Oh no, I can’t say it does. [_Smiling._] For I believe it is that which
makes everybody so kind and friendly and helpful to me.
HILDA.
Yes; and of course it’s not a bit serious.
LYNGSTRAND.
No, not serious in the least. I could see quite well that your father
thought so too.
HILDA.
And it will pass off as soon as you go abroad?
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes; it will pass off.
BOLETTA.
[_With flowers in her hand._] Look at these, Mr. Lyngstrand—here is one
for your button-hole.
LYNGSTRAND.
Oh, a thousand thanks, Miss Wangel! You are really too kind.
HILDA.
[_Looking down the hill to the right._] Here they are, coming up the
path.
BOLETTA.
[_Also looking down._] I hope they know where to turn off. No, they are
going the wrong way.
LYNGSTRAND.
[_Rises._] I’ll run down to the turning and call out to them.
HILDA.
You’ll have to call very loud then.
BOLETTA.
No, you had better not. You’ll only tire yourself again.
LYNGSTRAND.
Oh, it’s so easy going downhill.
[_He goes out to the right._
HILDA.
Yes, downhill. [_Looks after him._] Now he’s jumping too! And it never
occurs to him that he will have to come up again.
BOLETTA.
Poor creature——!
HILDA.
If Lyngstrand were to propose to you, would you have him?
BOLETTA.
Are you out of your senses?
HILDA.
Oh I mean, of course, if he hadn’t this “lesion”—and if he weren’t going
to die so soon. Would you have him _then_?
BOLETTA.
I think you had better have him.
HILDA.
No, I’m bothered if I would. He hasn’t a rap. He hasn’t enough to live
upon himself.
BOLETTA.
Why are you always so much taken up with him then?
HILDA.
Oh, that’s only on account of his “lesion.”
BOLETTA.
I have never noticed that you pity him a bit.
HILDA.
No more I do. But it’s so tempting to me——
BOLETTA.
What is?
HILDA.
To look at him, and get him to say that it’s not serious, and that he’s
going abroad and going to be an artist. He’s perfectly convinced of all
that, and as happy as possible about it. And to know that nothing will
come of it after all; nothing whatever; that he won’t live long
enough——I find that so thrilling to think of.
BOLETTA.
Thrilling!
HILDA.
Yes. I find it thrilling—I take that liberty.
BOLETTA.
Fie Hilda, you are really a horrid child!
HILDA.
Well, that’s what I want to be—just for spite! [_Looks down._] Ah, at
last! Arnholm doesn’t seem to enjoy climbing. [_Turns round._] Oh,
by-the-bye—what do you think I noticed about Arnholm while we were at
dinner?
BOLETTA.
What?
HILDA.
Only think, he’s beginning to turn bald—right on the crown of his head.
BOLETTA.
Oh rubbish! I’m sure he isn’t.
HILDA.
Yes he is. And he has wrinkles here, round both his eyes. Good heavens,
Boletta, how _could_ you be so gone on him when he was your tutor?
BOLETTA.
[_Smiling._] Yes, can you understand it? I remember once shedding bitter
tears because he said he thought Boletta an ugly name.
HILDA.
Think of that! [_Looks down again._] I say! Look there! Just
look!—There’s “the lady from the sea” walking with him—not with
father—and jabbering away to him. I wonder whether those two aren’t a
bit sweet on each other.
BOLETTA.
You ought really to be ashamed of yourself. How dare you say such things
about her? We were beginning to get on so well together——
HILDA.
Oh, indeed!—Don’t you believe it, my girl! I tell you we shall never get
on well with her. She doesn’t suit us, nor we her. Heaven knows what
tempted father to drag her into the house!—I shouldn’t wonder a bit if
she were to go mad on our hands some fine day.
BOLETTA.
Mad? What makes you think such a thing?
HILDA.
Oh, there would be nothing so wonderful about it. Didn’t her mother go
mad? She died mad, I know.
BOLETTA.
Yes, I should like to know what you don’t poke your nose into. All I say
is, don’t go chattering about it. Be good now—for father’s sake. Do you
hear, Hilda?
[WANGEL, ELLIDA, ARNHOLM, _and_ LYNGSTRAND _come up from the
right._
ELLIDA.
[_Points away towards the background._] It lies out there.
ARNHOLM.
Yes, of course; it must be in that direction.
ELLIDA.
Out there lies the sea.
BOLETTA.
