WHEN WE DEAD AWAKEN.A DRAMATIC EPILOGUE.CHARACTERS.PROFESSOR ARNOLD RUBEK, a sculptor.MRS. MAIA RUBEK, his wife.THE INSPECTOR at the Baths.ULFHEIM, a landed proprietor.A STRANGER LADY.A SISTER OF MERCY.Servants, Visitors to the Baths, and Children.The First Act passes at a bathing establishment on the coast; the Second and Third Acts in the neighbourhood of a health resort, high in the mountains.ACT FIRST.[Outside the Bath Hotel. A portion of the main building can be seento the right.An open, park-like place with a fountain, groupsof fine old trees, and shrubbery. To the left, a little pavilionalmost covered with ivy and Virginia creeper. A table and chairoutside it. At the back a view over the fjord, right out to sea,with headlands and small islands in the distance. It is a calm,warm and sunny summer morning.[PROFESSOR RUBEK and MRS. MAIA RUBEK are sitting in basket chairsbeside a covered table on the lawn outside the hotel, having justbreakfasted. They have champagne and seltzer water on the table,and each has a newspaper. PROFESSOR RUBEK is an elderly man ofdistinguished appearance, wearing a black velvet jacket, andotherwise in light summer attire. MAIA is quite young, witha vivacious expression and lively, mocking eyes, yet with asuggestion of fatigue. She wears an elegant travelling dress.MAIA.[Sits for some time as though waiting for the PROFESSOR to say something, then lets her paper drop with a deep sigh.] Oh dear, dear, dear—!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks up from his paper.] Well, Maia? What is the matter with you?MAIA.Just listen how silent it is here.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Smiles indulgently.] And you can hear that?MAIA.What?PROFESSOR RUBEK.The silence?MAIA.Yes, indeed I can.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Well, perhaps you are right,mein Kind. One can really hear the silence.MAIA.Heaven knows you can—when it's so absolutely overpowering as it is here—PROFESSOR RUBEK.Here at the Baths, you mean?MAIA.Wherever you go at home here, it seems to me. Of course there was noise and bustle enough in the town. But I don't know how it is—even the noise and bustle seemed to have something dead about it.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With a searching glance.] You don't seem particularly glad to be at home again, Maia?MAIA.[Looks at him.] Are you glad?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Evasively.] I—?MAIA.Yes, you, who have been so much, much further away than I. Are you entirely happy, now that you are at home again?PROFESSOR RUBEK.No—to be quite candid—perhaps not entirely happy—MAIA.[With animation.] There, you see! Didn't I know it!PROFESSOR RUBEK.I have been too long abroad. I have drifted quite away from all this—this home life.MAIA.[Eagerly, drawing her chair nearer him.] There, you see, Rubek! We had much better get away again! As quickly as ever we can.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Somewhat impatiently.] Well, well, that is what we intend to do, my dear Maia. You know that.MAIA.But why not now—at once? Only think how cozy and comfortable we could be down there, in our lovely new house—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Smiles indulgently.] We ought by rights to say: our lovely new home.MAIA.[Shortly.] I prefer to say house—let us keep to that.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[His eyes dwelling on her.] You are really a strange little person.MAIA.Am I so strange?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, I think so.MAIA.But why, pray? Perhaps because I'm not desperately in love with mooning about up here—?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Which of us was it that was absolutely bent on our coming north this summer?MAIA.I admit, it was I.PROFESSOR RUBEK.It was certainly not I, at any rate.MAIA.But good heavens, who could have dreamt that everything would have altered so terribly at home here? And in so short a time, too! Why, it is only just four years since I went away—PROFESSOR RUBEK.Since you were married, yes.MAIA.Married? What has that to do with the matter?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Continuing.] —since you became the Frau Professor, and found yourself mistress of a charming home—I beg your pardon—a very handsome house, I ought to say. And a villa on the Lake of Taunitz, just at the point that has become most fashionable, too—. In fact it is all very handsome and distinguished, Maia, there's no denying that. And spacious too. We need not always be getting in each other's way—MAIA.[Lightly.] No, no, no—there's certainly no lack of house-room, and that sort of thing—PROFESSOR RUBEK.Remember, too, that you have been living in altogether more spacious and distinguished surroundings—in more polished society than you were accustomed to at home.MAIA.[Looking at him.] Ah, so you think it isIthat have changed?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Indeed I do, Maia.MAIA.I alone? Not the people here?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Oh yes, they too—a little, perhaps. And not at all in the direction of amiability. That I readily admit.MAIA.I should think you must admit it, indeed.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Changing the subject.] Do you know how it affects me when I look at the life of the people around us here?MAIA.No. Tell me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.It makes me think of that night we spent in the train, when we were coming up here—MAIA.Why, you were sound asleep all the time.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Not quite. I noticed how silent it became at all the little roadside stations. I heard the silence—like you, Maia—MAIA.H'm,—like me, yes.PROFESSOR RUBEK. —and that assured me that we had crossed the frontier—that we were really at home. For the train stopped at all the little stations—although there was nothing doing at all.MAIA.Then why did it stop—though there was nothing to be done?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Can't say. No one got out or in; but all the same the train stopped a long, endless time. And at every station I could make out that there were two railway men walking up and down the platform—one with a lantern in his hand—and they said things to each other in the night, low, and toneless, and meaningless.MAIA.Yes, that is quite true. There are always two men walking up and down, and talking—PROFESSOR RUBEK. —of nothing. [Changing to a livelier tone.] But just wait till to-morrow. Then we shall have the great luxurious steamer lying in the harbour. We'll go on board her, and sail all round the coast—northward ho!—right to the polar sea.MAIA.Yes, but then you will see nothing of the country—and of the people. And that was what you particularly wanted.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Shortly and snappishly.] I have seen more than enough.MAIA.Do you think a sea voyage will be better for you?PROFESSOR RUBEK.It is always a change.MAIA.Well, well, if only it is the right thing for you—PROFESSOR RUBEK.For me? The right thing? There is nothing in the world the matter with me.MAIA.[Rises and goes to him.] Yes, there is, Rubek. I am sure you must feel it yourself.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Why my dearest Maia—what should be amiss with me?MAIA.[Behind him, bending over the back of his chair.] That you must tell me. You have begun to wander about without a moment's peace. You cannot rest anywhere—neither at home nor abroad. You have become quite misanthropic of late.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With a touch of sarcasm.] Dear me—have you noticed that?MAIA.No one that knows you can help noticing it. And then it seems to me so sad that you have lost all pleasure in your work.PROFESSOR RUBEK.That too, eh?MAIA.You that used to be so indefatigable—working from morning to night!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Gloomily.] Used to be, yes—MAIA.But ever since you got your great masterpiece out of hand—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Nods thoughtfully.] "The Resurrection Day"—MAIA. —the masterpiece that has gone round the whole world, and made you so famous—PROFESSOR RUBEK.Perhaps that is just the misfortune, Maia.MAIA.How so?PROFESSOR RUBEK.When I had finished this masterpiece of mine—[Makes a passionate movement with his hand]—for "The Resurrection Day" is a masterpiece! Or was one in the beginning. No, it is one still. It must, must, must be a masterpiece!MAIA.[Looks at him in astonishment.] Why, Rubek—all the world knows that.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Short, repellently.] All the world knows nothing! Understands nothing!MAIA.Well, at any rate it can divine something—PROFESSOR RUBEK.Something that isn't there at all, yes. Something that never was in my mind. Ah yes, that they can all go into ecstasies over! [Growling to himself.] What is the good of working oneself to death for the mob and the masses—for "all the world"!MAIA.Do you think it is better, then—do you think it is worthy of you, to do nothing at all but portrait-bust now and then?