THE WILD DUCK
_A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS_
By HENRIK IBSEN
_TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN BY_
ELEANOR MARX AVELING
Copyright, 1890, by JOHN W. LOVELL CO.
BOSTON
WALTER H. BAKER & CO.
CONTENTS
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE. 3
PERSONS OF THE PLAY. 4
ACT I. 5
ACT II. 30
ACT III. 58
ACT IV. 89
ACT V. 117
Transcriber’s Note.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE.
“Vildanden” is perhaps the most difficult of all Ibsen’s prose dramas
to translate. Some of the speeches of Gina and Relling are indeed
quite untranslatable. The difficulty in the case of Gina is in respect
to her frequent malapropisms, which, for the most part, turn on the
mispronunciation of a word, or the use of a word which resembles in
sound the one she wants. It is obvious that in the transference of such
blunders of one language to another their exact significance can not be
caught. Occasionally it has been possible, as when she says “divide”
for “divert,” or calls the pistol “pigstol.” But these instances are
rare, and more frequently Gina’s slips could only have been indicated
by entirely changing her words. As I have aimed at making as literal a
translation as possible I did not feel justified in so departing from
the original.
ELEANOR MARX AVELING.
PERSONS OF THE PLAY.
WERLE, _Merchant, Factory Owner, Etc._
GREGERS WERLE, _His Son_.
OLD EKDAL.
HJALMAR EKDAL, _The Old Man’s Son, a Photographer_.
GINA EKDAL, _Hjalmar’s Wife_.
HEDVIG, _Their Daughter, Fourteen Years Old_.
MRS. SORBY, _Werle’s Housekeeper_.
RELLING, _a Doctor_.
MOLVIK, _an ex-Theological Student_.
GRABERG, _Book-keeper_.
PETTERSEN, _Servant to Werle_.
JENSEN, _Hired Waiter_.
A PALE AND FAT GENTLEMAN.
A THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN.
A SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN.
SIX OTHER GENTLEMEN, _Guests of Werle’s_.
SEVERAL HIRED WAITERS.
_The first Act at_ MR. WERLE’S. _The four other Acts at_ EKDAL, _the
photographer’s_.
ACT I.
[WERLE’S _House. Richly and comfortably furnished study. Book cases
and upholstered furniture, a writing-table, with papers and
ledgers in the center of the stage; lamps alight with green
shades, so that the room is dimly lighted. Open folding-doors,
with the curtain drawn at back. Beyond a large elegant room,
brilliantly lighted with lamps and branched candlesticks. At the
right lower entrance of the study a small baize door leads to the
office. Left lower entrance a fireplace, with glowing coals, and
beyond this a folding-door leading to the dining-room._]
[PETTERSEN, WERLE’S _servant, in livery, and the hired waiter_,
JENSEN, _in black, are setting the study in order. In the large
room two or three other hired waiters are moving about, trimming
and lighting several more lights. From within the dining-room, is
heard a confused buzz of conversation and laughter; a knife is
rapped against a glass, there is silence, a toast is given, cries
of “bravo,” and then again the buzz of conversation._]
PETTERSEN (_lighting a lamp on the mantel-piece, and placing a shade
upon it_). Just listen, Jensen; there’s the old chap standing up by the
table and proposing to Mrs. Sorby’s health in a long speech.
JENSEN (_bringing down an arm-chair_). Is there any truth in what
people say, that there’s something between them?
PETTERSEN. Goodness knows!
JENSEN. For he’s been a great rake in his time.
PETTERSEN. Maybe.
JENSEN. It’s in honor of his son that he’s giving this dinner, they say.
PETTERSEN. Yes, his son came home yesterday.
JENSEN. I never knew before that Mr. Werle had a son.
PETTERSEN. Oh yes, he has a son. But he’s always stopped up there at
the Hojdal Works. He’s not been in town all the years I’ve been in
service here.
ANOTHER WAITER (_at the door of the other room_). I say, Pettersen,
here’s an old fellow who----
PETTERSEN (_muttering_). Who the devil’s here now?
OLD EKDAL _enters the room from the right. He wears a threadbare
cloak with a stand-up collar, woollen mittens; in his hands a
stick and a fur cap, under his arm a parcel done up in cardboard.
He has a reddish-brown, dirty wig, and a small mustache._
PETTERSEN (_going towards him_). Good gracious! What do you want here?