[_To_ ARNHOLM.] Don’t you think it’s pretty up here?
ARNHOLM.
I should rather say grand—a glorious view!
WANGEL.
I daresay you have never been up here before?
ARNHOLM.
No, never. In my time I doubt if it was accessible. There wasn’t even a
footpath.
WANGEL.
And no grounds laid out either. We have done all that in the last few
years.
BOLETTA.
Over there, on the Pilot’s Knoll, the view is even finer.
WANGEL.
Shall we go there, Ellida?
ELLIDA.
[_Seats herself upon a stone to the right._] Thank you, I won’t go. But
you others ought to. I shall stay here in the meantime.
WANGEL.
Very well; then I’ll stay with you. The girls can do the honours for
Arnholm.
BOLETTA.
Do you care to come with us, Mr. Arnholm?
ARNHOLM.
Yes, I should like to. Is there a path up there too?
BOLETTA.
Oh yes; a good broad path.
HILDA.
There’s plenty of room for two people to go arm-in-arm.
ARNHOLM.
[_Jestingly._] I wonder if there is, little Miss Hilda? [_To_ BOLETTA.]
Shall we two try if she is right?
BOLETTA.
[_Repressing a smile._] Yes, if you like. Let us.
[_They go out to the left, arm-in-arm._
HILDA.
[_To_ LYNGSTRAND.] Shall we go too——?
LYNGSTRAND.
Arm-in-arm——?
HILDA.
Why not? I don’t mind.
LYNGSTRAND.
[_Gives her his arm, and laughs with pleasure._] This is great fun,
isn’t it?
HILDA.
Great fun——?
LYNGSTRAND.
Why, it looks exactly as if we were engaged.
HILDA.
I suppose you have never given a lady your arm before, Mr. Lyngstrand.
[_They go out to the left._
WANGEL.
[_Who is standing at the back, beside the landmark._] Dear Ellida, now
we have a little time to ourselves——
ELLIDA.
Yes, come and sit here beside me.
WANGEL.
[_Seats himself._] It’s so open and peaceful here. Now let us have a
little talk.
ELLIDA.
What about?
WANGEL.
About you; and about our relation to each other, Ellida. I see well
enough that this state of things cannot continue.
ELLIDA.
What would you have in its place?
WANGEL.
Full confidence, dear. A life in common—such as we used to live.
ELLIDA.
Oh, if that could only be! But it’s so utterly impossible!
WANGEL.
I think I understand you. From certain things you have let fall now and
then, I believe I do.
ELLIDA.
[_Vehemently._] No you don’t! Don’t say that you understand——!
WANGEL.
Oh yes. Yours is an upright nature, Ellida. You have a loyal heart.
ELLIDA.
Yes, I have.
WANGEL.
Any relation in which you can feel secure and happy must be a full and
perfect one.
ELLIDA.
[_Looking anxiously at him._] Well,—and then?
WANGEL.
You are not fitted to be a man’s second wife.
ELLIDA.
What makes you think of _that_ now?
WANGEL.
The suspicion has often crossed my mind; but to-day I saw it clearly.
The children’s little commemoration—you looked on me as a sort of
accomplice.—Well yes; a man’s memories are not to be wiped out—not mine,
at all events. It is not in my nature.
ELLIDA.
I know that. Oh, I know it so well.
WANGEL.
But you are mistaken, none the less. It seems to you almost as though
the children’s mother were still alive. You feel her invisible presence
in our midst. You think that my heart is equally divided between you and
her. It is this idea that revolts you. You see, as it were, something
immoral in our relation; and that is why you cannot, or will not, live
with me any more as my wife.
ELLIDA.
[_Rises._] Have you seen all this, Wangel? Seen through all this?
WANGEL.
Yes, to-day I have at last seen through it—into the very depths.
ELLIDA.
Into the very depths, you say. Oh, you mustn’t think that.
WANGEL.
[_Rises._] I know very well that there is more than this, dear Ellida.
ELLIDA.
[_Apprehensively._] You know that there is more?
WANGEL.
Yes. There is this: that you cannot endure your surroundings here. The
mountains oppress you and weigh upon your spirits. There is not light
enough for you here—the horizon is not wide enough—the air not strong
and stimulating enough for you.
ELLIDA.
There you are quite right. Night and day, winter and summer, it is upon
me—this haunting home-sickness for the sea.
WANGEL.
