Yes, the stitches. Look here.
LYNGSTRAND.
Why, so you must! Fancy! It’s almost a kind of art. Can you draw too?
BOLETTA.
Oh yes, when I have a copy before me.
LYNGSTRAND.
Not unless?
BOLETTA.
No, not unless.
LYNGSTRAND.
Then it’s not really art after all.
BOLETTA.
No, it’s more of a—a knack.
LYNGSTRAND.
But I should think, now, that you could probably _learn_ art?
BOLETTA.
Even though I have no turn for it?
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes, in spite of that—if you could be always with a real born artist——
BOLETTA.
Do you think I could learn from him?
LYNGSTRAND.
I don’t mean “learn” in the ordinary sense. But I think it would come to
you by degrees—by a sort of miracle, Miss Wangel.
BOLETTA.
That is a strange idea.
LYNGSTRAND.
[_After a pause._] Have you thought much—I mean—have you thought at all
deeply and seriously about marriage, Miss Wangel?
BOLETTA.
[_Glances at him._] About——? No.
LYNGSTRAND.
I have.
BOLETTA.
Indeed; have you?
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes. I very often think about things of that sort; and particularly
about marriage. And then I have read a good deal on the subject too. I
think marriage may be counted a sort of miracle: the woman is
transformed, as it were, by degrees, and comes to resemble her husband.
BOLETTA.
Acquires his interests, you mean?
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes, that’s just it!
BOLETTA.
Well, but what about his abilities?—his talent and skill?
LYNGSTRAND.
H’m—well—I wonder whether they, too, wouldn’t——
BOLETTA.
Then do you think that what a man has mastered by reading—or by his own
thought—can be passed on in this way to his wife?
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes, that too; by degrees; as if by a miracle. But of course I know that
this could only happen in a marriage that is faithful, and loving, and
really happy.
BOLETTA.
Has it never occurred to you that perhaps a husband might be absorbed in
the same way into his wife? Might come to resemble her, I mean.
LYNGSTRAND.
A husband? No, I have never thought of that.
BOLETTA.
But why not the one as well as the other?
LYNGSTRAND.
No; a man has his vocation to live for, you know. And that is what makes
a man so strong and resolute, Miss Wangel. He has his life-work.
BOLETTA.
Every man?
LYNGSTRAND.
Oh no. I was thinking mainly of artists.
BOLETTA.
Do you think it right for an artist to marry?
LYNGSTRAND.
Most certainly; if he can find some one he really loves——
BOLETTA.
Even then it seems to me that he should rather live for his art alone.
LYNGSTRAND.
Of course he must; but he can quite well do that even if he marries.
BOLETTA.
But what about her, then?
LYNGSTRAND.
Her? Who——?
BOLETTA.
The woman he marries. What is she to live for?
LYNGSTRAND.
She too must live for his art. I should think that must be such
happiness for a woman.
BOLETTA.
H’m,—I am not so sure——
LYNGSTRAND.
Oh yes, Miss Wangel, believe me. It is not only all the honour and glory
she enjoys through him; that, I should say, is almost the least part of
it. But that she can help him to create,—that she can lighten his labour
by being ever at his side, and tending him, and making life thoroughly
comfortable for him. It seems to me that must be such a delight for a
woman.
BOLETTA.
Oh, you don’t realise how selfish you are!
LYNGSTRAND.
Am _I_ selfish? Good heavens——! Oh, if you only knew me a little
better——. [_Bends forward towards her._] Miss Wangel,—when I am
gone,—and I shall be soon——
BOLETTA.
[_Looks at him sympathetically._] Oh don’t get such melancholy thoughts
into your head.
LYNGSTRAND.
I don’t see that it is so very melancholy.
BOLETTA.
How do you mean?
LYNGSTRAND.
I shall be starting in about a month, first for home, and soon
afterwards for the South.
BOLETTA.
Oh, I see. Yes, yes.
LYNGSTRAND.
Will you think of me now and then, Miss Wangel?
BOLETTA.
Yes, gladly.
LYNGSTRAND.
[_Joyfully._] Oh, do you promise me that?
BOLETTA.
Yes, I promise.
LYNGSTRAND.
Solemnly, Miss Boletta?
BOLETTA.
Solemnly. [_Changing her tone._] Oh, but what is the use of all this?