EKDAL (_in the doorway_). Must absolutely go to the office, Pettersen.
PETTERSEN. The office was closed an hour ago and----
EKDAL. Heard so at the door, my lad. But Graberg’s in there still. Be a
good fellow, Pettersen, and let me slip in this way. (_Pointing to the
baize door._) I’ve been that way before.
PETTERSEN. All right, you can go. (_Opens door._) But mind you leave
the proper way, for we’ve company.
EKDAL. Know that--h’m! Thanks, Pettersen, my lad. Good old friend.
Thanks. (_Mutters in a low tone._) Idiot!
_He goes into the office._ PETTERSEN _closes the door after him_.
JENSEN. Is he one of the clerks too?
PETTERSEN. No, he only does writing at home when it’s wanted. But he’s
been a great swell in his time, has old Ekdal.
JENSEN. Yes, he looks as if he had been a little of everything.
PETTERSEN. Yes, for you know he’s been a lieutenant.
JENSEN. The devil he has! He been a lieutenant?
PETTERSEN. That he has. But then he went into the timber trade or
something of the sort. They say he played Mr. Werle a very dirty trick
once. For the two were partners then up at the Hojdal Works, you know.
Ah, I know good old Ekdal, I do. We drink many a good bottle of beer
and bitters together at Mrs. Ericksen’s.
JENSEN. Surely he hasn’t got much to stand treat with?
PETTERSEN. Lord, Jensen, of course you understand that I pay. For I
think one should be polite to better people who’ve come down in the
world.
JENSEN. Did he go bankrupt?
PETTERSEN. No, it was worse than that. He was sent to gaol.
JENSEN. Gaol?
PETTERSEN. Or the house of correction, or something. (_Listening._)
Hush! they’re coming from the table.
_The doors of the dining-room are thrown open by a couple of servants
from within._ MRS. SORBY, _talking to two gentlemen, comes out.
Gradually all the guests follow, among these_ MR. WERLE. HJALMAR
EKDAL _and_ GREGERS WERLE _enter last_.
MRS. SORBY (_to the servants, as she passes along_). Pettersen, have
the coffee served in the music-room.
PETTERSEN. Yes, Mrs. Sorby.
_She and the two gentlemen pass into the room at the back, and thence
right._ PETTERSEN and JENSEN _go out the same way_.
PALE FAT GENTLEMAN (_to the thin-haired one_). Phew! That dinner--it
was a stiff bit of work!
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. Oh! with a little good-will one can get through
an immense deal in three hours.
FAT GENTLEMAN.--Ah, but afterwards, afterwards, my dear Chamberlain![1]
[1] The title of Chamberlain (Kammeherre) is one bestowed by the king
as a special distinction upon men of wealth and position. It is the
only title now permitted in Norway, where all titles of nobility were
abolished in 1814.
SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN. I hear the Mocha and Maraschino are to be
served in the music-room.
FAT GENTLEMAN. Brave! Then Mrs. Sorby can play us something.
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN (_in a low voice_). If only Mrs. Sorby doesn’t
play us any tricks.
FAT GENTLEMAN. Oh, no; Bertha will never turn against her old friends!
_They laugh and go into the room._
WERLE (_in a low voice and depressed_). I don’t think any of them
noticed it, Gregers.
GREGERS (_looking at him_). What?
WERLE. Didn’t you notice it either?
GREGERS. What should I notice?
WERLE. We were thirteen at table.
GREGERS. Really? We were thirteen?
WERLE (_glancing at_ HJALMAR EKDAL). We generally have twelve. (_To the
others._) This way, gentlemen!
_He and those who had remained behind with the exception of_ HJALMAR
_and_ GREGERS _go out through the door at the back and off right_.
HJALMAR (_who has heard everything_). You shouldn’t have asked me,
Gregers.
GREGERS. What? Why, they say this dinner is given in my honor, and I
shouldn’t have my best, my only friend?
HJALMAR. But I don’t think your father likes it. I never come to this
house.
GREGERS. So I hear. But I must see you and talk to you, for I shall
certainly go away again soon. Yes, we two old school-fellows, we have
surely been separated long enough, we’ve not seen one another now for
sixteen--seventeen years.
HJALMAR. Is it so long?
