ROSMER.
What is it?
MADAM HELSETH.
There’s a man downstairs wanting to have a word with the Pastor.
ROSMER.
Is it the man who was here yesterday evening?
MADAM HELSETH.
No, it’s that Mortensgård.
ROSMER.
Mortensgård?
KROLL.
Aha! So it has come to this, has it?—Already!
ROSMER.
What does he want with me? Why didn’t you send him away?
MADAM HELSETH.
Miss West said I was to ask if he might come upstairs.
ROSMER.
Tell him I’m engaged——
KROLL.
[_To_ MADAM HELSETH.] Let him come up, Madam Helseth.
[MADAM HELSETH _goes._
KROLL.
[_Takes up his hat._] I retire from the field—for the moment. But the
main battle has yet to be fought.
ROSMER.
On my honour, Kroll—I have nothing whatever to do with Mortensgård.
KROLL.
I do not believe you. On no subject and in no relation whatever will I
henceforth believe you. It is war to the knife now. We will try whether
we cannot disarm you.
ROSMER.
Oh Kroll—how low—how very low you have sunk!
KROLL.
I? And you think you have the right to say that to me! Remember Beata!
ROSMER.
Still harping upon _that_?
KROLL.
No. You must solve the enigma of the mill-race according to your own
conscience—if you have anything of the sort left.
PETER MORTENSGÅRD _enters softly and quietly from the left. He
is a small, wiry man with thin reddish hair and beard._
KROLL.
[_With a look of hatred._] Ah, here we have the “Beacon”—burning at
Rosmersholm! [_Buttons his coat._] Well, now I can no longer hesitate
what course to steer.
MORTENSGÅRD.
[_Deferentially._] The “Beacon” may always be relied upon to light the
Rector home.
KROLL.
Yes; you have long shown your goodwill. To be sure there’s a commandment
about bearing false witness against your neighbour——
MORTENSGÅRD.
Rector Kroll need not instruct me in the commandments.
KROLL.
Not even in the seventh?
ROSMER.
Kroll——!
MORTENSGÅRD.
If I needed instruction, it would rather be the Pastor’s business.
KROLL.
[_With covert sarcasm._] The Pastor’s? Oh yes, unquestionably Pastor
Rosmer is the man for _that_.—Good luck to your conference, gentlemen!
[_Goes out and slams the door behind him._
ROSMER.
[_Keeps his eyes fixed on the closed door and says to himself._] Well,
well—so be it then. [_Turns._] Will you be good enough to tell me, Mr.
Mortensgård, what brings you out here to me?
MORTENSGÅRD.
It was really Miss West I came to see. I wanted to thank her for the
friendly note I received from her yesterday.
ROSMER.
I know she wrote to you. Have you seen her then?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Yes, for a short time. [_Smiles slightly._] I hear there has been a
certain change of views out here at Rosmersholm.
ROSMER.
My views are altered in many respects. I might almost say in all.
MORTENSGÅRD.
So Miss West told me; and that’s why she thought I had better come up
and talk things over with the Pastor.
ROSMER.
What things, Mr. Mortensgård?
MORTENSGÅRD.
May I announce in the “Beacon” that there has been a change in your
views—that you have joined the party of freedom and progress?
ROSMER.
Certainly you may. In fact, I beg you to make the announcement.
MORTENSGÅRD.
Then it shall appear in to-morrow’s paper. It will cause a great
sensation when it’s known that Pastor Rosmer of Rosmersholm is prepared
to take up arms for the cause of light, in _that_ sense too.
ROSMER.
I don’t quite understand you.
MORTENSGÅRD.
I mean that the moral position of our party is greatly strengthened
whenever we gain an adherent of serious, Christian principles.
ROSMER.
[_With some surprise._] Then you do not know——? Did not Miss West tell
you that too?
MORTENSGÅRD.
What, Pastor Rosmer? Miss West was in a great hurry. She said I was to
go upstairs and hear the rest from yourself.
ROSMER.
Well, in that case I may tell you that I have emancipated myself
entirely, and on every side. I have broken with all the dogmas of the
Church. Henceforth they are nothing to me.
MORTENSGÅRD.