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With a sly smile.] They are not exactly portrait-busts that I turn out, Maia.MAIA.Yes, indeed they are—for the last two or three years—ever since you finished your great group and got it out of the house—PROFESSOR RUBEK.All the same, they are no mere portrait-busts, I assure you.MAIA.What are they, then?PROFESSOR RUBEK.There is something equivocal, something cryptic, lurking in and behind these busts—a secret something, that the people themselves cannot see—MAIA.Indeed?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Decisively.] I alone can see it. And it amuses me unspeakably.—On the surface I give them the "striking likeness," as they call it, that they all stand and gape at in astonishment—[Lowers his voice]—but at bottom they are all respectable, pompous horse-faces, and self-opinionated donkey-muzzles, and lop-eared, low-browed dog-skulls, and fatted swine-snouts—and sometimes dull, brutal bull-fronts as well—MAIA.[Indifferently.] All the dear domestic animals, in fact.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Simply the dear domestic animals, Maia. All the animals which men have bedevilled in their own image—and which have bedevilled men in return. [Empties his champagne-glass and laughs.] And it is these double-faced works of art that our excellent plutocrats come and order of me. And pay for in all good faith—and in good round figures too—almost their weight in gold, as the saying goes.MAIA.[Fills his glass.] Come, Rubek! Drink and be happy.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Passes his hand several times across his forehead and leans back in his chair.] I am happy, Maia. Really happy—in a way. [Short silence.] For after all there is a certain happiness in feeling oneself free and independent on every hand—in having at ones command everything one can possibly wish for—all outward things, that is to say. Do you not agree with me, Maia?MAIA.Oh yes, I agree. All that is well enough in its way. [Looking at him.] But do you remember what you promised me the day we came to an understanding on—on that troublesome point—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Nods.] —on the subject of our marriage, yes. It was no easy matter for you, Maia.MAIA.[Continuing unruffled.] —and agreed that I was to go abroad with you, and live there for good and all—and enjoy myself.—Do you remember what you promised me that day?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Shaking his head.] No, I can't say that I do. Well, what did I promise?MAIA.You said you would take me up to a high mountain and show me all the glory of the world.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With a slight start.] Did I promise you that, too?MAIA.Me too? Who else, pray?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Indifferently.] No, no, I only meant did I promise to show you—?MAIA. —all the glory of the world? Yes, you did. And all that glory should be mine, you said.PROFESSOR RUBEK.That is sort of figure of speech that I was in the habit of using once upon a time.MAIA.Only a figure of speech?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, a schoolboy phrase—the sort of thing I used to say when I wanted to lure the neighbours' children out to play with me, in the woods and on the mountains.MAIA.[Looking hard at him.] Perhaps you only wanted to lure me out to play, as well?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Passing it off as a jest.] Well, has it not been a tolerable amusing game, Maia?MAIA.[Coldly.] I did not go with you only to play.PROFESSOR RUBEK.No, no, I daresay not.MAIA.And you never took me up with you to any high mountain, or showed me—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With irritation.] —all the glory of the world? No, I did not. For, let me tell you something: you are not really born to be a mountain-climber, little Maia.MAIA.[Trying to control herself.] Yet at one time you seemed to think I was.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Four or five years ago, yes. [Stretching himself in his chair.] Four or five years—it's a long, long time, Maia.MAIA.[Looking at him with a bitter expression.] Has the time seemed so very long to you, Rubek?PROFESSOR RUBEK.I am beginning now to find it a trifle long. [Yawning.] Now and then, you know.MAIA.[Returning to her place.] I shall not bore you any longer.[She resumes her seat, takes up the newspaper, and begins turningover the leaves. Silence on both sides.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Leaning on his elbows across the table, and looking at her teasingly.] Is the Frau Professor offended?MAIA.[Coldly, without looking up.] No, not at all.[Visitors to the baths, most of them ladies, begin to pass,singly and in groups, through the park from the right, andout to the left.[Waiters bring refreshments from the hotel, and go off behindthe pavilion.[The INSPECTOR, wearing gloves and carrying a stick, comes fromhis rounds in the park, meets visitors, bows politely, andexchanges a few words with some of them.THE INSPECTOR.[Advancing to PROFESSOR RUBEK's table and politely taking off his hat.] I have the honour to wish you good morning, Mrs. Rubek.—Good morning, Professor Rubek.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Good morning, good morning Inspector.THE INSPECTOR.[Addressing himself to MRS. RUBEK.] May I venture to ask if you have slept well?MAIA.Yes, thank you; excellently—for my part. I always sleep like a stone.THE INSPECTOR.I am delighted to hear it. The first night in a strange place is often rather trying.—And the Professor—?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Oh, my night's rest is never much to boast of—especially of late.THE INSPECTOR.[With a show of sympathy.] Oh—that is a pity. But after a few weeks' stay at the Baths—you will quite get over that.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looking up at him.] Tell me, Inspector—are any of your patients in the habit of taking baths during the night?THE INSPECTOR.[Astonished.] During the night? No, I have never heard of such a thing.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Have you not?THE INSPECTOR.No, I don't know of any one so ill as to require such treatment.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Well, at any rate there is some one who is in the habit of walking about the park by night?THE INSPECTOR.[Smiling and shaking his head.] No, Professor—that would be against the rules.MAIA.[Impatiently.] Good Heavens, Rubek, I told you so this morning—you must have dreamt it.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Drily.] Indeed? Must I? Thank you! [Turning to the INSPECTOR.] The fact is, I got up last night—I couldn't sleep—and I wanted to see what sort of night it was—THE INSPECTOR.[Attentively.] To be sure—and then—?PROFESSOR RUBEK.I looked out at the window—and caught sight of a white figure in there among the trees.MAIA.[Smiling to the INSPECTOR.] And the Professor declares that the figure was dressed in a bathing costume—PROFESSOR RUBEK. —or something like it, I said. Couldn't distinguish very clearly. But I am sure it was something white.THE INSPECTOR.Most remarkable. Was it a gentleman or a lady?PROFESSOR RUBEK.I could almost have sworn it was a lady. But then after it came another figure. And that one was quite dark—like a shadow—.THE INSPECTOR.[Starting.] A dark one? Quite black, perhaps?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, I should almost have said so.THE INSPECTOR.[A light breaking in upon him.] And behind the white figure? Following close upon her—?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes—at a little distance—THE INSPECTOR.Aha! Then I think I can explain the mystery, Professor.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Well, what was it then?MAIA.[Simultaneously.] Was the professor really not dreaming?THE INSPECTOR.[Suddenly whispering, as he directs their attention towards the background on the right.] Hush, if you please! Look there—don't speak loud for a moment.[A slender lady, dressed in fine, cream-white cashmere, andfollowed by a SISTER OF MERCY in black, with a silver crosshanging by a chain on her breast, comes forward from behindthe hotel and crosses the park towards the pavilion in fronton the left. Her face is pale, and its lines seem to havestiffened; the eyelids are drooped and the eyes appear asthough they saw nothing. Her dress comes down to her feetand clings to the body in perpendicular folds. Over her head,neck, breast, shoulders and arms she wears a large shawl ofwhite crape. She keeps her arms crossed upon her breast.She carries her body immovably, and her steps are stiff andmeasured. The SISTER's bearing is also measured, and she hasthe air of a servant. She keeps her brown piercing eyesincessantly fixed upon the lady. WAITERS, with napkins ontheir arms, come forward in the hotel doorway, and castcurious glances at the strangers, who take no notice ofanything, and, without looking round, enter the pavilion.