I know it well, dear Ellida. [_Lays his hand upon her head._] And
therefore the poor sick child must go to its own home again.
ELLIDA.
How do you mean?
WANGEL.
Quite literally. We will move.
ELLIDA.
Move!
WANGEL.
Yes. Out somewhere by the open sea,—to some place where you may find a
real home, after your own heart.
ELLIDA.
Oh, my dear, you mustn’t think of that! It’s quite impossible. You could
never live happily anywhere in the world but here.
WANGEL.
That must be as it may. And besides—do you think I can live happily
here—without you?
ELLIDA.
But here I am; and here I will remain. Am I not yours?
WANGEL.
_Are_ you mine, Ellida?
ELLIDA.
Oh, please say no more of that scheme. Here you have all that is life
and breath to you. Your whole life-work lies here, and here only.
WANGEL.
That must be as it may, I say. We will move from here—move seaward
somewhere. My mind is made up beyond recall, dear Ellida.
ELLIDA.
Oh, but what do you suppose we shall gain by _that_?
WANGEL.
You will regain your health and peace of mind.
ELLIDA.
I doubt it. But you yourself! Think of yourself too. What would _you_
gain?
WANGEL.
I should regain you, my dearest.
ELLIDA.
But that you cannot do! No, no, you cannot, Wangel! That is just the
terrible, the heart-breaking part of it.
WANGEL.
That remains to be seen. If you are haunted by such thoughts here, then
assuredly there is nothing for it but to get you away from here. And the
sooner the better. My mind is made up beyond recall, I tell you.
ELLIDA.
No! Rather than that,—Heaven help me—I will tell you everything without
reserve, exactly as it is.
WANGEL.
Yes, yes—do!
ELLIDA.
You shall not make yourself unhappy for my sake; especially as it would
do us no good, after all.
WANGEL.
You have promised to tell me everything—exactly as it stands.
ELLIDA.
I will tell you as well as I can,—and as far as I understand
things.—Come here and sit by me.
[_They seat themselves upon the stones._
WANGEL.
Well, Ellida? Well——?
ELLIDA.
That day when you came out there and asked me if I could and would be
yours—you spoke to me frankly and openly about your first marriage. You
said it had been very happy.
WANGEL.
And so it was.
ELLIDA.
Yes, yes; I do not doubt it, dear. That is not why I speak of it now. I
only want to remind you that I, on my side, was frank with you. I told
you quite openly that I had once in my life cared for some one else.
That it had come to—a sort of betrothal between us.
WANGEL.
A sort of——?
ELLIDA.
Yes, something of the kind. Well, it lasted only a very short time. He
went away; and afterwards I broke it off. All this I told you.
WANGEL.
But, dear Ellida, why go back upon all this? After all, it did not
really concern me. I have never even asked you who he was.
ELLIDA.
No, you have not. You are always so considerate to me.
WANGEL.
[_Smiling._] Well, in this case,—I scarcely needed to be told his name.
ELLIDA.
His name?
WANGEL.
Out at Skioldvik and in those parts there were not many to choose from.
Or rather, there was only one man——
ELLIDA.
I suppose you think it was—Arnholm.
WANGEL.
Yes—was it not?
ELLIDA.
No.
WANGEL.
It was not? Well then I am certainly at a loss.
ELLIDA.
Do you remember that, in the late autumn one year, a large American ship
came into Skioldvik for repairs?
WANGEL.
Yes, I remember it well. It was on board her that the captain was found
murdered in his cabin one morning. I remember going to make the
post-mortem.
ELLIDA.
Yes, you did.
WANGEL.
It was said to be the second mate who had killed him.
ELLIDA.
No one can tell that! It was never proved.
WANGEL.
No; but I think there is no doubt about it. Else why should he have gone
and drowned himself?
ELLIDA.
He did not drown himself. He escaped in a vessel bound for the north.
WANGEL.
[_Starts._] How do you know that?
ELLIDA.
[_With an effort._] Because, Wangel—because it was that second mate to
whom I—was betrothed.
WANGEL.
[_Starting up._] What do you say? Can this be possible?
ELLIDA.
Yes,—he was the man.
WANGEL.
But how in the world, Ellida——? How could you do such a thing! Go and
engage yourself to such a man as that! A man you knew nothing on earth
about!—What was his name?
ELLIDA.
He called himself Friman[18] then. Afterwards, in his letters, he signed
himself Alfred Johnston.
