Lyngstrand. 'Pon my word, I won't tell a living soul about it.
Ellida. Oh, it wasn't meant like that. But how are you getting on? I
think you look better than you did.
Lyngstrand. Oh! I think I'm getting on famously. And by next year, if I
can go south--
Ellida. And you are going south, the girls tell me.
Lyngstrand. Yes, for I've a benefactor and friend at Bergen, who looks
after me, and has promised to help me next year.
Ellida. How did you get such a friend?
Lyngstrand. Well, it all happened so very luckily. I once went to sea in
one of his ships.
Ellida. Did you? So you wanted to go to sea?
Lyngstrand. No, not at all. But when mother died, father wouldn't have
me knocking about at home any longer, and so he sent me to sea. Then we
were wrecked in the English Channel on our way home; and that was very
fortunate for me.
Arnholm. What do you mean?
Lyngstrand. Yes, for it was in the shipwreck that I got this little
weakness--of my chest. I was so long in the ice-cold water before
they picked me up; and so I had to give up the sea. Yes, that was very
fortunate.
Arnholm. Indeed! Do you think so?
Lyngstrand. Yes, for the weakness isn't dangerous; and now I can be
a sculptor, as I so dearly want to be. Just think; to model in that
delicious clay, that yields so caressingly to your fingers!
Ellida. And what are you going to model? Is it to be mermen and
mermaids? Or is it to be old Vikings?
Lyngstrand. No, not that. As soon as I can set about it, I am going to
try if I can produce a great work--a group, as they call it.
Ellida. Yes; but what's the group to be?
Lyngstrand. Oh! something I've experienced myself.
Arnholm. Yes, yes; always stick to that.
Ellida. But what's it to be?
Lyngstrand. Well, I thought it should be the young wife of a sailor, who
lies sleeping in strange unrest, and she is dreaming. I fancy I shall do
it so that you will see she is dreaming.
Arnholm. Is there anything else?
Lyngstrand. Yes, there's to be another figure--a sort of apparition, as
they say. It's her husband, to whom she has been faithless while he was
away, and he is drowned at sea.
Arnholm. What?
Ellida. Drowned?
Lyngstrand. Yes, he was drowned on a sea voyage. But that's the
wonderful part of it--he comes home all the same. It is night-time. And
he is standing by her bed looking at her. He is to stand there dripping
wet, like one drawn from the sea.
Ellida (leaning back in her chair). What an extraordinary idea!
(Shutting her eyes.) Oh! I can see it so clearly, living before me!
Arnholm. But how on earth, Mr.--Mr.--I thought you said it was to be
something you had experienced.
Lyngstrand. Yes. I did experience that--that is to say, to a certain
extent.
Arnholm. You saw a dead man?
Lyngstrand. Well, I don't mean I've actually seen this--experienced it
in the flesh. But still--
Ellida (quickly, intently). Oh! tell me all you can about it! I must
understand about all this.
Arnholm (smiling). Yes, that'll be quite in your line. Something that
has to do with sea fancies.
Ellida. What was it, Mr. Lyngstrand?
Lyngstrand. Well, it was like this. At the time when we were to sail
home in the brig from a town they called Halifax, we had to leave
the boatswain behind in the hospital. So we had to engage an American
instead. This new boatswain Ellida. The American?
Lyngstrand. Yes, one day he got the captain to lend him a lot of old
newspapers and he was always reading them. For he wanted to teach
himself Norwegian, he said.
Ellida. Well, and then?
Lyngstrand. It was one evening in rough weather. All hands were on
deck--except the boatswain and myself. For he had sprained his foot and
couldn't walk, and I was feeling rather low, and was lying in my berth.
Well, he was sitting there in the forecastle, reading one of those old
papers again.
Ellida. Well, well!
Lyngstrand. But just as he was sitting there quietly reading, I heard
him utter a sort of yell. And when I looked at him, I saw his face was
as white as chalk. And then he began to crush and crumple the paper, and
to tear it into a thousand shreds. But he did it so quietly, quietly.