GREGERS. Yes, it is. Well, how are things going with you? You look
well. You’ve grown almost stout and portly.
HJALMAR. H’m, one can hardly call it portly, but I daresay I look
rather more manly than I did then.
GREGERS. Indeed you do; your outer man hasn’t suffered.
HJALMAR (_gloomily_). But the inner man! Believe me, that is very
different. You know what terrible trouble has come to me and mine since
we two met.
GREGERS (_in a lower tone_). How is your father getting on now?
HJALMAR. Dear friend, don’t let us speak of that. My poor, unhappy
father of course lives at home with me. Why, he has no one else on
earth to cling to. But it is such bitter pain for me to speak of this,
you see. Tell me, rather, how you have got on up there at the Works.
GREGERS. I’ve been delightfully lonely--with plenty of time to ponder
over many things. Come here, let’s make ourselves comfortable.
_He sits down in an arm-chair by the fire, and makes HJALMAR take
another one by his side_.
HJALMAR (_moved_). I have to thank you all the same, Gregers, for
asking me to your father’s table. For now I know you’ve no feeling
against me any longer.
GREGERS (_astonished_). Whatever makes you think I had any feeling
against you?
HJALMAR. Yet you had during the first years.
GREGERS. What first years?
HJALMAR. After the great misfortune. And it was so natural you should
have. Why, it was only by a hair’s breadth your father escaped being
dragged into this--this horrible affair.
GREGERS. And you thought I had a feeling against you because of this?
What can have put such a thing into your head?
HJALMAR. I know you had, Gregers, for I had it from your father himself.
GREGERS (_starting_). Father! So! H’m! Was that why you never wrote to
me--not a single word?
HJALMAR. Yes.
GREGERS. Not even when you decided to go in for photography?
HJALMAR. Your father said it was no use writing to you about anything.
GREGERS (_looking straight in front of him_). No, no. Perhaps he was
right. But tell me, Hjalmar, do you feel satisfied with your position?
HJALMAR (_with a sigh_). Oh, yes; certainly. I really can’t say I’m
not. At first, as you will understand, it all seemed so strange to
me to be placed amid such absolutely new surroundings. But, then,
everything else was so changed too. The great, overwhelming misfortune
with my father--the shame and the scandal, Gregers.
GREGERS (_moved_). Yes, yes, I know.
HJALMAR. I couldn’t dream of going on with my studies, there wasn’t a
shilling to spare; on the contrary we were rather in debt; mostly to
your father, I fancy.
GREGERS. H’m.
HJALMAR. So I thought it best, just with one wrench, you know, to cut
myself off from the old conditions and relations. It was your father,
principally, who advised me to do this, and as he helped me so much----
GREGERS. Did he?
HJALMAR. Yes, of course; you know he did. Where should I have got the
means to learn photography, to set up a studio, and make a start? That
costs money, you know.
GREGERS. And father paid for all this?
HJALMAR. Yes, dear friend, didn’t you know? I understood him to say he
had written to you about it.
GREGERS. Not a word of what he had done. He must have forgotten it.
We’ve only exchanged business letters with one another. So it was
father?
HJALMAR. Yes, sure enough. He never wished people to know about it,
but it was he. And it was he, too, who made it possible for me to get
married. But perhaps you don’t know about that either?
GREGERS. No, I certainly did not (_shakes his arm_). My dear, Hjalmar,
I can’t tell you how happy all this makes me--and how it pains me.
Perhaps, after all, I have wronged father--in certain things. For this
shews he has a heart, you see. It shews a kind of conscience.
HJALMAR. Conscience!
GREGERS. Yes, yes, or whatever you like to call it. No, I have no
words to tell you how glad I am to hear this of father. And so you are
married, Hjalmar. That’s more than I shall ever manage. Well, I hope
you are happy in your marriage?
HJALMAR. Yes, I am indeed. She is as bright and brave a woman as man
could desire. And she is not quite without education, either.
GREGERS (_slightly astonished_). No, of course not.
HJALMAR. No. Life is an education, you see. Then the daily intercourse
with me--and then there are some gifted men who often come to see us, I
assure you. You wouldn’t know Gina again.
GREGERS. Gina?
HJALMAR. Yes, dear friend. Didn’t you remember her name was Gina?
GREGERS. Her name was Gina? Why, I know nothing----
HJALMAR. But don’t you remember she was in service here for a time?