[_Looks at him in amazement._] Well—if the skies were to fall I couldn’t
be more——! Pastor Rosmer himself announces——
ROSMER.
Yes, I now stand where you have stood for many years. That, too, you may
announce in the “Beacon” to-morrow.
MORTENSGÅRD.
That too? No, my dear Pastor—excuse me—I don’t think it would be wise to
touch on that side of the matter.
ROSMER.
Not touch on it?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Not at present, I mean.
ROSMER.
I don’t understand——
MORTENSGÅRD.
Well you see, Pastor Rosmer—you probably don’t know the ins and outs of
things so well as I do. But, since you have come over to the party of
freedom—and, as I hear from Miss West, you intend to take an active
share in the movement—I presume you would like to be of as much service
as possible, both to the cause in general and to this particular
agitation.
ROSMER.
Yes, that is my earnest wish.
MORTENSGÅRD.
Good. But now I must tell you, Pastor Rosmer, that if you openly declare
your defection from the Church, you tie your own hands at the very
outset.
ROSMER.
Do you think so?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Yes; believe me, you won’t be able to do much for the cause, in this
part of the country at any rate. And besides—we have plenty of
freethinkers already, Pastor Rosmer—I might almost say too many. What
the party requires, is a Christian element—something that every one must
respect. _That_ is what we are sadly in need of. And therefore I advise
you to keep your own counsel about what doesn’t concern the public.
That’s my view of the matter, at least.
ROSMER.
I understand. Then if I openly confess my apostasy, you dare not have
anything to do with me?
MORTENSGÅRD.
[_Shaking his head._] I scarcely like to risk it, Pastor Rosmer. I have
made it a rule for some time past not to support any one or anything
that is actively opposed to the Church.
ROSMER.
Then you have yourself returned to the Church?
MORTENSGÅRD.
That concerns no one but myself.
ROSMER.
Ah, so that is it. Now I understand you.
MORTENSGÅRD.
Pastor Rosmer—you ought to remember that I—I in particular—have not full
liberty of action.
ROSMER.
What hampers you?
MORTENSGÅRD.
The fact that I am a marked man.
ROSMER.
Ah—indeed.
MORTENSGÅRD.
A marked man, Pastor Rosmer. You, above all men, should remember that;
for I have chiefly you to thank for the scandal that branded me.
ROSMER.
If I had then stood where I stand now, I should have dealt more gently
with your offence.
MORTENSGÅRD.
That I don’t doubt. But it is too late now. You have branded me once for
all—branded me for life. I suppose you can scarcely understand what that
means. But now you may perhaps come to feel the smart of it yourself,
Pastor Rosmer.
ROSMER.
I?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Yes. You surely don’t suppose that Rector Kroll and his set will ever
forgive a desertion like yours? I hear the “County News” is going to be
very savage in future. You too may find yourself a marked man before
long.
ROSMER.
In personal matters, Mr. Mortensgård, I feel myself secure from attack.
My life is beyond reproach.
MORTENSGÅRD.
[_With a sly smile._] That’s a large word, Mr. Rosmer.
ROSMER.
Perhaps; but I have a right to use it.
MORTENSGÅRD.
Even if you were to scrutinise your conduct as closely as you once
scrutinised mine?
ROSMER.
Your tone is very curious. What are you hinting at? Anything definite?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Yes, something definite. Only one thing. But _that_ might be bad enough,
if malicious opponents got wind of it.
ROSMER.
Will you have the kindness to let me hear what it is?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Cannot you guess for yourself, Pastor?
ROSMER.
No, certainly not. I have not the slightest idea.
MORTENSGÅRD.
Well well, I suppose I must come out with it then.—I have in my
possession a strange letter, dated from Rosmersholm.
ROSMER.
Miss West’s letter, do you mean? Is it so strange?
MORTENSGÅRD.
No, there’s nothing strange about that. But I once received another
letter from this house.
ROSMER.
Also from Miss West?
MORTENSGÅRD.
No, Mr. Rosmer.
ROSMER.
Well then, from whom? From whom?
MORTENSGÅRD.
From the late Mrs. Rosmer.
ROSMER.
From my wife! You received a letter from my wife!
MORTENSGÅRD.
I did.
ROSMER.