WANGEL.
And where did he come from?
ELLIDA.
From Finmark, he said. He was born over in Finland though. He had come
across the frontier as a child,—with his father I think.
WANGEL.
He was a Quæn, then.
ELLIDA.
Yes, I believe they are called so.
WANGEL.
What more do you know of him?
ELLIDA.
Only that he went to sea very young, and that he had made long voyages.
WANGEL
Nothing else?
ELLIDA.
No; we never talked about such things.
WANGEL.
What did you talk about then?
ELLIDA.
Mainly about the sea.
WANGEL.
Ah——! About the sea?
ELLIDA.
About storm and calm. About dark nights at sea. About the sea in the
glittering sunshine, too. But we talked most about the whales, and the
porpoises, and the seals that lie out upon the reefs and bask in the
midday sun. And then we spoke of the gulls and the eagles, and all the
other sea-birds, you know. And—is it not strange?—when we talked of such
things, it seemed to me as though both the sea-animals and the sea-birds
were akin to him.
WANGEL.
And you yourself——?
ELLIDA.
Yes, I almost thought that I, too, was akin to all of them.
WANGEL.
Yes, yes.—And that was how you came to betroth yourself to him?
ELLIDA.
Yes; he said I was to do it.
WANGEL.
Was to? Had you no will of your own?
ELLIDA.
Not when he was near. Oh—afterwards it all seemed so utterly
inexplicable to me.
WANGEL.
Did you see him often?
ELLIDA.
No, not very often. He went over the lighthouse one day; that is how I
came to know him. And afterwards we used to meet occasionally. But then
came this affair about the captain; and he had to go away.
WANGEL.
Oh yes, let me hear about that!
ELLIDA.
It was in the dusk of the early morning that I got a line from him. It
said that I must come out to him at Bratthammer[19]—you know, the
headland between the lighthouse and Skioldvik.
WANGEL.
Yes, yes—I know it well.
ELLIDA.
I must come there immediately, the note said for he wanted to speak to
me.
WANGEL.
And you went?
ELLIDA.
Yes. I could not help it. Well—he told me that he had stabbed the
captain in the night.
WANGEL.
He told you himself! Said it straight out!
ELLIDA.
Yes. But he had only done what was right and just, he said.
WANGEL.
Right and just? What reason did he give, then, for stabbing him?
ELLIDA.
He would not tell me the reason. He said it was not a thing for me to
hear about.
WANGEL.
And you believed him, on his bare word?
ELLIDA.
Yes, I never thought of doubting him. Well, at all events he had to go
away. But when he was on the point of saying good-bye to me——No, you
could never imagine what he did.
WANGEL.
Well, tell me then.
ELLIDA.
He took a key-ring out of his pocket, and drew off his finger a ring he
used to wear. Then he took from me a little ring that I had, and these
two he slipped together on the key-ring. And then he said that now we
two should together be wedded to the sea.
WANGEL.
Wedded——?
ELLIDA.
Yes, so he said. And then he flung the large ring and the two small ones
as far as ever he could into the deep water.
WANGEL.
And you, Ellida? Did you agree to that?
ELLIDA.
Yes, would you believe it, I thought at the time that it was all as it
should be.—But, thank heaven, then he went away!
WANGEL.
And when once he was away?
ELLIDA.
Oh, you may be sure I soon came to my senses again. I saw how utterly
stupid and meaningless the whole thing had been.
WANGEL.
But you said something about letters. Did you hear from him afterwards?
ELLIDA.
Yes, I heard from him. First, I got a line or two from Archangel. He
said nothing but that he was going over to America; and he told me where
to address an answer.
WANGEL.
Did you write?
ELLIDA.
Immediately. I said, of course, that all must be over between us—that he
must never think of me again, as I meant never to think any more of him.
WANGEL.
And did he write again, in spite of that?
ELLIDA.
Yes, he wrote again.
WANGEL.
And what was his answer to what you had said?
ELLIDA.
Not a word. He wrote just as if I had never broken with him. He told me
quite calmly that I must wait for him. When he was ready for me he would
let me know, and then I was to come to him at once.
WANGEL.
Then he would not release you?
ELLIDA.
No. So I wrote again, almost word for word the same as before: only more
strongly.
WANGEL.
And did he give way then?
ELLIDA.
Oh no, far from it. He wrote as calmly as before. Never a word about my
having broken with him. Then I saw it was useless, so I wrote to him no
more.