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Has risen slowly and involuntarily, and stands staring at the closed door of the pavilion.] Who was that lady?THE INSPECTOR.She is a stranger who has rented the little pavilion there.PROFESSOR RUBEK.A foreigner?THE INSPECTOR.Presumably. At any rate they both came from abroad—about a week ago. They have never been here before.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Decidedly; looking at him.] It was she I saw in the park last night.THE INSPECTOR.No doubt it must have been. I thought so from the first.PROFESSOR RUBEK.What is this lady's name, Inspector?THE INSPECTOR.She has registered herself as "Madame de Satow, with companion." We know nothing more.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Reflecting.] Satow? Satow—?MAIA. [Laughing mockingly.] Do you know any one of that name, Rubek? Eh?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Shaking his head.] No, no one.—Satow? It sounds Russian—or in all events Slavonic. [To the INSPECTOR.] What language does she speak?THE INSPECTOR.When the two ladies talk to each other, it is in a language I cannot make out at all. But at other times she speaks Norwegian like a native.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Exclaims with a start.] Norwegian? You are sure you are not mistaken?THE INSPECTOR.No, how could I be mistaken in that?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks at him with eager interest.] You have heard her yourself?THE INSPECTOR.Yes. I myself have spoken to her—several times.—Only a few words, however; she is far from communicative. But—PROFESSOR RUBEK.But Norwegian it was?THE INSPECTOR.Thoroughly good Norwegian—perhaps with a little north-country accent.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Gazing straight before him in amazement, whispers.] That too?MAIA.[A little hurt and jarred.] Perhaps this lady has been one of your models, Rubek? Search your memory.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks cuttingly at her.] My models?MAIA.[With a provoking smile.] In your younger days, I mean. You are said to have had innumerable models—long ago, of course.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[In the same tone.] Oh no, little Frau Maia. I have in reality had only one single model. One and only one—for everything I have done.THE INSPECTOR.[Who has turned away and stands looking out to the left.] If you'll excuse me, I think I will take my leave. I see some one coming whom it is not particularly agreeable to meet. Especially in the presence of ladies.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looking in the same direction.] That sportsman there? Who is it?THE INSPECTOR.It is a certain Mr. Ulfheim, from—PROFESSOR RUBEK.Oh, Mr. Ulfheim—THE INSPECTOR. —the bear-killer, as they call him—PROFESSOR RUBEK.I know him.THE INSPECTOR.Who does not know him?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Very slightly, however. Is he on your list of patients—at last?THE INSPECTOR.No, strangely enough—not as yet. He comes here only once a year—on his way up to his hunting-grounds.—Excuse me for the moment—[Makes a movement to go into the hotel.ULFHEIM's VOICE.[Heard outside.] Stop a moment, man! Devil take it all, can't you stop? Why do you always scuttle away from me?THE INSPECTOR.[Stops.] I am not scuttling at all, Mr. Ulfheim.[ULFHEIM enters from the left followed by a servant with acouple of sporting dogs in leash. ULFHEIM is in shootingcostume, with high boots and a felt hat with a feather init. He is a long, lank, sinewy personage, with matted hairand beard, and a loud voice. His appearance gives no preciseclue to his age, but he is no longer young.]ULFHEIM.[Pounces upon the INSPECTOR.] Is this a way to receive strangers, hey? You scamper away with your tail between your legs—as if you had the devil at your heels.THE INSPECTOR.[Calmly, without answering him.] Has Mr. Ulfheim arrived by the steamer?ULFHEIM.[Growls.] Haven't had the honour of seeing any steamer. [With his arms akimbo.] Don't you know that I sail my own cutter? [To the SERVANT.] Look well after your fellow-creatures, Lars. But take care you keep them ravenous, all the same. Fresh meat-bones—but not too much meat on them, do you hear? And be sure it's reeking raw, and bloody. And get something in your own belly while you're about it. [Aiming a kick at him.] Now then, go to hell with you![The SERVANT goes out with the dogs, behind the corner of thehotel.]THE INSPECTOR.Would not Mr. Ulfheim like to go into the dining-room in the meantime?ULFHEIM.In among all the half-dead flies and people? No, thank you a thousand times, Mr. Inspector.THE INSPECTOR.Well, well, as you please.ULFHEIM.But get the housekeeper to prepare a hamper for me as usual. There must be plenty of provender in it—and lots of brandy—! You can tell her that I or Lars will come and play Old Harry with her if she doesn't—THE INSPECTOR.[Interrupting.] We know your ways of old. [Turning.] Can I give the waiter any orders, Professor? Can I send Mrs. Rubek anything?PROFESSOR RUBEK.No thank you; nothing for me.MAIA.Nor for me.[The INSPECTOR goes into the hotel.ULFHEIM.[Stares at them for a moment; then lifts his hat.] Why, blast me if here isn't a country tyke that has strayed into regular tip-top society.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looking up.] What do you mean by that, Mr. Ulfheim?ULFHEIM.[More quietly and politely.] I believe I have the honour of addressing no less a person than the great Sculptor Rubek.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Nods.] I remember meeting you once or twice—the autumn when I was last at home.ULFHEIM.That's many years ago, now. And then you weren't so illustrious as I hear you've since become. At that time even a dirty bear-hunter might venture to come near you.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Smiling.] I don't bite even now.MAIA.[Looks with interest at ULFHEIM.] Are you really and truly a bear-hunter?ULFHEIM.[Seating himself at the next table, nearer the hotel.] A bear-hunter when I have the chance, madam. But I make the best of any sort of game that comes in my way—eagles, and wolves, and women, and elks, and reindeer—if only it's fresh and juicy and has plenty of blood in it.[Drinks from his pocket-flask.MAIA.[Regarding him fixedly.] But you like bear-hunting best?ULFHEIM.I like it best, yes. For then one can have the knife handy at a pinch. [With a slight smile.] We both work in a hard material, madam—both your husband and I. He struggles with his marble blocks, I daresay; and I struggle with tense and quivering bear-sinews. And we both of us win the fight in the end—subdue and master our material. We never rest till we've got the upper hand of it, though it fight never so hard.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Deep in thought.] There's a great deal of truth in what you say.ULFHEIM.Yes, for I take it the stone has something to fight for too. It is dead, and determined by no manner of means to let itself be hammered into life. Just like the bear when you come and prod him up in his lair.MAIA.Are you going up into the forests now to hunt?ULFHEIM.I am going right up into the high mountain.—I suppose you have never been in the high mountain, madam?MAIA.No, never.ULFHEIM.Confound it all then, you must be sure and come up there this very summer! I'll take you with me—both you and the Professor, with pleasure.MAIA.Thanks. But Rubek is thinking of taking a sea trip this summer.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Round the coast—through the island channels.ULFHEIM.Ugh—what the devil would you do in those damnable sickly gutters—floundering about in the brackish ditchwater? Dishwater I should rather call it.MAIA.There, you hear, Rubek!ULFHEIM.No, much better come up with me to the mountain—away, clean away, from the trail and taint of men. You cant' think what that means for me. But such a little lady—[He stops.[The SISTER OF MERCY comes out of the pavilion and goes intothe hotel.ULFHEIM.[Following her with his eyes.] Just look at her, do! That night-crow there!—Who is it that's to be buried?PROFESSOR RUBEK.I have not heard of any one—ULFHEIM.Well, there's some one on the point of giving up the ghost, then—in on corner or another.—People that are sickly and rickety should have the goodness to see about getting themselves buried—the sooner the better.MAIA.Have you ever been ill yourself, Mr. Ulfheim.ULFHEIM.Never. If I had, I shouldn't be here.—But my nearest friends—they have been ill, poor things.MAIA.And what did you do for your nearest friends?ULFHEIM.Shot them, of course.