When?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Towards the close of Mrs. Rosmer’s life. Perhaps about a year and a half
ago. That is the letter I call strange.
ROSMER.
I suppose you know that my wife’s mind was affected at that time.
MORTENSGÅRD.
Yes; I know many people thought so. But I don’t think there was anything
in the letter to show it. When I call it strange, I mean in another
sense.
ROSMER.
And what in the world did my poor wife take it into her head to write to
_you_ about?
MORTENSGÅRD.
I have the letter at home. She begins to the effect that she is living
in great anxiety and fear; there are so many malicious people about
here, she says; and they think of nothing but causing you trouble and
injury.
ROSMER.
Me?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Yes, so she says. And then comes the strangest part of all. Shall I go
on, Pastor Rosmer?
ROSMER.
Assuredly! Tell me everything, without reserve.
MORTENSGÅRD.
The deceased lady begs and implores me to be magnanimous. She knows, she
says, that it was her husband that had me dismissed from my post as
teacher; and she conjures me by all that’s sacred not to avenge myself.
ROSMER.
How did she suppose you could avenge yourself?
MORTENSGÅRD.
The letter says that if I should hear rumours of sinful doings at
Rosmersholm, I am not to believe them; they are only spread abroad by
wicked people who wish to make you unhappy.
ROSMER.
Is all that in the letter?
MORTENSGÅRD.
You may read it for yourself, sir, when you please.
ROSMER.
But I don’t understand——! What did she imagine the rumours to be about?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Firstly, that the Pastor had deserted the faith of his fathers. Your
wife denied that absolutely—then. And next—h’m——
ROSMER.
Next?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Well, next she writes—rather confusedly—that she knows nothing of any
sinful intrigue at Rosmersholm; that she has never been wronged in any
way. And if any such rumours should get about, she implores me to say
nothing of the matter in the “Beacon.”
ROSMER.
Is no name mentioned?
MORTENSGÅRD.
None.
ROSMER.
Who brought you the letter?
MORTENSGÅRD.
I have promised not to say. It was handed to me one evening, at dusk.
ROSMER.
If you had made inquiries at the time, you would have learnt that my
poor unhappy wife was not fully accountable for her actions.
MORTENSGÅRD.
I did make inquiries, Pastor Rosmer. But I must say that was not the
impression I received.
ROSMER.
Was it not?—But what is your precise reason for telling me now about
this incomprehensible old letter?
MORTENSGÅRD.
To impress on you the necessity for extreme prudence, Pastor Rosmer.
ROSMER.
In my life, do you mean?
MORTENSGÅRD.
Yes. You must remember that from to-day you have ceased to be a neutral.
ROSMER.
Then you have quite made up your mind that I must have something to
conceal?
MORTENSGÅRD.
I don’t know why an emancipated man should refrain from living his life
out as fully as possible. But, as I said before, be exceedingly cautious
in future. If anything should get abroad that conflicts with current
prejudices, you may be sure the whole liberal movement will have to
suffer for it.—Good-bye, Pastor Rosmer.
ROSMER.
Good-bye.
MORTENSGÅRD.
I shall go straight to the office and have the great news put into the
“Beacon.”
ROSMER.
Yes; omit nothing.
MORTENSGÅRD.
I shall omit nothing that the public need know.
[_He bows and goes out._ ROSMER _remains standing in the doorway
while he goes down the stairs. The outer door is heard to
close._
ROSMER.
[_In the doorway, calls softly._] Rebecca! Re—— H’m. [_Aloud._] Madam
Helseth,—is Miss West not there?
MADAM HELSETH.
[_From the hall._] No, Pastor Rosmer, she’s not here.
[_The curtain at the back is drawn aside._ REBECCA _appears in
the doorway._
REBECCA.
Rosmer!
ROSMER.
[_Turns._] What! Were you in my room? My dear, what were you doing
there?
REBECCA.
[_Goes up to him._] I was listening.
ROSMER.
Oh, Rebecca, how could you?
REBECCA.
I could not help it. He said it so hatefully—that about my morning
gown——
ROSMER.
Then you were there when Kroll——?
REBECCA.
Yes. I wanted to know what was lurking in his mind.
ROSMER.
I would have told you.