WANGEL.
And did not hear from him either?
ELLIDA.
Yes, I have had three letters from him since. Once he wrote from
California and once from China. The last letter I got from him was from
Australia. He said he was going to the goldmines; and since then I have
heard nothing from him.
WANGEL.
That man must have had an extraordinary power over you, Ellida.
ELLIDA.
Oh yes, yes. That terrible man!
WANGEL.
But you must not think any more about it. Never! Promise me that, my
dear, my precious Ellida! We will try another cure for you now—a fresher
air than this of the inner fiord. The salt-laden, sweeping sea-breezes,
dear! What do you say to that?
ELLIDA.
Oh, don’t speak of it! Don’t think of such a thing! There is no help for
me in that! I know, I feel, that I should not be able to throw it off
out there either.
WANGEL.
To throw what off, dear? What do you mean?
ELLIDA.
I mean the terror of him. His unfathomable power over my soul——
WANGEL.
But you _have_ thrown it off! Long ago; when you broke with him. It is
all over, long ago.
ELLIDA.
[_Springs up._] No, that is just what it is not!
WANGEL.
Not over!
ELLIDA.
No, Wangel—it is not over! And I am afraid it never will be over. Never
in this life.
WANGEL.
[_In a choked voice._] Do you mean to say that you have never in your
heart of hearts been able to forget that strange man?
ELLIDA.
I had forgotten him. But then, all at once, he seemed to come again.
WANGEL.
How long ago is that?
ELLIDA.
It is about three years ago now, or a little more. It was whilst—before
the child was born.
WANGEL.
_Ah!_ It was then, was it? In that case, Ellida—I begin to understand
much more clearly.
ELLIDA.
You are wrong, dear! This thing that has come over me—oh, I don’t think
it can ever be understood.
WANGEL.
[_Looks at her, pained._] To think that for all these three years your
heart has been given to another man. To another! Not to me,—but to
another!
ELLIDA.
Oh, you utterly misunderstand me. I love no one but you.
WANGEL.
[_In a low tone._] How is it, then, that for all that time you have
refused to live with me as my wife?
ELLIDA.
That is because of the dread the strange man has cast over me.
WANGEL.
Dread——?
ELLIDA.
Yes, dread. Such a dread, such a terror, as can arise only from the sea.
For now I must tell you, Wangel——
[_The young townspeople come back from the left, bow, and go out
to the right. With them come_ ARNHOLM, BOLETTA, HILDA, _and_
LYNGSTRAND.
BOLETTA.
[_As they pass by._] What! Still up here?
ELLIDA.
Yes, it’s so delightfully cool up here on the heights.
ARNHOLM.
For our part, we are going down to have a dance.
WANGEL.
Very well. We will come too, in a little while.
HILDA.
Good-bye for the present then.
ELLIDA.
Mr. Lyngstrand—will you please wait a moment?
[LYNGSTRAND _stops._ ARNHOLM, BOLETTA, _and_ HILDA _go out to
the right._
ELLIDA.
[_To_ LYNGSTRAND.] Are you going to dance too?
LYNGSTRAND.
No, Mrs. Wangel, I’m afraid I must not.
ELLIDA.
No, you ought to be careful. That weakness in your chest—you have not
quite got over it yet.
LYNGSTRAND.
No, not thoroughly.
ELLIDA.
[_Somewhat hesitatingly._] How long is it now since you made that
voyage——?
LYNGSTRAND.
When I got the lesion?
ELLIDA.
Yes, that voyage you were telling us about this morning.
LYNGSTRAND.
Oh well, it must be about—wait a bit—yes, it was just three years ago.
ELLIDA.
Three years?
LYNGSTRAND.
Or a little more. We left America in February, and we were wrecked in
March. We got into the equinoctial gales.
ELLIDA.
[_Looking at_ WANGEL.] You see that was the time——
WANGEL.
But, my dear Ellida——?
ELLIDA.
Well, don’t let us detain you, Mr. Lyngstrand, Go; but don’t dance.
LYNGSTRAND.
No, I shall only look on.
[_He goes out to the right._
WANGEL.
Dear Ellida—why did you cross-question him about that voyage?
ELLIDA.
Johnston was in the same ship. Of that I am perfectly certain.
WANGEL.
What makes you think so?
ELLIDA.
[_Without answering._] He came to know, during the voyage, that I had
married some one else, while he was away. And then—at the very same
moment, this came upon me!