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looking at him.] Shot them?MAIA.[Moving her chair back.] Shot them dead?ULFHEIM.[Nods.] I never miss, madam.MAIA.But how can you possibly shoot people!ULFHEIM.I am not speaking of people—MAIA.You said your nearest friends—ULFHEIM.Well, who should they be but my dogs?MAIA.Are your dogs your nearest friends?ULFHEIM.I have none nearer. My honest, trusty, absolutely loyal comrades—. When one of them turns sick and miserable—bang!—and there's my friend sent packing—to the other world.[The SISTER OF MERCY comes out of the hotel with a tray on whichis bread and milk. She places it on the table outside thepavilion, which she enters.ULFHEIM.[Laughs scornfully.] That stuff there—is that what you call food for human beings! Milk and water and soft, clammy bread. Ah, you should see my comrades feeding. Should you like to see it?MAIA.[Smiling across to the PROFESSOR and rising.] Yes, very much.ULFHEIM.[Also rising.] Spoken like a woman of spirit, madam! Come with me, then! They swallow whole great thumping meat-bones—gulp them up and then gulp them down again. Oh, it's a regular treat to see them. Come along and I'll show you—and while we're about it, we can talk over this trip to the mountains—[He goes out by the corner of the hotel, MAIA following him.[Almost at the same moment the STRANGE LADY comes out of thepavilion and seats herself at the table.[The LADY raises her glass of milk and is about to drink, butstops and looks across at RUBEK with vacant, expressionlesseyes.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Remains sitting at his table and gazes fixedly and earnestly at her. At last he rises, goes some steps towards her, stops, and says in a low voice.] I know you quite well, Irene.THE LADY.[In a toneless voice, setting down her glass.] You can guess who I am, Arnold?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Without answering.] And you recognise me, too, I see.THE LADY.With you it is quite another matter.PROFESSOR RUBEK.With me?—How so?THE LADY.Oh, you are still alive.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Not understanding.] Alive—?THE LADY.[After a short pause.] Who was the other? The woman you had with you—there at the table?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[A little reluctantly.] She? That was my—my wife.THE LADY.[Nods slowly.] Indeed. That is well, Arnold. Some one, then, who does not concern me—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Nods.] No, of course not—THE LADY. —one whom you have taken to you after my lifetime.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Suddenly looking hard at her.] After your—? What do you mean by that, Irene?IRENE.[Without answering.] And the child? I hear the child is prospering too. Our child survives me—and has come to honour and glory.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Smiles as at a far-off recollection.] Our child? Yes, we called it so—then.IRENE.In my lifetime, yes.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Trying to take a lighter tone.] Yes, Irene.—I can assure you "our child" has become famous all the wide world over. I suppose you have read about it.IRENE.[Nods.] And has made its father famous too.—That was your dream.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[More softly, with emotion.] It is to you I owe everything, everything, Irene—and I thank you.IRENE.[Lost in thought for a moment.] If I had then done what I had a right to do, Arnold—PROFESSOR RUBEK.Well? What then?IRENE.I should have killed that child.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Killed it, you say?IRENE.[Whispering.] Killed it—before I went away from you. Crushed it—crushed it to dust.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Shakes his head reproachfully.] You would never have been able to, Irene. You had not the heart to do it.IRENE.No, in those days I had not that sort of heart.PROFESSOR RUBEK.But since then? Afterwards?IRENE.Since then I have killed it innumerable times. By daylight and in the dark. Killed it in hatred—and in revenge—and in anguish.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Goes close up to the table and asks softly.] Irene—tell me now at last—after all these years—why did you go away from me? You disappeared so utterly—left not a trace behind—IRENE.[Shaking her head slowly.] Oh Arnold—why should I tell you that now—from the world beyond the grave.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Was there some one else whom you had come to love?IRENE.There was one who had no longer any use for my love—any use for my life.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Changing the subject.] H'm—don't let us talk any more of the past—IRENE.No, no—by all means let us not talk of what is beyond the grave—what is now beyond the grave for me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Where have you been, Irene? All my inquiries were fruitless—you seemed to have vanished away.IRENE.I went into the darkness—when the child stood transfigured in the light.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Have you travelled much about the world?IRENE.Yes. Travelled in many lands.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks compassionately at her.] And what have you found to do, Irene?IRENE.[Turning her eyes upon him.] Wait a moment; let me see—. Yes, now I have it. I have posed on the turntable in variety-shows. Posed as a naked statue in living pictures. Raked in heaps of money. That was more than I could do with you; for you had none.—And then I turned the heads of all sorts of men. That too, was more than I could do with you, Arnold. You kept yourself better in hand.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Hastening to pass the subject by.] And then you have married, too?IRENE.Yes; I married one of them.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Who is your husband?IRENE.He was a South American. A distinguished diplomatist. [Looks straight in front of her with a stony smile.] Him I managed to drive quite out of his mind; mad—incurably mad; inexorably mad.—It was great sport, I can tell you—while it was in the doing. I could have laughed within me all the time—if I had anything within me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And where is he now?IRENE.Oh, in a churchyard somewhere or other. With a fine handsome monument over him. And with a bullet rattling in his skull.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Did he kill himself?IRENE.Yes, he was good enough to take that off my hands.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Do you not lament his loss, Irene?IRENE.[Not understanding.] Lament? What loss?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Why, the loss of Herr von Satow, of course.IRENE.His name was not Satow.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Was it not?IRENE.My second husband is called Satow. He is a Russian—PROFESSOR RUBEK.And where is he?IRENE.Far away in the Ural Mountains. Among all his gold-mines.PROFESSOR RUBEK.So he lives there?IRENE.[Shrugs her shoulders.] Lives? Lives? In reality I have killed him—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Start.] Killed—!IRENE.Killed him with a fine sharp dagger which I always have with me in bed—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Vehemently.] I don't believe you, Irene!IRENE.[With a gentle smile.] Indeed you may believe it, Arnold.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks compassionately at her.] Have you never had a child?IRENE.Yes, I have had many children.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And where are your children now?IRENE.I killed them.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Severely.] Now you are telling me lies again!IRENE.I have killed them, I tell you—murdered them pitilessly. As soon as ever they came into the world. Oh, long, long before. One after the other.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Sadly and earnestly.] There is something hidden behind everything you say.IRENE.How can I help that? Every word I say is whispered into my ear.PROFESSOR RUBEK.I believe I am the only one that can divine your meaning.IRENE.Surely you ought to be the only one.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Rests his hands on the table and looks intently at her.] Some of the strings of your nature have broken.IRENE.[Gently.] Does not that always happen when a young warm-blooded woman dies?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Oh Irene, have done with these wild imaginings—! You are living! Living—living!IRENE.[Rises slowly from her chair and says, quivering.] I was dead for many years. They came and bound me—laced my arms together behind my back—. Then they lowered me into a grave-vault, with iron bars before the loop-hole. And with padded walls—so that no one on the earth above could hear the grave-shrieks—. But now I am beginning, in a way, to rise from the dead.