Nothing can ever come of it.
LYNGSTRAND.
How can you say that? It would be such a joy to me to know that you were
at home here thinking of me.
BOLETTA.
Yes, but what more?
LYNGSTRAND.
Well, I am not quite certain about anything more——
BOLETTA.
Nor I. So many things stand in the way; every possible thing stands in
the way, it seems to me.
LYNGSTRAND.
Oh, some miracle or other might happen. A happy turn of fate—or
something of that sort. For I am convinced that fortune is on my side.
BOLETTA.
[_With animation._] Yes, that is right! Surely you think so!
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes, I am perfectly convinced of it. And then—in a few years—when I come
home again a famous sculptor, with plenty of money, and as well as
possible——
BOLETTA.
Yes, yes; let us hope you will.
LYNGSTRAND.
You may be quite sure of it—if only you think faithfully and warmly of
me while I am away in the South. And that you have promised to do.
BOLETTA.
Yes, I have. [_Shakes her head._] But nothing will ever come of this,
all the same.
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes, Miss Boletta, this at least will come of it, that I shall make the
easier and quicker progress with my group.
BOLETTA.
Do you think so?
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes, I feel it within me. And I think it will be stimulating for you
too,—here in this out-of-the-way place—to know that you are, as it were,
helping me to create.
BOLETTA.
[_Looks at him._] Well—but you, on your side?
LYNGSTRAND.
I——?
BOLETTA.
[_Looks out towards the garden._] Hush! Let us talk of something else;
here comes Mr. Arnholm.
[ARNHOLM _is seen in the garden, on the left. He stops and
speaks to_ BALLESTED _and_ HILDA.
LYNGSTRAND.
Are you fond of your old teacher, Miss Boletta?
BOLETTA.
Am I fond of him?
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes, I mean do you like him?
BOLETTA.
Oh yes, I do indeed; he is such a good friend and adviser. And he is
always so ready to help you whenever he can.
LYNGSTRAND.
Is it not strange that he has never married?
BOLETTA.
Do you think it so strange?
LYNGSTRAND.
Yes; they say he is well off.
BOLETTA.
I suppose he is. But it may not have been very easy for him to find any
one who would have him.
LYNGSTRAND.
Why?
BOLETTA.
Oh, he has been the teacher of nearly every girl he knows. He says so
himself.
LYNGSTRAND.
But what does _that_ matter?
BOLETTA.
Why, of course, one doesn’t marry a man who has been one’s teacher!
LYNGSTRAND.
Don’t you think a girl could possibly love her teacher?
BOLETTA.
Not after she is quite grown up.
LYNGSTRAND.
Dear me! How odd!
BOLETTA.
[_Warningly._] Hush, hush!
[BALLESTED, _who has meanwhile collected his things, carries
them out through the garden to the right._ HILDA _helps
him._ ARNHOLM _comes up into the verandah and enters the
room._
ARNHOLM.
Good morning, my dear Boletta. Good morning Mr.——Mr.——h’m!
[_He looks annoyed, and nods coldly to_ LYNGSTRAND, _who rises
and bows._
BOLETTA.
[_Rises and goes to_ ARNHOLM.] Good morning, Mr. Arnholm.
ARNHOLM.
How are you all here to-day?
BOLETTA.
Thanks, very well.
ARNHOLM.
Has your step-mother gone to bathe to-day again?
BOLETTA.
No, she is up in her room.
ARNHOLM.
Not quite well?
BOLETTA.
I don’t know. She has locked herself in.
ARNHOLM.
H’m—has she?
LYNGSTRAND.
Mrs. Wangel seemed very much upset about that American yesterday.
ARNHOLM.
What do _you_ know about it?
LYNGSTRAND.
I told Mrs. Wangel that I had seen him in the flesh, going round behind
the garden.
ARNHOLM.
Oh indeed.
BOLETTA.
[_To_ ARNHOLM.] You and father sat up late last night, did you not?
ARNHOLM.
Yes, pretty late. We had an important question to discuss.
BOLETTA.
Did you get in a word with him about me and my affairs?
ARNHOLM.
No, my dear Boletta. I could not manage it; he was so absorbed in
something else.
BOLETTA.
[_Sighs._] Ah yes,—he always is.