WANGEL.
This dread?
ELLIDA.
Yes. Sometimes, without the smallest warning, I suddenly see him stand
bodily before me. Or rather a little to one side. He never looks at me;
he is only there.
WANGEL.
How does he appear to you?
ELLIDA.
Just as I saw him last.
WANGEL.
Ten years ago?
ELLIDA.
Yes. Out at Bratthammer. I see his scarf-pin most distinctly of all,
with a large, bluish-white pearl in it. That pearl is like a dead fish’s
eye. And it seems to glare at me.
WANGEL.
Good God——! You are more ill than I thought; more ill than you know
yourself, Ellida.
ELLIDA.
Yes, yes,—help me if you can! For I feel it closing round me more and
more.
WANGEL.
And you have been in this state for three whole years. You have suffered
this secret anguish without confiding in me!
ELLIDA.
Oh I could not! Not till now, when it became necessary for your own
sake. If I had told you all this—then I must also have told you—the
unspeakable.
WANGEL.
The unspeakable——?
ELLIDA.
[_Evasively._] No, no, no! Do not ask! Only one thing more, and I have
done.—Wangel—how shall we fathom the mystery—of the child’s eyes——?
WANGEL.
My own dear Ellida, I assure you it was pure imagination on your part.
The child had exactly the same eyes as other normal children.
ELLIDA.
No, it had not! How could you help seeing it? The child’s eyes changed
colour with the sea. If the fiord lay in a sunny calm, the eyes were
calm and sunny. And the same way in storms.—Oh, I saw it well enough, if
you did not.
WANGEL.
[_Humouring her._] H’m,—perhaps so. But even if it were? What then?
ELLIDA.
[_Softly, and drawing nearer to him._] I have seen eyes like that
before.
WANGEL.
When? And where——?
ELLIDA.
Out at Bratthammer. Ten years ago.
WANGEL.
[_Recoils a step._] What do you——!
ELLIDA.
[_Whispers, trembling._] The child had the strange man’s eyes.
WANGEL.
[_Cries out involuntarily._] Ellida——!
ELLIDA.
[_Clasps her hands over her head in despair._] Now you can surely
understand why I never _will_,—never _dare_ live with you as your wife!
[_She turns hastily and rushes down the hill to the right._
WANGEL.
[_Hastens after her and calls._] Ellida! Ellida! My poor unhappy Ellida!
-----
Footnote 12:
Pronounce _Vangl_.
Footnote 13:
Pronounce _El-lee-da_, with accent on the second syllable.
Footnote 14:
Pronounce _Bal-le-staid_.
Footnote 15:
Pronounce _Sheevë’s_
Footnote 16:
Pronounce _Yensen_.
Footnote 17:
Pronounce _Sholdveek_.
Footnote 18:
Pronounce _Freeman_.
Footnote 19:
Pronounce _Bratt-hammer_.
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ACT THIRD
_A remote corner of_ DR. WANGEL’S _garden. The place is damp, marshy,
and overshadowed by large old trees. To the right is seen the edge
of a stagnant pond. A low open fence divides the garden from the
footpath and fiord in the background. In the farthest distance,
beyond the fiord, mountain ranges rise into peaks. It is late
afternoon, almost evening._
BOLETTA _sits sewing upon a stone seat to the left. On the seat lie a
couple of books and a work basket._ HILDA _and_ LYNGSTRAND, _both
with fishing-tackle, stand by the edge of the pond._
HILDA.
[_Makes a sign to_ LYNGSTRAND.] Stand still. I see a big one there.
LYNGSTRAND.
[_Looking._] Where is it?
HILDA.
[_Points._] Can’t you see—down there. And look! I declare there’s
another! [_Looks away through the trees._] Ugh—there he comes to
frighten them away!
BOLETTA.
[_Looks up._] Who is coming?
HILDA.
Your tutor, miss!
BOLETTA.
My——?
HILDA.
Yes; thank goodness he was never mine!
ARNHOLM _comes forward among the trees on the right._
ARNHOLM.
Are there fish in the pond now?
HILDA.
Yes, there are some very old carp.
ARNHOLM.
Ah, so the old carp are still alive?
HILDA.
Yes; they’re tough, I can tell you. But now we’re going to put an end to
some of them.
ARNHOLM.
You ought rather to try the fiord.
LYNGSTRAND.