PROFESSOR ARNOLD RUBEK, a sculptor.MRS. MAIA RUBEK, his wife.THE INSPECTOR at the Baths.ULFHEIM, a landed proprietor.A STRANGER LADY.A SISTER OF MERCY.Servants, Visitors to the Baths, and Children.
The First Act passes at a bathing establishment on the coast; the Second and Third Acts in the neighbourhood of a health resort, high in the mountains.
[Outside the Bath Hotel. A portion of the main building can be seento the right.An open, park-like place with a fountain, groupsof fine old trees, and shrubbery. To the left, a little pavilionalmost covered with ivy and Virginia creeper. A table and chairoutside it. At the back a view over the fjord, right out to sea,with headlands and small islands in the distance. It is a calm,warm and sunny summer morning.[PROFESSOR RUBEK and MRS. MAIA RUBEK are sitting in basket chairsbeside a covered table on the lawn outside the hotel, having justbreakfasted. They have champagne and seltzer water on the table,and each has a newspaper. PROFESSOR RUBEK is an elderly man ofdistinguished appearance, wearing a black velvet jacket, andotherwise in light summer attire. MAIA is quite young, witha vivacious expression and lively, mocking eyes, yet with asuggestion of fatigue. She wears an elegant travelling dress.
[Sits for some time as though waiting for the PROFESSOR to say something, then lets her paper drop with a deep sigh.] Oh dear, dear, dear—!
[Looks up from his paper.] Well, Maia? What is the matter with you?
Just listen how silent it is here.
[Smiles indulgently.] And you can hear that?
What?
The silence?
Yes, indeed I can.
Well, perhaps you are right,mein Kind. One can really hear the silence.
Heaven knows you can—when it's so absolutely overpowering as it is here—
Here at the Baths, you mean?
Wherever you go at home here, it seems to me. Of course there was noise and bustle enough in the town. But I don't know how it is—even the noise and bustle seemed to have something dead about it.
[With a searching glance.] You don't seem particularly glad to be at home again, Maia?
[Looks at him.] Are you glad?
[Evasively.] I—?
Yes, you, who have been so much, much further away than I. Are you entirely happy, now that you are at home again?
No—to be quite candid—perhaps not entirely happy—
[With animation.] There, you see! Didn't I know it!
I have been too long abroad. I have drifted quite away from all this—this home life.
[Eagerly, drawing her chair nearer him.] There, you see, Rubek! We had much better get away again! As quickly as ever we can.
[Somewhat impatiently.] Well, well, that is what we intend to do, my dear Maia. You know that.
But why not now—at once? Only think how cozy and comfortable we could be down there, in our lovely new house—
[Smiles indulgently.] We ought by rights to say: our lovely new home.
[Shortly.] I prefer to say house—let us keep to that.
[His eyes dwelling on her.] You are really a strange little person.
Am I so strange?
Yes, I think so.
But why, pray? Perhaps because I'm not desperately in love with mooning about up here—?
Which of us was it that was absolutely bent on our coming north this summer?
I admit, it was I.
It was certainly not I, at any rate.
But good heavens, who could have dreamt that everything would have altered so terribly at home here? And in so short a time, too! Why, it is only just four years since I went away—
Since you were married, yes.
Married? What has that to do with the matter?
[Continuing.] —since you became the Frau Professor, and found yourself mistress of a charming home—I beg your pardon—a very handsome house, I ought to say. And a villa on the Lake of Taunitz, just at the point that has become most fashionable, too—. In fact it is all very handsome and distinguished, Maia, there's no denying that. And spacious too. We need not always be getting in each other's way—
[Lightly.] No, no, no—there's certainly no lack of house-room, and that sort of thing—
Remember, too, that you have been living in altogether more spacious and distinguished surroundings—in more polished society than you were accustomed to at home.
[Looking at him.] Ah, so you think it isIthat have changed?
Indeed I do, Maia.
I alone? Not the people here?
Oh yes, they too—a little, perhaps. And not at all in the direction of amiability. That I readily admit.
I should think you must admit it, indeed.
[Changing the subject.] Do you know how it affects me when I look at the life of the people around us here?
No. Tell me.
It makes me think of that night we spent in the train, when we were coming up here—
Why, you were sound asleep all the time.
Not quite. I noticed how silent it became at all the little roadside stations. I heard the silence—like you, Maia—
H'm,—like me, yes.
PROFESSOR RUBEK. —and that assured me that we had crossed the frontier—that we were really at home. For the train stopped at all the little stations—although there was nothing doing at all.
Then why did it stop—though there was nothing to be done?
Can't say. No one got out or in; but all the same the train stopped a long, endless time. And at every station I could make out that there were two railway men walking up and down the platform—one with a lantern in his hand—and they said things to each other in the night, low, and toneless, and meaningless.
Yes, that is quite true. There are always two men walking up and down, and talking—
PROFESSOR RUBEK. —of nothing. [Changing to a livelier tone.] But just wait till to-morrow. Then we shall have the great luxurious steamer lying in the harbour. We'll go on board her, and sail all round the coast—northward ho!—right to the polar sea.
Yes, but then you will see nothing of the country—and of the people. And that was what you particularly wanted.
[Shortly and snappishly.] I have seen more than enough.
Do you think a sea voyage will be better for you?
It is always a change.
Well, well, if only it is the right thing for you—
For me? The right thing? There is nothing in the world the matter with me.
[Rises and goes to him.] Yes, there is, Rubek. I am sure you must feel it yourself.
Why my dearest Maia—what should be amiss with me?