GREGERS (_looking at him_). Is it Gina Hansen?
HJALMAR. Yes, of course it’s Gina Hansen.
GREGERS. Who looked after the house during the last year that mother
lay ill?
HJALMAR. Certainly that is so. But, dear friend, I’m quite certain your
father wrote you I had got married.
GREGERS (_who has risen_). Yes, he certainly did, but not that--(_walks
up and down_). Yet--wait a moment--perhaps he did--now I come to think
of it. But father always writes me such short letters. (_Half seating
himself on the arm of the chair._) Now tell me, Hjalmar--for this is
too delightful--how did you get to know Gina--to know your wife?
HJALMAR. Very simply. Gina didn’t stop here long, for there was so much
confusion here at that time--your mother’s illness--Gina could not see
to everything, so she gave notice and left. That was a year before your
mother’s death--or maybe the same year.
GREGERS. It was the same year, and I was up at the Works at the time.
And then afterwards----
HJALMAR. Well, Gina lived at home with her mother, a Mrs. Hansen--a
very worthy and hard-working woman, who kept a small eating-house. And
she had a room to let, too, a very pretty, comfortable room.
GREGERS. And you were probably delighted to take it?
HJALMAR. Yes, indeed; it was your father who suggested it to me. And
there, you see--there I really got to know Gina.
GREGERS. And so you got engaged?
HJALMAR. Yes. Young folk soon get to care for one another--h’m----
GREGERS (_rises and walks up and down_). Tell me--when you got
engaged--was it then that father--I mean--was it then that you began to
take up photography?
HJALMAR. Exactly, for I was anxious to settle down as soon as possible.
And so both your father and I thought photography would be the
likeliest thing, and Gina thought so, too. And there was a reason for
that, you see, it fitted in so well, as Gina had learnt to retouch.
GREGERS. That fitted in most remarkably.
HJALMAR (_delighted, rising_). Yes, didn’t it? Don’t you think it
fitted in remarkably?
GREGERS. Yes, I must confess it did. Father seems to have been almost a
sort of Providence to you.
HJALMAR (_moved_). He did not forsake the son of his old friend in his
hour of need, for he has a heart, you see.
_Enter_ MRS. SORBY _leaning on the arm of_ MR. WERLE.
MRS. SORBY. No nonsense, dear Mr. Werle; you mustn’t stop in there any
longer staring up at the lights. It is not good for you.
WERLE (_dropping her arm and passing his hands over his eyes_). I
almost think you are right!
PETTERSEN _and the Hired Waiter_ JENSEN _enter with trays_.
MRS. SORBY (_to the guests in the other room_). This way, please,
gentlemen. Anyone who wants a glass of punch must come here for it.
_Enter the_ FAT GENTLEMAN.
FAT GENTLEMAN (_coming up to_ MRS. SORBY). But, good Heavens! is it
true that you have abolished our blessed liberty to smoke?
MRS SORBY. Yes, in Mr. Werle’s domain, it is prohibited, Chamberlain.
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. Since when have you promulgated these stringent
articles of cigar-law, Mrs. Sorby?
MRS SORBY. Since our last dinner, Chamberlain, for then we had certain
persons here who went too far.
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. And you would not permit a slight overstepping
of the bounds, Mrs. Bertha? Really not?
MRS SORBY. In no respect, Chamberlain Balle.
_Most of the guests have come into_ MR. WERLE’S _room. The waiters
take round glasses of punch._
WERLE (_to_ HJALMAR, _going up to the table_). What are you poring over
there, Ekdal?
HJALMAR. Only an album, Mr. Werle.
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN (_who is walking about_). Aha! Photographs! Yes,
that’s something in your line.
FAT GENTLEMAN (_in an arm-chair_). Haven’t you brought along any of
your own?
HJALMAR. No, I’ve not.
FAT GENTLEMAN. You should have. It is so good for the digestion to sit
and look at pictures.
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. And, besides, it contributes towards
entertaining people, don’t you know.
SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN. And all contributions are thankfully received.
MRS. SORBY. The Chamberlains mean, that when you’re asked to dinner,
you must do something for your meal, Mr. Ekdal.
FAT GENTLEMAN. Where one dines so well, that is simply a pleasure.