ARNHOLM.
[_Looking significantly at her._] But remember, you and I are to have
another talk about these things, presently.—Where is your father now?
Has he gone out?
BOLETTA.
I think he must be down at the surgery. I’ll go and fetch him.
ARNHOLM.
No thank you, don’t do that. I would rather go down to him.
BOLETTA.
[_Listening to the left._] Wait a moment, Mr. Arnholm. I think I hear
father coming downstairs. Yes. He must have been up attending to her.
DR. WANGEL _enters by the door on the left._
WANGEL.
[_Holds out his hand to_ ARNHOLM.] Ah, my dear friend, are you here
already? It’s good of you to come so early; there are still several
things I want to discuss with you.
BOLETTA.
[_To_ LYNGSTRAND.] Shall we join Hilda in the garden for a little while?
LYNGSTRAND.
With all the pleasure in life, Miss Wangel.
[_He and_ BOLETTA _go down into the garden, and out among the
trees in the background._
ARNHOLM.
[_Who has been following them with his eyes, turns to_ WANGEL.] Do you
know much about that young man?
WANGEL.
No, very little.
ARNHOLM.
Then do you like him to be so much with the girls?
WANGEL.
Is he much with them? I really hadn’t noticed it.
ARNHOLM.
Don’t you think you ought to keep an eye on that sort of thing?
WANGEL.
Yes, no doubt you are right. But, bless my soul, what is a poor fellow
to do? The girls have got so accustomed to look after themselves; they
will not listen to a word, either from me or from Ellida.
ARNHOLM.
Not even from her?
WANGEL.
No. And besides, I cannot expect her to interfere in such matters; it is
not at all in her way. [_Breaking off._] But that was not what we were
going to talk about. Tell me—have you given any more thought to it?—to
all that I told you last night?
ARNHOLM.
I have thought of nothing else, ever since we parted.
WANGEL.
And what do you think I ought to do in the matter?
ARNHOLM.
My dear Doctor, I think that you, as a physician, ought to know better
than I.
WANGEL.
Oh, if you only knew how difficult it is for a physician to form a valid
judgment in the case of a patient he loves so dearly! And this is no
common disorder either—no case for an ordinary physician, or for
ordinary remedies.
ARNHOLM.
How is she to-day?
WANGEL.
I have just been up to see her, and she appeared to me quite calm. But
behind all her moods something seems to be hidden that eludes me
entirely. And then she is so variable—so incalculable—so subject to
sudden changes.
ARNHOLM.
No doubt that is due to her morbid state of mind.
WANGEL.
Not entirely. The germ of it all is innate in her. Ellida belongs to the
sea-folk; that is the trouble.
ARNHOLM.
What do you mean precisely, my dear Doctor?
WANGEL.
Have you not noticed that the people who live out by the open sea are
like a race apart? They seem almost to live the life of the sea itself.
There is the surge of the sea—and its ebb and flow too—both in their
thoughts and in their feelings. And they never bear transplantation. No,
I should have thought of _that_ before. It was a positive sin against
Ellida to take her away from the sea and bring her in here!
ARNHOLM.
Have you come to look at it in that light?
WANGEL.
Yes, more and more; but I ought to have known it from the first. Oh, I
did really know it then too, but I would not acknowledge it to myself. I
loved her so much, you see! And consequently I thought first of myself.
In fact, I was utterly and unpardonably selfish.
ARNHOLM.
H’m,—I am afraid every man is a trifle selfish under those
circumstances. But I can’t say that I have noticed that vice in you, Dr.
Wangel.
WANGEL.
[_Wandering uneasily up and down._] Oh yes! And I have been so since, as
well. I am so much, much older than she; I ought to have been to her
like a father and a guide in one. I ought, to have done my best to
develop and clarify her intelligence. But unfortunately I have done
nothing of the sort. I have not had energy enough, you see! And in fact
I preferred to have her just as she was. But then she grew worse and
worse, and I was at my wits’ end to know what to do [_Lower._] That is
why I turned to you in my perplexity, and asked you to come to us.
ARNHOLM.
[_Looks at him in astonishment._] What! Was that why you wrote to me?
WANGEL.
Yes; but don’t say anything about it.
ARNHOLM.
My dear Doctor,—what in the world—what good did you suppose _I_ could
do? I don’t understand.