Ellida. Didn't he say anything? Didn't he speak?
Lyngstrand. Not directly; but a little after he said to himself, as it
were: "Married--to another man. While I was away."
Ellida (closes her eyes, and says, half to herself). He said that?
Lyngstrand. Yes. And think--he said it in perfect Norwegian. That man
must have learnt foreign languages very easily--
Ellida. And what then? What else happened?
Lyngstrand. Well, now the remarkable part is coming--that I shall never
forget as long as I live. For he added, and that quite quietly, too:
"But she is mine, and mine she shall remain. And she shall follow me, if
I should come home and fetch her, as a drowned man from the dark sea."
Ellida (pouring herself out a glass of water. Her hand trembles). Ah!
How close it is here today.
Lyngstrand. And he said this with such strength of will that I thought
he must be the man to do it.
Ellida. Don't you know anything about--what became of the man?
Lyngstrand. Oh! madam, he's certainly not living now.
Ellida (quickly). Why do you think that?
Lyngstrand. Why? Because we were shipwrecked afterwards in the Channel.
I had got into the longboat with the captain and five others. The mate
got into the stern-boat; and the American was in that too, and another
man.
Ellida. And nothing has been heard of them since?
Lyngstrand. Not a word. The friend who looks after me said so quite
recently in a letter. But it's just because of this I was so anxious to
make it into a work of art. I see the faithless sailor-wife so life-like
before me, and the avenger who is drowned, and who nevertheless comes
home from the sea. I can see them both so distinctly.
Ellida. I, too. (Rises.) Come; let us go in--or, rather, go down
to Wangel. I think it is so suffocatingly hot. (She goes out of the
arbour.)
Lyngstrand (who has also risen). I, for my part, must ask you to excuse
me. This was only to be a short visit because of the birthday.
Ellida. As you wish. (Holds out her hand to him.) Goodbye, and thank you
for the flowers.
(LYNGSTRAND bows, and goes off through the garden gate.)
Arnholm (rises, and goes up to ELLIDA). I see well enough that this has
gone to your heart, Mrs. Wangel.
Ellida. Yes; you may well say so. Although Arnholm. But still--after
all, it's no more than you were bound to expect.
Ellida (looks at him surprised). Expect!
Arnholm. Well, so it seems to me.
Ellida. Expect that anyone should come back again!--come to life again
like that!
Arnholm. But what on earth!--is it that mad sculptor's sea story, then?
Ellida. Oh, dear Arnholm, perhaps it isn't so mad after all!
Arnholm. Is it that nonsense about the dead man that has moved you so?
And I who thought that--
Ellida. What did you think?
Arnholm. I naturally thought that was only a make-believe of yours. And
that you were sitting here grieving because you had found out a family
feast was being kept secret; because your husband and his children live
a life of remembrances in which you have no part.
Ellida. Oh! no, no! That may be as it may. I have no right to claim my
husband wholly and solely for myself.
Arnholm. I should say you had.
Ellida. Yes. Yet, all the same, I have not. That is it. Why, I, too,
live in something from which they are shut out.
Arnholm. You! (In lower tone.) Do you mean?--you, you do not really love
your husband!
Ellida. Oh! yes, yes! I have learnt to love him with all my heart!
And that's why it is so terrible-so inexplicable--so absolutely
inconceivable!
Arnholm. Now you must and shall confide all your troubles to me. Will
you, Mrs. Wangel?
Ellida. I cannot, dear friend. Not now, in any case. Later, perhaps.
(BOLETTE comes out into the verandah, and goes down into the garden.)
Bolette. Father's coming up from the office. Hadn't we better all of us
go into the sitting-room?
Ellida. Yes, let us.
(WANGEL, in other clothes, comes with HILDE from behind the house.)
Wangel. Now, then, here I am at your service. And now we shall enjoy a
good glass of something cool.
Ellida. Wait a moment. (She goes into the arbour and fetches the
bouquet.)