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. Good heavens! when it’s a question of a struggle
for life----
MRS. SORBY. There you are right.
_They continue the conversation amid laughter and joking._
GREGERS (_in a low voice_). You must join us, Hjalmar.
HJALMAR (_shrinking_). How should I join in?
FAT GENTLEMAN. Don’t you think, Mr. Werle, that Tokay may be considered
a comparatively wholesome drink for the stomach?
WERLE (_by the fireplace_). I can answer for the Tokay you’ve had
to-day, anyhow, for it is one of the very best vintages. You noticed
it, no doubt.
FAT GENTLEMAN. Yes, it tastes remarkably delicate.
HJALMAR (_hesitatingly_). Is there any difference then in the vintages?
FAT GENTLEMAN (_laughing_). Oh, that is good!
WERLE (_smiling_). It is hardly worth while giving you a fine wine.
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. It’s the same with Tokay as with photographs,
Mr. Ekdal. There must be sunshine. Is it not so?
HJALMAR. Yes, light has a great deal to do with it.
MRS. SORBY. Why, that’s exactly as it is with chamberlains, for they,
too, greatly need sunshine, people say.
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. Oh, oh! that’s a very stale sarcasm.
SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN. Mrs. Sorby’s coming out.
FAT GENTLEMAN. And at our expense. (_Threatening._) Madam Bertha, Madam
Bertha!
MRS. SORBY. Yes, but it is indisputably true that vintages may be
vastly different. The old ones are the finest.
SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN. Do you reckon me among the old ones?
MRS. SORBY. Oh, far from it!
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN. There now! But me, sweet Mrs. Sorby.
FAT GENTLEMAN. Yes, and me! In what vintage do you reckon us?
MRS. SORBY. I reckon you among the sweet vintages, gentlemen.
_She sips a glass of punch. The chamberlains laugh and joke with her._
WERLE. Mrs. Sorby can always find a loophole when she wants. Help
yourselves to glasses, gentlemen! Pettersen, see to it! Gregers, I
think we’ll take a glass together. (GREGERS _does not move_.) Won’t you
make one of us, Ekdal? I found no opportunity of drinking with you at
table.
_The book-keeper_, GRABERG, _looks in through the baize door_.
GRABERG. Beg pardon, sir, but I can’t get out.
WERLE. Why, have you got locked in again?
GRABERG. Yes, and Flagsted has gone off with the keys.
WERLE. Well, you can pass through here, then.
GRABERG. But there’s someone else.
WERLE. Come on, come on, both of you. Don’t mind us.
GRABERG _and old_ EKDAL _come out from the office_.
WERLE (_involuntarily_). Ah! Phew!
_The laughter and chatter of the guests cease._ HJALMAR _starts at
the sight of his father; he puts down his glass and turns to the
fireplace._
EKDAL (_he does not look up, but makes little bows to both sides as
he goes out and mutters_). Beg pardon. Have come the wrong way. Door
locked. Door locked. Beg pardon.
_He and_ GRABERG _go out at the back, right_.
WERLE (_between his teeth_). Confound Graberg!
GREGERS (_with open mouth and staring eyes to_ HJALMAR). Surely that
can not have been.
FAT GENTLEMAN. What was that? Who was it?
GREGERS. Oh, nobody, only the book-keeper and someone else.
SHORT-SIGHTED GENTLEMAN (_to_ HJALMAR). Did you know the man?
HJALMAR. I don’t know; I don’t notice----
FAT GENTLEMAN (_getting up_). What the deuce is in the wind? (_He goes
to the others who are talking in a low voice._)
MRS. SORBY (_whispering to the servant_). Give him something
outside--something really good.
PETTERSEN (_nodding_). All right.
_He goes out._
GREGERS. (_In a low and shaken voice to_ HJALMAR). So it was really he?
HJALMAR. Yes.
GREGERS. And yet you stood there and denied you knew him?
HJALMAR (_whispering passionately_). But how could I----
GREGERS. Acknowledge your father?
HJALMAR (_pained_). Ah, if you were in my place----
_The conversation of the guests, which had been carried on in a low
tone, now becomes strainedly noisy._
THIN-HAIRED GENTLEMAN (_coming up to_ HJALMAR _and_ GREGERS _in a
friendly manner_). Aha! Are you standing here renewing old memories of
student years? Eh? Won’t you smoke, Mr. Ekdal? Do you want a light? Ah,
it’s true, we mustn’t----
HJALMAR. Thank you. I should not have----
FAT GENTLEMAN. Haven’t you some nice little poems to recite to us, Mr.