REBECCA.
You would scarcely have told me all. And certainly not in his own words.
ROSMER.
Did you hear everything, then?
REBECCA.
Nearly everything, I think. I had to go downstairs for a moment when
Mortensgård came.
ROSMER.
And then you came back again——?
REBECCA.
Don’t be vexed with me, dear friend!
ROSMER.
Do whatever you think right. You are mistress of your own actions.—But
what do you say to all this, Rebecca——? Oh, I seem never to have needed
you so much before!
REBECCA.
Both you and I have been prepared for what must happen some time.
ROSMER.
No, no—not for this.
REBECCA.
Not for this?
ROSMER.
I knew well enough that sooner or later our beautiful, pure friendship
might be misinterpreted and soiled. Not by Kroll—I could never have
believed such a thing of him—but by all those other people with the
coarse souls and the ignoble eyes. Oh yes—I had reason enough for
keeping our alliance so jealously concealed. It was a dangerous secret.
REBECCA.
Oh, why should we care what all those people think! We know in our own
hearts that we are blameless.
ROSMER.
Blameless? I? Yes, I thought so—till to-day. But now—now, Rebecca——?
REBECCA.
Well, what now?
ROSMER.
How am I to explain Beata’s terrible accusation?
REBECCA.
[_Vehemently._] Oh, don’t speak of Beata! Don’t think of Beata any more!
You were just beginning to shake off the hold she has upon you, even in
the grave.
ROSMER.
Since I have heard all this, she seems, in a ghastly sort of way, to be
alive again.
REBECCA.
Oh no—not that, Rosmer! Not that!
ROSMER.
Yes, I tell you. We must try to get to the bottom of this. What can
possibly have led her to misinterpret things so fatally?
REBECCA.
You are surely not beginning to doubt that she was on the very verge of
insanity?
ROSMER.
Oh yes—that is just what I can’t feel quite certain of any longer. And
besides—even if she was——
REBECCA.
If she was? Well, what then?
ROSMER.
I mean—where are we to look for the determining cause that drove her
morbid spirit over the border-line of madness?
REBECCA.
Oh, why brood over problems no one can solve?
ROSMER.
I cannot help it, Rebecca. I cannot shake off these gnawing doubts,
however much I may wish to.
REBECCA.
But it may become dangerous—this eternal dwelling upon one miserable
subject.
ROSMER.
[_Walks about restlessly, in thought._] I must have betrayed myself in
one way or another. She must have noticed how happy I began to feel from
the time _you_ came to us.
REBECCA.
Yes but, dear, even if she did——?
ROSMER.
Be sure it didn’t escape her that we read the same books—that the
interest of discussing all the new ideas drew us together. Yet I cannot
understand it! I was so careful to spare her. As I look back, it seems
to me I made it the business of my life to keep her in ignorance of all
our interests. Did I not, Rebecca?
REBECCA.
Yes, yes; certainly you did.
ROSMER.
And you too. And yet——! Oh, it’s terrible to think of! She must have
gone about here—full of her morbid passion—saying never a word—watching
us—noting everything—and misinterpreting everything.
REBECCA.
[_Pressing her hands together._] Oh, I should never have come to
Rosmersholm!
ROSMER.
To think of all she must have suffered in silence! All the foulness her
sick brain must have conjured up around us! Did she never say anything
to you to put you at all on the alert?
REBECCA.
[_As if startled._] To me! Do you think I should have stayed a day
longer if she had?
ROSMER.
No, no, of course not.—Oh, what a battle she must have fought! And alone
too, Rebecca; desperate and quite alone!—and then, at last, that
heart-breaking, accusing victory—in the mill-race.
[_Throws himself into the chair by the writing-table, with his
elbows on the table and his face in his hands._
REBECCA.
[_Approaches him cautiously from behind._] Listen, Rosmer. If it were in
your power to call Beata back—to you—to Rosmersholm—would you do it?
ROSMER.
Oh, how do I know what I would or would not do? I can think of nothing
but this one thing—that cannot be recalled.
REBECCA.
You were just beginning to live, Rosmer. You _had_ begun. You had freed
yourself—on every side. You felt so buoyant and happy——
ROSMER.