[Behind him, bending over the back of his chair.] That you must tell me. You have begun to wander about without a moment's peace. You cannot rest anywhere—neither at home nor abroad. You have become quite misanthropic of late.
[With a touch of sarcasm.] Dear me—have you noticed that?
No one that knows you can help noticing it. And then it seems to me so sad that you have lost all pleasure in your work.
That too, eh?
You that used to be so indefatigable—working from morning to night!
[Gloomily.] Used to be, yes—
But ever since you got your great masterpiece out of hand—
[Nods thoughtfully.] "The Resurrection Day"—
MAIA. —the masterpiece that has gone round the whole world, and made you so famous—
Perhaps that is just the misfortune, Maia.
How so?
When I had finished this masterpiece of mine—[Makes a passionate movement with his hand]—for "The Resurrection Day" is a masterpiece! Or was one in the beginning. No, it is one still. It must, must, must be a masterpiece!
[Looks at him in astonishment.] Why, Rubek—all the world knows that.
[Short, repellently.] All the world knows nothing! Understands nothing!
Well, at any rate it can divine something—
Something that isn't there at all, yes. Something that never was in my mind. Ah yes, that they can all go into ecstasies over! [Growling to himself.] What is the good of working oneself to death for the mob and the masses—for "all the world"!
Do you think it is better, then—do you think it is worthy of you, to do nothing at all but portrait-bust now and then?
[With a sly smile.] They are not exactly portrait-busts that I turn out, Maia.
Yes, indeed they are—for the last two or three years—ever since you finished your great group and got it out of the house—
All the same, they are no mere portrait-busts, I assure you.
What are they, then?
There is something equivocal, something cryptic, lurking in and behind these busts—a secret something, that the people themselves cannot see—
Indeed?
[Decisively.] I alone can see it. And it amuses me unspeakably.—On the surface I give them the "striking likeness," as they call it, that they all stand and gape at in astonishment—[Lowers his voice]—but at bottom they are all respectable, pompous horse-faces, and self-opinionated donkey-muzzles, and lop-eared, low-browed dog-skulls, and fatted swine-snouts—and sometimes dull, brutal bull-fronts as well—
[Indifferently.] All the dear domestic animals, in fact.
Simply the dear domestic animals, Maia. All the animals which men have bedevilled in their own image—and which have bedevilled men in return. [Empties his champagne-glass and laughs.] And it is these double-faced works of art that our excellent plutocrats come and order of me. And pay for in all good faith—and in good round figures too—almost their weight in gold, as the saying goes.
[Fills his glass.] Come, Rubek! Drink and be happy.
[Passes his hand several times across his forehead and leans back in his chair.] I am happy, Maia. Really happy—in a way. [Short silence.] For after all there is a certain happiness in feeling oneself free and independent on every hand—in having at ones command everything one can possibly wish for—all outward things, that is to say. Do you not agree with me, Maia?
Oh yes, I agree. All that is well enough in its way. [Looking at him.] But do you remember what you promised me the day we came to an understanding on—on that troublesome point—
[Nods.] —on the subject of our marriage, yes. It was no easy matter for you, Maia.
[Continuing unruffled.] —and agreed that I was to go abroad with you, and live there for good and all—and enjoy myself.—Do you remember what you promised me that day?
[Shaking his head.] No, I can't say that I do. Well, what did I promise?
You said you would take me up to a high mountain and show me all the glory of the world.
[With a slight start.] Did I promise you that, too?
Me too? Who else, pray?
[Indifferently.] No, no, I only meant did I promise to show you—?
MAIA. —all the glory of the world? Yes, you did. And all that glory should be mine, you said.
That is sort of figure of speech that I was in the habit of using once upon a time.
Only a figure of speech?
Yes, a schoolboy phrase—the sort of thing I used to say when I wanted to lure the neighbours' children out to play with me, in the woods and on the mountains.
[Looking hard at him.] Perhaps you only wanted to lure me out to play, as well?
[Passing it off as a jest.] Well, has it not been a tolerable amusing game, Maia?
[Coldly.] I did not go with you only to play.
No, no, I daresay not.
And you never took me up with you to any high mountain, or showed me—
[With irritation.] —all the glory of the world? No, I did not. For, let me tell you something: you are not really born to be a mountain-climber, little Maia.
[Trying to control herself.] Yet at one time you seemed to think I was.
Four or five years ago, yes. [Stretching himself in his chair.] Four or five years—it's a long, long time, Maia.
[Looking at him with a bitter expression.] Has the time seemed so very long to you, Rubek?
I am beginning now to find it a trifle long. [Yawning.] Now and then, you know.
[Returning to her place.] I shall not bore you any longer.
[She resumes her seat, takes up the newspaper, and begins turningover the leaves. Silence on both sides.
[Leaning on his elbows across the table, and looking at her teasingly.] Is the Frau Professor offended?
[Coldly, without looking up.] No, not at all.
[Visitors to the baths, most of them ladies, begin to pass,singly and in groups, through the park from the right, andout to the left.[Waiters bring refreshments from the hotel, and go off behindthe pavilion.[The INSPECTOR, wearing gloves and carrying a stick, comes fromhis rounds in the park, meets visitors, bows politely, andexchanges a few words with some of them.
[Advancing to PROFESSOR RUBEK's table and politely taking off his hat.] I have the honour to wish you good morning, Mrs. Rubek.—Good morning, Professor Rubek.
Good morning, good morning Inspector.
[Addressing himself to MRS. RUBEK.] May I venture to ask if you have slept well?
Yes, thank you; excellently—for my part. I always sleep like a stone.
I am delighted to hear it. The first night in a strange place is often rather trying.—And the Professor—?
Oh, my night's rest is never much to boast of—especially of late.
[With a show of sympathy.] Oh—that is a pity. But after a few weeks' stay at the Baths—you will quite get over that.
[Looking up at him.] Tell me, Inspector—are any of your patients in the habit of taking baths during the night?
[Astonished.] During the night? No, I have never heard of such a thing.
Have you not?
No, I don't know of any one so ill as to require such treatment.
Well, at any rate there is some one who is in the habit of walking about the park by night?
[Smiling and shaking his head.] No, Professor—that would be against the rules.
[Impatiently.] Good Heavens, Rubek, I told you so this morning—you must have dreamt it.
[Drily.] Indeed? Must I? Thank you! [Turning to the INSPECTOR.] The fact is, I got up last night—I couldn't sleep—and I wanted to see what sort of night it was—
[Attentively.] To be sure—and then—?
I looked out at the window—and caught sight of a white figure in there among the trees.
[Smiling to the INSPECTOR.] And the Professor declares that the figure was dressed in a bathing costume—
PROFESSOR RUBEK. —or something like it, I said. Couldn't distinguish very clearly. But I am sure it was something white.
Most remarkable. Was it a gentleman or a lady?
I could almost have sworn it was a lady. But then after it came another figure. And that one was quite dark—like a shadow—.
[Starting.] A dark one? Quite black, perhaps?
Yes, I should almost have said so.
[A light breaking in upon him.] And behind the white figure? Following close upon her—?
Yes—at a little distance—
Aha! Then I think I can explain the mystery, Professor.
Well, what was it then?