Ekdal? You used to do that so charmingly.
HJALMAR. Unfortunately, I can’t remember anything.
FAT GENTLEMAN. Ah, that’s a pity. What shall we do, Balle?
_Both gentlemen cross the room, and go into the other room._
HJALMAR (_gloomily_). Gregers, I’m going. You see, when a man has felt
the crushing blows of fate upon his head---- Bid your father good-bye
for me.
GREGERS. Yes, yes. Are you going straight home?
HJALMAR. Yes, why?
GREGERS. Because, perhaps, I’ll look in on you later.
HJALMAR. No, you mustn’t do that. Not at my home. My house is dreary,
Gregers, especially after such a brilliant festivity as this. We can
always meet somewhere outside in the town.
MRS. SORBY (_who has come up, in a low voice_). Are you going, Ekdal?
HJALMAR. Yes.
MRS. SORBY. Remember me to Gina.
HJALMAR. Thanks.
MRS. SORBY. And tell her that I shall look her up one of these days.
HJALMAR. Oh, thanks. (_To_ GREGERS.) Stop here. I want to slip out
unobserved.
_He crosses the room, passes into the other room, and goes out,
right._
MRS. SORBY (_aside to the servant, who has returned_). Well, did you
give the old man something?
PETTERSEN. Yes, I did. I gave him a bottle of brandy.
MRS. SORBY. Oh, you might have found him something better than that.
PETTERSEN. No, I couldn’t, Mrs. Sorby. Brandy’s the best thing for him.
FAT GENTLEMAN (_by the door, with a volume of music in his hand_).
Shall we play something together, Mrs. Sorby?
MRS. SORBY. Certainly--let us.
GUESTS. Bravo, bravo!
_She and all the_ GUESTS _pass out of the room, right_. GREGERS
_remains standing by the fire-place_. MR. WERLE _looks for
something on the writing-table and seems to wish_ GREGERS _to go.
As the latter does not move_, MR. WERLE _goes towards entrance
door_.
GREGERS. Father, won’t you wait a moment?
WERLE (_stopping_). What is it?
GREGERS. I must have a word with you.
WERLE. Can’t it wait till we’re alone?
GREGERS. No, it can not, for it may be we never shall be alone.
WERLE (_coming nearer_). What does that mean?
_During the following conversation the playing of a piano is heard
from the music-room._
GREGERS. How could that family be allowed to come to such a wretched
pass?
WERLE. Probably, you mean the Ekdals? I understand.
GREGERS. Yes, I mean the Ekdals. Yet Lieutenant Ekdal was very near to
you once.
WERLE. Unfortunately, he was; he was only too near to me. I felt it and
suffered from it many a year. It is him I have to thank that a sort of
stain blurred my own good name and fame--yes, mine!
GREGERS (_in a low voice_). Was he really the only guilty one?
WERLE. Who else do you suppose----
GREGERS. He and you were partners in that big forest business.
WERLE. But wasn’t it Ekdal who drew up the map of the forest--that
falsified map? It was he who carried out the illegal felling of trees
on the government lands. Why, it was he who managed the whole business
up there. I had no idea of what Lieutenant Ekdal was undertaking.
GREGERS. Lieutenant Ekdal himself did not know what he had undertaken.
WERLE. Maybe, but the fact remains that he was sentenced and I was
acquitted.
GREGERS. Yes, I know. Proofs were wanting.
WERLE. Acquittal is acquittal. But why rake up all this unfortunate
business that turned my hair grey before its time? Have you been
brooding over this all these years up at the Works? I can assure you,
Gregers, here in town, the story has long been forgotten, as far as I
am concerned.
GREGERS. But the unfortunate Ekdals?
WERLE. Now, really, what would you have had me do for these people?
When Ekdal came out he was a broken man, absolutely helpless. There are
men on earth who sink to the bottom if they get a few shots in them and
who never come to the surface again. You may take my word, Gregers, I
went as far as I could without exposing myself, and giving color to all
sorts of suspicions and gossip.
GREGERS. Suspicions--I see!
WERLE. I’ve given Ekdal copying to do for the office, and I pay ever so
much more for it than the work is worth.