Oh yes—I did indeed.—And now this crushing blow falls on me.
REBECCA.
[_Behind him, rests her arms on the chair-back._] How beautiful it was
when we sat in the twilight, in the room downstairs, helping each other
to lay out our new life-plans! You were to set resolutely to work in the
world—the living world of to-day, as you said. You were to go as a
messenger of emancipation from home to home; to win over minds and
wills; to create noble-men around you in wider and wider circles.
Noble-men.
ROSMER.
Happy noble-men.
REBECCA.
Yes—happy.
ROSMER.
For it is happiness that ennobles, Rebecca.
REBECCA.
Should you not say—sorrow as well? A great sorrow?
ROSMER.
Yes—if one can get through it—over it—away from it.
REBECCA.
_That_ is what you must do.
ROSMER.
[_Shakes his head gloomily._] I shall never get over this—wholly. There
will always be a doubt—a question left. I can never again know that
luxury of the soul which makes life so marvellously sweet to live!
REBECCA.
[_Bends over his chair-back, and says more softly_:] What is it you
mean, Rosmer?
ROSMER.
[_Looking up at her._] Peaceful, happy innocence.
REBECCA.
[_Recoils a step._] Yes. Innocence.
[_A short pause._
ROSMER.
[_With his elbow on the table, leaning his head on his hand, and looking
straight before him._] And what extraordinary penetration she showed!
How systematically she put all this together! First she begins to doubt
my orthodoxy——How _could_ that occur to her? But it did occur to her;
and then it grew to be a certainty. And then—yes, then of course it was
easy for her to think all the rest possible. [_Sits up in his chair and
runs his hands through his hair._] Oh, all these horrible imaginings! I
shall never get rid of them. I feel it. I know it. At any moment they
will come rushing in upon me, and bring back the thought of the dead!
REBECCA.
Like the White Horse of Rosmersholm.
ROSMER.
Yes, like that. Rushing forth in the darkness—in the silence.
REBECCA.
And because of this miserable figment of the brain, you will let slip
the hold you were beginning to take upon the living world?
ROSMER.
You may well think it hard. Yes, hard, Rebecca. But I have no choice.
How could I ever leave this behind me?
REBECCA.
[_Behind his chair._] By entering into new relations.
ROSMER.
[_Surprised, looks up._] New relations?
REBECCA.
Yes, new relations to the outside world. Live, work, act. Don’t sit here
brooding and groping among insoluble enigmas.
ROSMER.
[_Rises._] New relations? [_Walks across the floor, stops at the door
and then comes back._] One question occurs to me. Has it not occurred to
you too, Rebecca?
REBECCA.
[_Drawing breath with difficulty._] Let me—hear—what it is?
ROSMER.
What form do you think _our_ relations will take after to-day?
REBECCA.
I believe our friendship will endure—come what may.
ROSMER.
That is not exactly what I meant. The thing that first brought us
together, and that unites us so closely—our common faith in a pure
comradeship between man and woman——
REBECCA.
Yes, yes—what of that?
ROSMER.
I mean, that such a relation—as this of ours—does it not presuppose a
quiet, happy, peaceful life——?
REBECCA.
What then?
ROSMER.
But the life I must now look forward too is one of struggle and unrest
and strong agitations. For I _will_ live my life, Rebecca! I will not be
crushed to earth by horrible possibilities. I will not have my course of
life forced upon me, either by the living or by—any one else.
REBECCA.
No, no—do not! Be an absolutely free man, Rosmer!
ROSMER.
But can you not guess what is in my mind? Do you not know? Don’t you see
how I can best shake off all gnawing memories—all the unhappy past?
REBECCA.
How?
ROSMER.
By opposing to it a new, a living reality.
REBECCA.
[_Feeling for the chair-back._] A living——What do you mean?
ROSMER.
[_Comes nearer._] Rebecca—if I were to ask you—will you be my second
wife?
REBECCA.
[_For a moment speechless, then cries out with joy._] Your wife! Your——!
I!
ROSMER.
Come; let us try it. We two will be one. The place of the dead must
stand empty no longer.
REBECCA.
I—in Beata’s place——!
ROSMER.
Then she will be out of the saga—completely—for ever and ever.
