conceive the meaning of a thing like this?

Asta.

[Looks at him.] Of what?

Allmers.

Of this that has been done to Rita and me.

Asta.

The meaning of it?

Allmers.

[Impatiently.] Yes, the meaning, I say. For, after all, there must be a meaning in it. Life, existence—destiny,cannotbe so utterly meaningless.

Asta.

Oh, who can say anything with certainty about these things, my dear Alfred?

Allmers.

[Laughs bitterly.] No, no; I believe you are right there. Perhaps the whole thing goes simplyby hap-hazard—taking its own course, like a drifting wreck without a rudder. I daresay that is how it is. At least, it seems very like it.

Asta.

[Thoughtfully.] What if it only seems——?

Allmers.

[Vehemently.] Ah? Perhaps you can unravel the mystery for me? I certainly cannot. [More gently.] Here is Eyolf, just entering upon conscious life: full of such infinite possibilities—splendid possibilities perhaps: he would have filled my life with pride and gladness. And then a crazy old woman has only to come this way—and show a cur in a bag——

Asta.

But we don’t in the least know how it really happened.

Allmers.

Yes, we do. The boys saw her row out over the fiord. They saw Eyolf standing alone at the very end of the pier. They saw him gazing after her—and then he seemed to turn giddy. [Quivering.] And that was how he fell over—and disappeared.

Asta.

Yes, yes. But all the same——

Allmers.

She has drawn him down into the depths—that you may be sure of, dear.

Asta.

But, Alfred, why should she?

Allmers.

Yes, that is just the question! Why should she? There is no retribution behind it all—no atonement, I mean. Eyolf never did her any harm. He never called names after her; he never threw stones at her dog. Why, he had never set eyes either on her or her dog till yesterday. So there is no retribution; the whole thing is utterly groundless and meaningless, Asta.—And yet the order of the world requires it.

Asta.

Have you spoken to Rita of these things?

Allmers.

[Shakes his head.] I feel as if I can talk better to you about them. [Drawing a deep breath.] And about everything else as well.

[Astatakes sewing-materials and a little paper parcel out of her pocket.Allmerssits looking on absently.

Allmers.

What have you got there, Asta?

Asta.

[Taking his hat.] Some black crape.

Allmers.

Oh, what is the use of that?

Asta.

Rita asked me to put it on. May I?

Allmers.

Oh, yes; as far as I’m concerned——[She sews the crape on his hat.]

Allmers.

[Sitting and looking at her.] Where is Rita?

Asta.

She is walking about the garden a little, I think. Borgheim is with her.

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