GREGERS (_without looking at him_). H’m! I do not doubt that.
WERLE. You laugh. Don’t you believe what I say? It is true there’s
nothing of all this in my books, for there are certain expenses I never
enter.
GREGERS (_smiling coldly_). No, there are certain expenses which it is
best not to enter.
WERLE (_starting_). What do you mean?
GREGERS (_with forced calm_). Have you entered what it cost you to let
Hjalmar Ekdal learn photography?
WERLE. I? Entered what?
GREGERS. I know now that it was you who paid for that. And I know, too,
that it was you who so generously helped him to make a start.
WERLE. Well, and yet you say I’ve done nothing for the Ekdals! I can
assure you, in all conscience, these people have cost me quite enough.
GREGERS. Have you entered any of these expenses?
WERLE. Why do you ask?
GREGERS. Oh, I have my reasons. Listen. At the time when you interested
yourself so warmly in the son of your old friend, was that not the very
time when he was to get married?
WERLE. How the devil, after so many years, can I remember?
GREGERS. At that time you wrote me a letter--a business letter, of
course--and in a postscript you briefly said that Hjalmar Ekdal had
married a Miss Hansen.
WERLE. Well, that was right enough--that was her name.
GREGERS. But you did not write that the Miss Hansen was Gina Hansen,
our former housekeeper.
WERLE (_laughs sarcastically but somewhat constrainedly_). No, it
really never occurred to me that you were so deeply interested in our
former housekeeper.
GREGERS. Nor was I. But (_in a lower voice_) there was another here in
the house who was deeply interested in her.
WERLE. What do you mean (_angrily to him_)? I suppose you are alluding
to me?
GREGERS (_in a low but firm tone_). Yes, I allude to you.
WERLE. And you dare? You permit yourself to? How can he, that
ungrateful wretch, the photographer? How dare he presume to make such
insinuations?
GREGERS. Hjalmar has not referred to all this by a single word. I don’t
believe he so much as suspects anything of it.
WERLE. Whom have you had it from then? Who can have said such a thing?
GREGERS. My poor, unhappy mother said so. And that was the last time I
saw her.
WERLE. Your mother? I might have known it. She and you--you always held
together. It was she who from the first turned you against me.
GREGERS. No--it was all she had to bear and to suffer, until her heart
was broken, and the miserable end came.
WERLE. Oh, she hadn’t so much to bear and suffer--not more at any
rate, than so many others! But there is no getting on with morbid,
overstrained people. As I know to my cost. And so you have gone about
nourishing such suspicions, gone poking into all sorts of old rumors
and calumnies against your own father. Look here, Gregers. I really
think that at your age you might find something better to do.
GREGERS. Yes, it is time I did.
WERLE. Then perhaps you would take things more easily than you seem to
now. What can be the good of your stopping up there at the Works year
out, year in, worrying yourself as a mere clerk, and refusing to take a
shilling more than the usual monthly salary? It’s simple folly of you.
GREGERS. Yes, if I could be quite certain that----
WERLE. I understand you well enough. You want to be independent, to
owe nothing to me. But now there is an opening for you to become
independent, and absolutely your own master.
GREGERS. Indeed, how?
WERLE. When I wrote you it was necessary you should come to town
immediately--h’m----
GREGERS. Yes, what did you really want me for? I’ve been waiting all
day to find out.
WERLE. I wished to propose your having a share in the firm.
GREGERS. I? Enter the firm? As partner?
WERLE. Yes. It will not necessitate our being constantly together. You
might take over the business here, and then I’d move up to the Works.
GREGERS. _You_ would?
WERLE. Yes, for you see I’m not so fit for work as I used to be. I must
be careful of my eyes, Gregers, for they are becoming rather weak.
GREGERS. They always were.
WERLE. Not so weak as now. And then besides--circumstances might
perhaps make it desirable I should live up there--at any rate, for a
time.
GREGERS. I should never have believed that.
WERLE. See here, Gregers, there are many things that stand between us.
But when all’s said and done--we are father and son. It seems to me we
ought to be able to come to some sort of an understanding.
GREGERS. You mean outwardly, of course.
WERLE. Well, even that would be something. Think it over, Gregers.
Don’t you believe that it could be managed? Eh?