REBECCA.
[_Softly, trembling._] Do you believe that, Rosmer?
ROSMER.
It must be so! It _must_! I cannot—I will not go through life with a
dead body on my back. Help me to cast it off, Rebecca. And let us stifle
all memories in freedom, in joy, in passion. You shall be to me the only
wife I have ever had.
REBECCA.
[_With self-command._] Never speak of this again. I will never be your
wife.
ROSMER.
What! Never! Do you not think you could come to love me? Is there not
already a strain of love in our friendship?
REBECCA.
[_Puts her hands over her ears as if in terror._] Don’t speak so,
Rosmer! Don’t say such things!
ROSMER.
[_Seizes her arm._] Yes, yes—there is a growing promise in our relation.
Oh, I can see that you feel it too. Do you not, Rebecca?
REBECCA.
[_Once more firm and calm._] Listen to me. I tell you—if you persist in
this, I will go away from Rosmersholm.
ROSMER.
Go away! You! You cannot. It is impossible.
REBECCA.
It is still more impossible that I should be your wife. Never in this
world can I marry you.
ROSMER.
[_Looks at her in surprise._] You say “can”; and you say it so
strangely. Why can you not?
REBECCA.
[_Seizes both his hands._] Dear friend—both for your own sake and for
mine—do not ask why. [_Lets go his hands._] Do not, Rosmer.
[_Goes towards the door on the left._
ROSMER.
Henceforth I can think of nothing but that one question—why?
REBECCA.
[_Turns and looks at him._] Then it is all over.
ROSMER.
Between you and me?
REBECCA.
Yes.
ROSMER.
It will never be all over between us two. You will never leave
Rosmersholm.
REBECCA.
[_With her hand on the door-handle._] No, perhaps I shall not. But if
you ask me again—it is all over.
ROSMER.
All over? How———?
REBECCA.
For then I will go the way that Beata went. Now you know it, Rosmer.
ROSMER.
Rebecca——?
REBECCA.
[_In the doorway, nods slowly._] Now you know it.
[_She goes out._
ROSMER.
[_Stares, thunderstruck, at the door, and says to himself._]
What—is—this?
ACT THIRD.
_The sitting-room at Rosmersholm. The window and the entrance door are
open. The sun is shining outside. Forenoon._
REBECCA WEST, _dressed as in the first Act, stands at the window,
watering and arranging the flowers. Her crochet-work lies in the
arm-chair._ MADAM HELSETH _is moving about, dusting the furniture
with a feather-brush._
REBECCA.
[_After a short silence._] I can’t understand the Pastor remaining so
long upstairs to-day.
MADAM HELSETH.
Oh, he often does that. But he’ll soon be down now, I should think.
REBECCA.
Have you seen anything of him?
MADAM HELSETH.
I caught a glimpse of him when I went upstairs with his coffee. He was
in his bedroom, dressing.
REBECCA.
I asked because he was a little out of sorts yesterday.
MADAM HELSETH.
He didn’t look well. I wonder if there isn’t something amiss between him
and his brother-in-law.
REBECCA.
What do you think it can be?
MADAM HELSETH.
I couldn’t say. Perhaps it’s that Mortensgård that has been setting them
against each other.
REBECCA.
Likely enough.—Do you know anything of this Peter Mortensgård?
MADAM HELSETH.
No indeed. How could you think so, Miss? A fellow like him.
REBECCA.
Do you mean because he edits such a low paper?
MADAM HELSETH.
Oh, it’s not only _that_.—You must have heard, Miss, that he had a child
by a married woman that had been deserted by her husband?
REBECCA.
Yes, I have heard of it. But it must have been long before I came here.
MADAM HELSETH.
It’s true he was very young at the time; and she should have known
better. He wanted to marry her too; but of course he couldn’t do that.
And I don’t say he hasn’t paid dear for it.—But, good Lord, Mortensgård
has got on in the world since those days. There’s a many people run
after him now.
REBECCA.
Yes, most of the poor people bring their affairs to him when they’re in
any trouble.
MADAM HELSETH.
Ah, and others too, perhaps, besides the poor folk——
REBECCA.
[_Looks at her furtively._] Indeed.
MADAM HELSETH.