WANGEL.
No, of course you do not; I had got upon a wrong scent. I fancied that
Ellida had once cared for you, and that she still had a secret leaning
in your direction. So I thought it might perhaps do her good to see you
again, and have a talk with you about home and old times.
ARNHOLM.
Then it was your wife you meant when you wrote that some one here was
waiting and—and perhaps longing for me!
WANGEL.
Yes; who else?
ARNHOLM.
[_Quickly._] Of course, of course.—But I did not understand you.
WANGEL.
Naturally not, as I said before. I was on an entirely wrong scent.
ARNHOLM.
And you call yourself selfish!
WANGEL.
Oh, I had such a great error to atone for. I felt I had no right to
reject any expedient that could possibly ease her mind a little.
ARNHOLM.
What do you take to be the real explanation of the power this stranger
exercises over her?
WANGEL.
H’m, my dear friend—there may be sides to that question that don’t admit
of explanation.
ARNHOLM.
Something inexplicable in itself, do you mean? Entirely inexplicable?
WANGEL.
Inexplicable for the present, at any rate.
ARNHOLM.
Do you believe in such things?
WANGEL.
I neither believe nor disbelieve. I simply do not know. So I suspend my
judgment.
ARNHOLM.
But tell me one thing: that strange, uncanny idea of hers about the
child’s eyes——
WANGEL.
[_Eagerly._] I don’t in the least believe that about the eyes! I _will_
not believe any such thing! It must be pure imagination on her part;
nothing else.
ARNHOLM.
Did you notice the man’s eyes when you saw him yesterday?
WANGEL.
Yes, certainly I did.
ARNHOLM.
And you found no sort of likeness?
WANGEL.
[_Evasively._] H’m—upon my soul I don’t know what to say. It was not
quite light when I saw him; and besides, Ellida had talked so much about
this likeness beforehand—I don’t think it was possible for me to observe
him without any bias.
ARNHOLM.
No, no; very likely not. But then the other point: that all this dread
and unrest came upon her just at the very time when this stranger would
seem to have been on his way home?
WANGEL.
Well you see—that again is a belief she must have imagined and dreamt
herself into, since the day before yesterday. It did not come upon her
at all so suddenly—so instantaneously—as she now maintains. But since
she heard from this young Lyngstrand that Johnston or Friman—or whatever
he is called—was on his way home three years ago—in March—she has
evidently persuaded herself that her mental trouble came on in the very
same month.
ARNHOLM.
And did it not?
WANGEL.
Not at all. There had been unmistakable symptoms of it long before
that.—It is true she happened—by chance—to have a rather severe attack
precisely in the month of March, three years ago——
ARNHOLM.
Well then——!
WANGEL.
Oh, but that is quite easily accounted for by the circumstances—the
condition—she happened to be in at that time.
ARNHOLM.
The indications may be read in either way, then.
WANGEL.
[_Wringing his hands._] And to be powerless to help her! To be at the
end of one’s resources! To see no sort of remedy——!
ARNHOLM.
What if you made up your mind to a change of residence—to move to some
other place, where she might live under conditions that seemed to her
more home-like?
WANGEL.
My dear fellow, do you think I haven’t suggested _that_ to her? I
proposed that we should move out to Skioldvik. But she will not.
ARNHOLM.
Not that either?
WANGEL.
No. She thinks it would be useless; and I daresay she is right too.
ARNHOLM.
H’m—do you think so?
WANGEL.
Yes; and besides—on considering the matter more closely—I really don’t
see how I could manage it. I scarcely think I should be justified, on
the girls’ account, in moving to such an out-of-the-way corner. After
all, they must live where there is at least _some_ chance of their one
day being able to marry.
ARNHOLM.
To marry? Have you that so much on your mind already?
WANGEL.
Why, yes, of course; I must think of that too! But then—on the other
hand—the thought of my poor suffering Ellida——! Oh, my dear
Arnholm—wherever I turn, I seem to stand between fire and water!
ARNHOLM.
There may, perhaps, be no need for you to trouble about
Boletta——[_Breaking off._] I wonder where she—where they have gone?
[_He goes up to the open door and looks out._
WANGEL.
[_Beside the piano._] Oh I should be so glad to make any possible
sacrifice—for all three of them.—If only I knew what!