Hilde. I say! All those lovely flowers! Where did you get them?
Ellida. From the sculptor, Lyngstrand, my dear Hilde.
Hilde (starts). From Lyngstrand?
Bolette (uneasily). Has Lyngstrand been here again?
Ellida (with a half-smile). Yes. He came here with these. Because of the
birthday, you understand.
Bolette (looks at HILDE). Oh!
Hilde (mutters). The idiot!
Wangel (in painful confusion to ELLIDA). Hm!--yes, well you see-I must
tell you, my dear, good, beloved Ellida--
Ellida (interrupting). Come, girls! Let us go and put my flowers in the
water together with the others. (Goes up to the verandah.)
Bolette (to HILDE). Oh! After all she is good at heart.
Hilde (in a low tone with angry look). Fiddlesticks! She only does it to
take in father.
Wangel (on the verandah, presses ELLIDA'S hand). Thanks-thanks! My
heartfelt thanks for that, dear Ellida.
Ellida (arranging the flowers). Nonsense! Should not I, too, be in it,
and take part in--in mother's birthday?
Arnholm. Hm!
(He goes up to WANGEL, and ELLIDA, BOLETTE, and HILDE remain in the
garden below.)
ACT II
(SCENE.--At the "View," a shrub-covered hill behind the town. A little
in the background, a beacon and a vane. Great stones arranged as seats
around the beacon, and in the foreground. Farther back the outer fjord
is seen, with islands and outstanding headlands. The open sea is not
visible. It is a summer's evening, and twilight. A golden-red shimmer is
in the air and over the mountain-tops in the far distance. A quartette is
faintly heard singing below in the background. Young townsfolk,
ladies and gentlemen, come up in pairs, from the right, and, talking
familiarly, pass out beyond the beacon. A little after, BALLESTED
enters, as guide to a party of foreign tourists with their ladies. He is
laden with shawls and travelling bags.)
Ballested (pointing upwards with a stick). Sehen Sie, meine
Herrschaften, dort, out there, liegt eine andere mountain, That wollen
wir also besteigen, and so herunter. (He goes on with the conversation
in French, and leads the party off to the left. HILDE comes quickly
along the uphill path, stands still, and looks back. Soon after BOLETTE
comes up the same way.)
Bolette. But, dear, why should we run away from Lyngstrand?
Hilde. Because I can't bear going uphill so slowly. Look--look at him
crawling up!
Bolette. Ah! But you know how delicate he is.
Hilde. Do you think it's very--dangerous?
Bolette. I certainly do.
Hilde. He went to consult father this afternoon. I should like to know
what father thinks about him.
Bolette. Father told me it was a thickening of the lungs, or something
of the sort. He won't live to be old, father says.
Hilde. No! Did he say it? Fancy--that's exactly what I thought.
Bolette. For heaven's sake don't show it!
Hilde. How can you imagine such a thing? (In an undertone.) Look, here
comes Hans crawling up. Don't you think you can see by the look of him
that he's called Hans?
Bolette (whispering). Now do behave! You'd better!
(LYNGSTRAND comes in from the right, a parasol in his hand.)
Lyngstrand. I must beg the young ladies to excuse me for not getting
along as quickly as they did.
Hilde. Have you got a parasol too, now?
Lyngstrand. It's your mother's. She said I was to use it as a stick. I
hadn't mine with me.
Bolette. Are they down there still--father and the others?
Lyngstrand. Yes; your father looked in at the restaurant for a moment,
and the others are sitting out there listening to the music. But they
were coming up here presently, your mother said.
Hilde (stands looking at him). I suppose you're thoroughly tired out
now?
Lyngstrand. Yes; I almost think I'm a little tired now. I really believe
I shall have to sit down a moment. (He sits on one of the stones in the
foreground.)
Hilde (standing in front of him). Do you know there's to be dancing down
there on the parade?
Lyngstrand. Yes; I heard there was some talk about it.