[Simultaneously.] Was the professor really not dreaming?
[Suddenly whispering, as he directs their attention towards the background on the right.] Hush, if you please! Look there—don't speak loud for a moment.
[A slender lady, dressed in fine, cream-white cashmere, andfollowed by a SISTER OF MERCY in black, with a silver crosshanging by a chain on her breast, comes forward from behindthe hotel and crosses the park towards the pavilion in fronton the left. Her face is pale, and its lines seem to havestiffened; the eyelids are drooped and the eyes appear asthough they saw nothing. Her dress comes down to her feetand clings to the body in perpendicular folds. Over her head,neck, breast, shoulders and arms she wears a large shawl ofwhite crape. She keeps her arms crossed upon her breast.She carries her body immovably, and her steps are stiff andmeasured. The SISTER's bearing is also measured, and she hasthe air of a servant. She keeps her brown piercing eyesincessantly fixed upon the lady. WAITERS, with napkins ontheir arms, come forward in the hotel doorway, and castcurious glances at the strangers, who take no notice ofanything, and, without looking round, enter the pavilion.
[Has risen slowly and involuntarily, and stands staring at the closed door of the pavilion.] Who was that lady?
She is a stranger who has rented the little pavilion there.
A foreigner?
Presumably. At any rate they both came from abroad—about a week ago. They have never been here before.
[Decidedly; looking at him.] It was she I saw in the park last night.
No doubt it must have been. I thought so from the first.
What is this lady's name, Inspector?
She has registered herself as "Madame de Satow, with companion." We know nothing more.
[Reflecting.] Satow? Satow—?
MAIA. [Laughing mockingly.] Do you know any one of that name, Rubek? Eh?
[Shaking his head.] No, no one.—Satow? It sounds Russian—or in all events Slavonic. [To the INSPECTOR.] What language does she speak?
When the two ladies talk to each other, it is in a language I cannot make out at all. But at other times she speaks Norwegian like a native.
[Exclaims with a start.] Norwegian? You are sure you are not mistaken?
No, how could I be mistaken in that?
[Looks at him with eager interest.] You have heard her yourself?
Yes. I myself have spoken to her—several times.—Only a few words, however; she is far from communicative. But—
But Norwegian it was?
Thoroughly good Norwegian—perhaps with a little north-country accent.
[Gazing straight before him in amazement, whispers.] That too?
[A little hurt and jarred.] Perhaps this lady has been one of your models, Rubek? Search your memory.
[Looks cuttingly at her.] My models?
[With a provoking smile.] In your younger days, I mean. You are said to have had innumerable models—long ago, of course.
[In the same tone.] Oh no, little Frau Maia. I have in reality had only one single model. One and only one—for everything I have done.
[Who has turned away and stands looking out to the left.] If you'll excuse me, I think I will take my leave. I see some one coming whom it is not particularly agreeable to meet. Especially in the presence of ladies.
[Looking in the same direction.] That sportsman there? Who is it?
It is a certain Mr. Ulfheim, from—
Oh, Mr. Ulfheim—
THE INSPECTOR. —the bear-killer, as they call him—
I know him.
Who does not know him?
Very slightly, however. Is he on your list of patients—at last?
No, strangely enough—not as yet. He comes here only once a year—on his way up to his hunting-grounds.—Excuse me for the moment—
[Makes a movement to go into the hotel.
ULFHEIM's VOICE.
[Heard outside.] Stop a moment, man! Devil take it all, can't you stop? Why do you always scuttle away from me?
[Stops.] I am not scuttling at all, Mr. Ulfheim.
[ULFHEIM enters from the left followed by a servant with acouple of sporting dogs in leash. ULFHEIM is in shootingcostume, with high boots and a felt hat with a feather init. He is a long, lank, sinewy personage, with matted hairand beard, and a loud voice. His appearance gives no preciseclue to his age, but he is no longer young.]
[Pounces upon the INSPECTOR.] Is this a way to receive strangers, hey? You scamper away with your tail between your legs—as if you had the devil at your heels.
[Calmly, without answering him.] Has Mr. Ulfheim arrived by the steamer?
[Growls.] Haven't had the honour of seeing any steamer. [With his arms akimbo.] Don't you know that I sail my own cutter? [To the SERVANT.] Look well after your fellow-creatures, Lars. But take care you keep them ravenous, all the same. Fresh meat-bones—but not too much meat on them, do you hear? And be sure it's reeking raw, and bloody. And get something in your own belly while you're about it. [Aiming a kick at him.] Now then, go to hell with you!
[The SERVANT goes out with the dogs, behind the corner of thehotel.]
Would not Mr. Ulfheim like to go into the dining-room in the meantime?
In among all the half-dead flies and people? No, thank you a thousand times, Mr. Inspector.
Well, well, as you please.
But get the housekeeper to prepare a hamper for me as usual. There must be plenty of provender in it—and lots of brandy—! You can tell her that I or Lars will come and play Old Harry with her if she doesn't—
[Interrupting.] We know your ways of old. [Turning.] Can I give the waiter any orders, Professor? Can I send Mrs. Rubek anything?
No thank you; nothing for me.
Nor for me.
[The INSPECTOR goes into the hotel.
[Stares at them for a moment; then lifts his hat.] Why, blast me if here isn't a country tyke that has strayed into regular tip-top society.
[Looking up.] What do you mean by that, Mr. Ulfheim?
[More quietly and politely.] I believe I have the honour of addressing no less a person than the great Sculptor Rubek.
[Nods.] I remember meeting you once or twice—the autumn when I was last at home.
That's many years ago, now. And then you weren't so illustrious as I hear you've since become. At that time even a dirty bear-hunter might venture to come near you.
[Smiling.] I don't bite even now.
[Looks with interest at ULFHEIM.] Are you really and truly a bear-hunter?
[Seating himself at the next table, nearer the hotel.] A bear-hunter when I have the chance, madam. But I make the best of any sort of game that comes in my way—eagles, and wolves, and women, and elks, and reindeer—if only it's fresh and juicy and has plenty of blood in it.
[Drinks from his pocket-flask.
[Regarding him fixedly.] But you like bear-hunting best?
I like it best, yes. For then one can have the knife handy at a pinch. [With a slight smile.] We both work in a hard material, madam—both your husband and I. He struggles with his marble blocks, I daresay; and I struggle with tense and quivering bear-sinews. And we both of us win the fight in the end—subdue and master our material. We never rest till we've got the upper hand of it, though it fight never so hard.
[Deep in thought.] There's a great deal of truth in what you say.
Yes, for I take it the stone has something to fight for too. It is dead, and determined by no manner of means to let itself be hammered into life. Just like the bear when you come and prod him up in his lair.
Are you going up into the forests now to hunt?
I am going right up into the high mountain.—I suppose you have never been in the high mountain, madam?
No, never.
Confound it all then, you must be sure and come up there this very summer! I'll take you with me—both you and the Professor, with pleasure.
Thanks. But Rubek is thinking of taking a sea trip this summer.
Round the coast—through the island channels.
Ugh—what the devil would you do in those damnable sickly gutters—floundering about in the brackish ditchwater? Dishwater I should rather call it.