ELLIDA _enters by the door on the left._
ELLIDA.
[_Rapidly to_ WANGEL.] Be sure you do not go out this morning.
WANGEL.
No no, certainly not; I will stay at home with you. [_Points to_
ARNHOLM, _who approaches._] But you haven’t said good morning to our
friend?
ELLIDA.
[_Turns._] Oh, are you there, Mr. Arnholm? [_Holds out her hand._] Good
morning.
ARNHOLM.
Good morning, Mrs. Wangel. You have not gone for your bathe to-day as
usual?
ELLIDA.
No, no, no! I couldn’t think of it to-day. Won’t you sit down for a
moment?
ARNHOLM.
No thank you—not just now. [_Looks at_ WANGEL.] I promised the girls I
would join them in the garden.
ELLIDA.
Heavens knows whether you’ll find them in the garden. I never know where
they may have got to.
WANGEL.
Oh yes, they are probably down by the pond.
ARNHOLM.
I daresay I shall find them.
[_He nods and passes across the verandah into the garden, and
out to the right._
ELLIDA.
What o’clock is it, Wangel?
WANGEL.
[_Looks at his watch._] It’s a little past eleven.
ELLIDA.
A little past; and at eleven or half-past to-night the steamer will be
here. Oh, if it only were over!
WANGEL.
[_Goes closer to her._] Dear Ellida, there is one thing I should like to
ask you about.
ELLIDA.
What is it?
WANGEL.
The night before last—up at the Prospect—you said that during the past
three years you had often seen him bodily before you.
ELLIDA.
So I have. I assure you I have.
WANGEL.
Well, but how did you see him?
ELLIDA.
How did I see him?
WANGEL.
I mean—what did he look like when you appeared to see him before you?
ELLIDA.
Why, my dear Wangel,—you know yourself now what he looks like.
WANGEL.
And he looked like that when you seemed to see him?
ELLIDA.
Yes, he did.
WANGEL.
Exactly as you saw him in reality last evening?
ELLIDA.
Yes, exactly.
WANGEL.
Then how did it happen that you did not at once recognise him?
ELLIDA.
[_Starts._] Did I not?
WANGEL.
No. You yourself told me afterwards that at first you did not in the
least know who the stranger was.
ELLIDA.
[_Impressed._] Yes, I really believe you are right! Was not that
strange, Wangel? Think of my not knowing him at once!
WANGEL.
It was only by his eyes, you said——
ELLIDA.
Oh yes—his eyes! His eyes!
WANGEL.
Well, but up at the Prospect you said that he had always appeared to you
just as he was when you parted, ten years ago.
ELLIDA.
Did I say that?
WANGEL.
Yes.
ELLIDA.
Then he must have looked at that time much as he does now.
WANGEL.
No. You gave quite another description of him on the way home, the night
before last. Ten years ago he had no beard, you said. He was quite
differently dressed too. And the breast-pin with the pearl in it——? He
wore nothing of the sort yesterday.
ELLIDA.
No, he didn’t.
WANGEL.
[_Looks intently at her._] Now think a little, dear Ellida. Perhaps you
cannot remember now what he looked like when you parted from him at
Bratthammer?
ELLIDA.
[_Reflectively, closing her eyes for a moment._] Not quite distinctly.
No—I can’t at all to-day. Isn’t that strange?
WANGEL.
Not so very strange. A new and real figure has presented itself to you,
and that obscures the old one—so that you can no longer see it.
ELLIDA.
Do you think so, Wangel?
WANGEL.
Yes; and it obscures your morbid illusions too; so it is a good thing
the reality has shown itself.
ELLIDA.
Good! Do you call it a good thing?
WANGEL.
Yes; its coming—may be your salvation.
ELLIDA.
[_Seats herself on the sofa._] Wangel—come here and sit by me. I must
tell you all my thoughts.
WANGEL.
Yes do, dear Ellida.
[_He seats himself on a chair at the other side of the table._
ELLIDA.
It was really a great misfortune—for both of us—that we two, of all
people, should come together.
WANGEL.
[_Starts._] What do you say?
ELLIDA.
Oh yes it was—and it could not but be. It could lead to nothing but
unhappiness—especially considering the way we came together.
WANGEL.