Hilde. I suppose you think dancing's great fun?
Bolette (who begins gathering small flowers among the heather). Oh,
Hilde! Now do let Mr. Lyngstrand get his breath.
Lyngstrand (to HILDE). Yes, Miss Hilde; I should very much like to
dance--if only I could.
Hilde. Oh, I see! Haven't you ever learnt?
Lyngstrand. No, I've not. But it wasn't that I meant. I meant I couldn't
because of my chest.
Hilde. Because of that weakness you said you suffered from?
Lyngstrand. Yes; because of that.
Hilde. Aren't you very sorry you've that--weakness?
Lyngstrand. Oh, no! I can't say I am (smiling), for I think it's because
of it that everyone is so good, and friendly, and kind to me.
Hilde. Yes. And then, besides, it's not dangerous.
Lyngstrand. No; it's not at all dangerous. So I gathered from what your
father said to me.
Hilde. And then it will pass away as soon as ever you begin travelling.
Lyngstrand. Of course it will pass away.
Bolette (with flowers). Look here, Mr. Lyngstrand, you are to put this
in your button-hole.
Lyngstrand. Oh! A thousand thanks, Miss Wangel. It's really too good of
you.
Hilde (looking down the path). There they are, coming along the road.
Bolette (also looking down). If only they know where to turn off. No;
now they're going wrong.
Lyngstrand (rising). I'll run down to the turning and call out to them.
Hilde. You'll have to call out pretty loud.
Bolette. No; it's not worth while. You'll only tire yourself again.
Lyngstrand. Oh, it's so easy going downhill. (Goes off to the right.)
Hilde. Down-hill--yes. (Looking after him.) Why, he's actually jumping!
And he never remembers he'll have to come up again.
Bolette. Poor fellow!
Hilde. If Lyngstrand were to propose, would you accept him?
Bolette. Are you quite mad?
Hilde. Of course, I mean if he weren't troubled with that "weakness."
And if he weren't to die so soon, would you have him then?
Bolette. I think you'd better have him yourself!
Hilde. No, that I wouldn't! Why, he hasn't a farthing. He hasn't enough
even to keep himself.
Bolette. Then why are you always going about with him?
Hilde. Oh, I only do that because of the weakness.
Bolette. I've never noticed that you in the least pity him for it!
Hilde. No, I don't. But I think it so interesting.
Bolette. What is?
Hilde. To look at him and make him tell you it isn't dangerous; and that
he's going abroad, and is to be an artist. He really believes it all,
and is so thoroughly happy about it. And yet nothing will ever come of
it; nothing whatever. For he won't live long enough. I feel that's so
fascinating to think of.
Bolette. Fascinating!
Hilde. Yes, I think it's most fascinating. I take that liberty.
Bolette. Hilde, you really are a dreadful child!
Hilde. That's just what I want to be--out of spite. (Looking down.) At
last! I shouldn't think Arnholm liked coming up-hill. (Turns round.) By
the way, do you know what I noticed about Arnholm at dinner?
Bolette. Well?
Hilde. Just think--his hair's beginning to come off--right on the top of
his head.
Bolette. Nonsense! I'm sure that's not true.
Hilde. It is! And then he has wrinkles round both his eyes. Good
gracious, Bolette, how could you be so much in love with him when he
used to read with you?
Bolette (smiling). Yes. Can you believe it? I remember I once shed
bitter tears because he thought Bolette was an ugly name.
Hilde. Only to think! (Looking down.) No! I say, do just look down here!
There's the "Mermaid" walking along and chatting with him. Not with
father. I wonder if those two aren't making eyes at one another.
Bolette. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! How can you stand there
and say such a thing of her? Now, when everything was beginning to be so
pleasant between us.
Hilde. Of course--just try and persuade yourself of that, my child! Oh,
no! It will never be pleasant between us and her. For she doesn't belong
to us at all. And we don't belong to her either. Goodness knows what
father dragged her into the house for! I shouldn't wonder if some fine
day she went mad under our very eyes.