There, you hear, Rubek!
No, much better come up with me to the mountain—away, clean away, from the trail and taint of men. You cant' think what that means for me. But such a little lady—
[He stops.[The SISTER OF MERCY comes out of the pavilion and goes intothe hotel.
[Following her with his eyes.] Just look at her, do! That night-crow there!—Who is it that's to be buried?
I have not heard of any one—
Well, there's some one on the point of giving up the ghost, then—in on corner or another.—People that are sickly and rickety should have the goodness to see about getting themselves buried—the sooner the better.
Have you ever been ill yourself, Mr. Ulfheim.
Never. If I had, I shouldn't be here.—But my nearest friends—they have been ill, poor things.
And what did you do for your nearest friends?
Shot them, of course.
[Looking at him.] Shot them?
[Moving her chair back.] Shot them dead?
[Nods.] I never miss, madam.
But how can you possibly shoot people!
I am not speaking of people—
You said your nearest friends—
Well, who should they be but my dogs?
Are your dogs your nearest friends?
I have none nearer. My honest, trusty, absolutely loyal comrades—. When one of them turns sick and miserable—bang!—and there's my friend sent packing—to the other world.
[The SISTER OF MERCY comes out of the hotel with a tray on whichis bread and milk. She places it on the table outside thepavilion, which she enters.
[Laughs scornfully.] That stuff there—is that what you call food for human beings! Milk and water and soft, clammy bread. Ah, you should see my comrades feeding. Should you like to see it?
[Smiling across to the PROFESSOR and rising.] Yes, very much.
[Also rising.] Spoken like a woman of spirit, madam! Come with me, then! They swallow whole great thumping meat-bones—gulp them up and then gulp them down again. Oh, it's a regular treat to see them. Come along and I'll show you—and while we're about it, we can talk over this trip to the mountains—
[He goes out by the corner of the hotel, MAIA following him.[Almost at the same moment the STRANGE LADY comes out of thepavilion and seats herself at the table.[The LADY raises her glass of milk and is about to drink, butstops and looks across at RUBEK with vacant, expressionlesseyes.
[Remains sitting at his table and gazes fixedly and earnestly at her. At last he rises, goes some steps towards her, stops, and says in a low voice.] I know you quite well, Irene.
[In a toneless voice, setting down her glass.] You can guess who I am, Arnold?
[Without answering.] And you recognise me, too, I see.
With you it is quite another matter.
With me?—How so?
Oh, you are still alive.
[Not understanding.] Alive—?
[After a short pause.] Who was the other? The woman you had with you—there at the table?
[A little reluctantly.] She? That was my—my wife.
[Nods slowly.] Indeed. That is well, Arnold. Some one, then, who does not concern me—
[Nods.] No, of course not—
THE LADY. —one whom you have taken to you after my lifetime.
[Suddenly looking hard at her.] After your—? What do you mean by that, Irene?
[Without answering.] And the child? I hear the child is prospering too. Our child survives me—and has come to honour and glory.
[Smiles as at a far-off recollection.] Our child? Yes, we called it so—then.
In my lifetime, yes.
[Trying to take a lighter tone.] Yes, Irene.—I can assure you "our child" has become famous all the wide world over. I suppose you have read about it.
[Nods.] And has made its father famous too.—That was your dream.
[More softly, with emotion.] It is to you I owe everything, everything, Irene—and I thank you.
[Lost in thought for a moment.] If I had then done what I had a right to do, Arnold—
Well? What then?
I should have killed that child.
Killed it, you say?
[Whispering.] Killed it—before I went away from you. Crushed it—crushed it to dust.
[Shakes his head reproachfully.] You would never have been able to, Irene. You had not the heart to do it.
No, in those days I had not that sort of heart.
But since then? Afterwards?
Since then I have killed it innumerable times. By daylight and in the dark. Killed it in hatred—and in revenge—and in anguish.
[Goes close up to the table and asks softly.] Irene—tell me now at last—after all these years—why did you go away from me? You disappeared so utterly—left not a trace behind—
[Shaking her head slowly.] Oh Arnold—why should I tell you that now—from the world beyond the grave.
Was there some one else whom you had come to love?
There was one who had no longer any use for my love—any use for my life.
[Changing the subject.] H'm—don't let us talk any more of the past—
No, no—by all means let us not talk of what is beyond the grave—what is now beyond the grave for me.
Where have you been, Irene? All my inquiries were fruitless—you seemed to have vanished away.
I went into the darkness—when the child stood transfigured in the light.
Have you travelled much about the world?
Yes. Travelled in many lands.
[Looks compassionately at her.] And what have you found to do, Irene?
[Turning her eyes upon him.] Wait a moment; let me see—. Yes, now I have it. I have posed on the turntable in variety-shows. Posed as a naked statue in living pictures. Raked in heaps of money. That was more than I could do with you; for you had none.—And then I turned the heads of all sorts of men. That too, was more than I could do with you, Arnold. You kept yourself better in hand.
[Hastening to pass the subject by.] And then you have married, too?
Yes; I married one of them.
Who is your husband?
He was a South American. A distinguished diplomatist. [Looks straight in front of her with a stony smile.] Him I managed to drive quite out of his mind; mad—incurably mad; inexorably mad.—It was great sport, I can tell you—while it was in the doing. I could have laughed within me all the time—if I had anything within me.
And where is he now?
Oh, in a churchyard somewhere or other. With a fine handsome monument over him. And with a bullet rattling in his skull.
Did he kill himself?
Yes, he was good enough to take that off my hands.
Do you not lament his loss, Irene?
[Not understanding.] Lament? What loss?
Why, the loss of Herr von Satow, of course.
His name was not Satow.
Was it not?
My second husband is called Satow. He is a Russian—
And where is he?
Far away in the Ural Mountains. Among all his gold-mines.
So he lives there?
[Shrugs her shoulders.] Lives? Lives? In reality I have killed him—
[Start.] Killed—!
Killed him with a fine sharp dagger which I always have with me in bed—
[Vehemently.] I don't believe you, Irene!
[With a gentle smile.] Indeed you may believe it, Arnold.
[Looks compassionately at her.] Have you never had a child?
Yes, I have had many children.
And where are your children now?
I killed them.
[Severely.] Now you are telling me lies again!
I have killed them, I tell you—murdered them pitilessly. As soon as ever they came into the world. Oh, long, long before. One after the other.
[Sadly and earnestly.] There is something hidden behind everything you say.
How can I help that? Every word I say is whispered into my ear.
I believe I am the only one that can divine your meaning.
Surely you ought to be the only one.
[Rests his hands on the table and looks intently at her.] Some of the strings of your nature have broken.
[Gently.] Does not that always happen when a young warm-blooded woman dies?
Oh Irene, have done with these wild imaginings—! You are living! Living—living!
[Rises slowly from her chair and says, quivering.] I was dead for many years. They came and bound me—laced my arms together behind my back—. Then they lowered me into a grave-vault, with iron bars before the loop-hole. And with padded walls—so that no one on the earth above could hear the grave-shrieks—. But now I am beginning, in a way, to rise from the dead.