Why, what was wrong with the way——?
ELLIDA.
Listen now, Wangel,—it is useless for us to go on any longer lying to
ourselves—and to each other.
WANGEL.
_Are_ we doing so? Lying do you say?
ELLIDA.
Yes, lying. Or at any rate—concealing the truth. The truth—the sheer
unvarnished truth is _this_: you came out there and—bought me.
WANGEL.
Bought——Did you say—bought?
ELLIDA.
Oh, I was not a bit better than you. I joined in the bargain. I went and
sold myself to you.
WANGEL.
[_Looks at her, deeply pained._] Ellida,—have you the heart to say so?
ELLIDA.
Why, what else can you call it? You could not bear the void in your
house; you looked about for a new wife——
WANGEL.
And for a new mother for the children, Ellida.
ELLIDA.
That too, perhaps—incidentally, as it were. Although—you did not in the
least know whether I was fit to be a mother to them. You had only seen
me and spoken with me once or twice. But you took a fancy to me, and
so——
WANGEL.
Well, you may give it what name you please.
ELLIDA.
And I, for my part——. There was I, helpless and forlorn, and utterly
alone. What more natural than that I should accept the bargain—when you
came and offered to maintain me all my life.
WANGEL.
I assure you I did not think of it in that light, my dear Ellida. I
asked you honestly if you would share with me and the children the
little I could call my own.
ELLIDA.
Yes, you did. But, little or much, I ought not to have accepted! I
should never have accepted at any price! I should never have sold
myself! Better the meanest labour—better the deepest poverty—of my own
free will—by my own choice!
WANGEL.
[_Rising._] Then have the five or six years we have lived together been
utterly wasted for you?
ELLIDA.
Oh, you must not think that, Wangel! I have had all from you that any
one could possibly desire. But I did not come into your home of my own
free will,—that is the thing.
WANGEL.
[_Looks at her._] Not of your free will?
ELLIDA.
No; it was not of my own free will that I cast in my lot with yours.
WANGEL.
[_Softly._] Ah, I remember—the phrase he used yesterday.
ELLIDA.
The whole secret lies in that phrase. It has thrown a new light on
things for me; so that I see it all now.
WANGEL.
What do you see?
ELLIDA.
I see that the life we two lead with each other—is really no marriage at
all.
WANGEL.
[_Bitterly._] There you are right. The life we _now_ lead is no marriage
at all.
ELLIDA.
Nor the life we led before; never; not from the outset. [_Looks straight
before her._] The first—_that_ might have been a real and true marriage.
WANGEL.
The first? What “first” do you mean?
ELLIDA.
Mine,—with _him_.
WANGEL.
[_Looks at her in astonishment._] I cannot understand you at all!
ELLIDA.
Oh my dear Wangel,—do not let us lie to each other; nor to ourselves.
WANGEL.
No, of course not! But what then?
ELLIDA.
Why, don’t you see—we can never get away from this—that a voluntary
promise is to the full as binding as a marriage.
WANGEL.
Why, what in the world——!
ELLIDA.
[_Rises impetuously._] Let me leave you, Wangel!
WANGEL.
Ellida——! Ellida——!
ELLIDA.
Yes, yes—you must let me! I can assure you there will be nothing else
for it in the end—after the way we two came together.
WANGEL.
[_Controlling his emotion._] So it has come to this!
ELLIDA.
It had to come to this; no other end was possible.
WANGEL.
[_Looks sorrowfully at her._] So even in our daily life together I have
not won you. You have never, never been wholly mine.
ELLIDA.
Oh Wangel—if only I could love you as I gladly would! As tenderly as you
deserve! But I feel quite clearly—it will never be.
WANGEL.
A divorce then? It is a divorce,—a formal, legal divorce,—that you want?
ELLIDA.
My dear, you do not understand me at all. It is not the forms that I
care about. These external things seem to me to matter nothing. What I
wish is that we two should agree, of our own free will, to release each
other.
WANGEL.
[_Bitterly, nods slowly._] To cancel the bargain,—yes.
ELLIDA.
[_Eagerly._] Precisely! To cancel the bargain.
WANGEL.
And after that, Ellida? Afterwards? Have you thought of the outlook for
both of us? What shape will our lives take—both yours and mine?
ELLIDA.