Bolette. Mad! How can you think such a thing?
Hilde. Oh! it wouldn't be so extraordinary. Her mother went mad, too.
She died mad--I know that.
Bolette. Yes, heaven only knows what you don't poke your nose into. But
now don't go chattering about this. Do be good--for father's sake. Do
you hear, Hilde?
(WANGEL, ELLIDA, ARNHOLM and LYNGSTRAND come up from the right.)
Ellida (pointing to the background). Out there it lies.
Arnholm. Quite right. It must be in that direction.
Ellida. Out there is the sea.
Bolette (to ARNHOLM). Don't you think it is delightful up here?
Arnholm. It's magnificent, I think. Glorious view!
Wangel. I suppose you never used to come up here?
Arnholm. No, never. In my time I think it was hardly accessible; there
wasn't any path even.
Wangel. And no grounds. All this has been done during the last few
years.
Bolette. And there, at the "Pilot's Mount," it's even grander than here.
Wangel. Shall we go there, Ellida?
Ellida (sitting down on one of the stones). Thanks, not I; but you
others can. I'll sit here meanwhile.
Wangel. Then I'll stay with you. The girls can show Arnholm about.
Bolette. Would you like to go with us, Mr. Arnholm?
Arnholm. I should like to, very much. Does a path lead up there too?
Bolette. Oh yes. There's a nice broad path.
Hilde. The path is so broad that two people can walk along it
comfortably, arm in arm.
Arnholm (jestingly). Is that really so, little Missie? (To BOLETTE.)
Shall we two see if she is right?
Bolette (suppressing a smile). Very well, let's go. (They go out to the
left, arm in arm.)
Hilde (to LYNGSTRAND). Shall we go too?
Lyngstrand. Arm in arm?
Hilde. Oh, why not? For aught I care!
Lyngstrand (taking her arm, laughing contentedly). This is a jolly lark.
Hilde. Lark?
Lyngstrand. Yes; because it looks exactly as if we were engaged.
Hilde. I'm sure you've never walked out arm in arm with a lady before,
Mr. Lyngstrand. (They go off.)
Wangel (who is standing beside the beacon). Dear Ellida, now we have a
moment to ourselves.
Ellida. Yes; come and sit down here, by me.
Wangel (sitting down). It is so free and quiet. Now we can have a little
talk together.
Ellida. What about?
Wangel. About yourself, and then about us both. Ellida, I see very well
that it can't go on like this.
Ellida. What do you propose instead?
Wangel. Perfect confidence, dear. A true life together--as before.
Ellida. Oh, if that could be! But it is so absolutely impossible!
Wangel. I think I understand you, from certain things you have let fall
now and again.
Ellida (passionately). Oh, you do not! Don't say you understand!
Wangel. Yes. Yours is an honest nature, Ellida--yours is a faithful
mind.
Ellida. It is.
Wangel. Any position in which you could feel safe and happy must be a
completely true and real one.
Ellida (looking eagerly at him). Well, and then?
Wangel. You are not suited to be a man's second wife.
Ellida. What makes you think that?
Wangel. It has often flashed across me like a foreboding. Today it was
clear to me. The children's memorial feast--you saw in me a kind of
accomplice. Well, yes; a man's memories, after all, cannot be wiped
out--not so mine, anyhow. It isn't in me.
Ellida. I know that. Oh! I know that so well.
Wangel. But you are mistaken all the same. To you it is almost as if the
children's mother were still living--as if she were still here invisible
amongst us. You think my heart is equally divided between you and her.
It is this thought that shocks you. You see something immoral in our
relation, and that is why you no longer can or will live with me as my
wife.
Ellida (rising). Have you seen all that, Wangel--seen into all this?
Wangel. Yes; today I have at last seen to the very heart of it--to its
utmost depths.
Ellida. To its very heart, you say? Oh, do not think that!
Wangel (rising). I see very well that there is more than this, dear
Ellida.