GREGERS (_looking at him coldly_). There is something behind all this!
WERLE. How so?
GREGERS. There must be something you want to use me for.
WERLE. In so close a relation as ours, the one can always be of use to
the other.
GREGERS. So they say.
WERLE. I would gladly have you at home with me now for a time. I am a
lonely man, Gregers--always have felt lonely all my life through--but
most now that I am beginning to grow old. I long to have some one about
me----
GREGERS. Well, you have Mrs. Sorby----
WERLE. Yes, I have, and she has, so to say, become almost indispensable
to me. She is bright and even-tempered, she cheers up the house--and I
need that so sorely.
GREGERS. Very well. Then you’ve already got all you want.
WERLE. Yes, but I’m afraid things can’t go on so. A woman in such
circumstances soon finds herself in an equivocal position in the eyes
of the world. And I had almost said that it doesn’t do a man any good
either.
GREGERS. Oh, when a man gives such dinners as you do he can risk a good
deal.
WERLE. Yes, but _she_, Gregers? I’m afraid she will not put up with it
much longer. And even if she would--even if she were willing, out of
devotion to me, to expose herself to the gossip and scandal, and all
that--don’t you think, Gregers, you, with your intensely strong sense
of justice----
GREGERS (_interrupting_). Just tell me one thing straight out. Are you
thinking of marrying her?
WERLE. And if I were thinking of such a thing, what then?
GREGERS. I say so, too. What then?
WERLE. Would you set yourself absolutely against it?
GREGERS. No, certainly not; not in any way.
WERLE. For I did not know whether, from love for your dead mother’s
memory----
GREGERS. I am not overstrained.
WERLE. Well, whatever you may or may not be, you have lifted a heavy
weight from my heart. I am so exceedingly glad that I may count upon
your approval in this matter.
GREGERS (_looking fixedly at him_). Now I know you mean to use me.
WERLE. Use you? What an expression!
GREGERS. Ah, don’t let us be nice in our choice of words--not when we
are alone, at any rate. (_Laughs shortly._) So that’s it! So that was
why--curse it!---- I must come to town in person. For the benefit of
Mrs. Sorby, a scene of family life is to be arranged here. Tableau of
father and son! That would be something new!
WERLE. How dare you speak in that tone?
GREGERS. When was there any family life here? Not as long as I can
remember. But _now_ a little of that sort of thing may come in useful.
For it would look uncommonly well to have people talking of the son
hurrying hither--on the wings of filial piety--to his old father’s
wedding feast. What then becomes of all the rumors of the poor dead
mother’s sorrows and suffering? Nothing! Her son hurls them to the
earth.
WERLE. Gregers, I don’t believe there is a man on earth you dislike as
you do me.
GREGERS (_in a low voice_). I have seen you too closely!
WERLE. You have seen me through your mother’s eyes. (_Slightly lowering
his voice._) But you should bear in mind that her eyes were--dimmed at
times.
GREGERS (_shuddering_). I understand what you mean. But who was to
blame for mother’s unhappy weakness? It was you and all these---- The
last of them was that woman who was foisted upon Hjalmar Ekdal, when
you no longer--oh!----
WERLE (_shrugging his shoulders_). Word for word as if I heard your
mother!
GREGERS (_without noticing him_). And there he is now with his great,
unsuspecting child-mind, in the midst of deception--lives under the
same roof with such a woman, and does not know that what he calls home
is built upon a lie. (_He comes up closer._) When I look back upon all
you have done, I seem to be looking over a battlefield, with ruined
human lives everywhere.
WERLE. I almost believe the gulf between us is too great----
GREGERS (_bowing with forced self-command_). I have observed it, and so
I’ll take my hat and go.
WERLE. Go! Leave the house?
GREGERS. Yes. For now at last I have found a mission to live for.
WERLE. What mission may that be?
GREGERS. You would only laugh if I told you.
WERLE. A lonely man does not laugh so easily, Gregers.
GREGERS (_pointing to the room in the background_). See, father--the
Chamberlains are playing Blind Man’s Buff with Mrs. Sorby. Good
night--and good-bye.
_He goes out at the back, right. The laughter and merriment of the_
GUESTS _are heard in the outer room_.
WERLE (_murmurs scornfully as_ GREGERS _goes out_). Ha! Poor wretch!
And yet he says he is not overstrained!