Ellida (anxiously). You know there is more?
Wangel. Yes. You cannot bear your surroundings here. The mountains crush
you, and weigh upon your heart. Nothing is open enough for you here.
The heavens above you are not spacious enough. The air is not strong and
bracing enough.
Ellida. You are right. Night and day, winter and summer, it weighs upon
me--this irresistible home-sickness for the sea.
Wangel. I know it well, dear Ellida (laying his hands upon her head).
And that is why the poor sick child shall go home to her own again.
Ellida. What do you mean?
Wangel. Something quite simple. We are going away.
Ellida. Going away?
Wangel. Yes. Somewhere by the open sea--a place where you can find a
true home, after your own heart.
Ellida. Oh, dear, do not think of that! That is quite impossible. You
can live happily nowhere on earth but here!
Wangel. That must be as it may. And, besides, do you think I can live
happily here--without you?
Ellida. But I am here. And I will stay here. You have me.
Wangel. Have I, Ellida?
Ellida. Oh! don't speak of all this. Why, here you have all that you
love and strive for. All your life's work lies here.
Wangel. That must be as it may, I tell you. We are going away from
here--are going somewhere--out there. That is quite settled now, dear
Ellida.
Ellida. What do you think we should gain by that?
Wangel. You would regain your health and peace of mind.
Ellida. Hardly. And then you, yourself! Think of yourself, too! What of
you?
Wangel. I would win you back again, my dearest.
Ellida. But you cannot do that! No, no, you can't do that, Wangel! That
is the terrible part of it--heart-breaking to think of.
Wangel. That remains to be proved. If you are harbouring such thoughts,
truly there is no other salvation for you than to go hence. And the
sooner the better. Now this is irrevocably settled, do you hear?
Ellida. No! Then in heaven's name I had better tell you everything
straight out. Everything just as it is.
Wangel. Yes, yes! Do.
Ellida. For you shall not ruin your happiness for my sake, especially as
it can't help us in any way.
Wangel. I have your word now that you will tell me everything just as it
is.
Ellida. I'll tell you everything as well as I can, and as far as I
understand it. Come here and sit by me. (They sit down on the stones.)
Wangel. Well, Ellida, so--
Ellida. That day when you came out there and asked me if I would
be yours, you spoke so frankly and honestly to me about your first
marriage. It had been so happy, you said.
Wangel. And so it was.
Ellida. Yes, yes! I am sure of that, dear! It is not for that I am
referring to it now. I only want to remind you that I, on my side, was
frank with you. I told you quite openly that once in my life I had cared
for another. That there had been a--a kind of engagement between us.
Wangel. A kind of--
Ellida. Yes, something of the sort. Well, it only lasted such a very
short time. He went away; and after that I put an end to it. I told you
all that.
Wangel. Why rake up all this now? It really didn't concern me; nor have
I once asked you who he was!
Ellida. No, you have not. You are always so thoughtful for me.
Wangel (smiling). Oh, in this case I could guess the name well enough
for myself.
Ellida. The name?
Wangel. Out in Skjoldviken and thereabouts there weren't many to choose
from; or, rather, there was only a single one.
Ellida. You believe it was Arnholm!
Wangel. Well, wasn't it?
Ellida. No!
Wangel. Not he? Then I don't in the least understand.
Ellida. Can you remember that late in the autumn a large American ship
once put into Skjoldviken for repairs?
Wangel. Yes, I remember it very well. It was on board that ship that the
captain was found one morning in his cabin--murdered. I myself went out
to make the post-mortem.
Ellida. Yes, it was you.
Wangel. It was the second mate who had murdered him.
Ellida. No one can say that. For it was never proved.
Wangel. There was enough against him anyhow, or why should he have
drowned himself as he did?
Ellida. He did not drown himself. He sailed in a ship to the north.
Wangel (startled). How do you know?
Ellida (with an effort). Well, Wangel--it was this second mate to whom I
was--betrothed.
Wangel (springing up). What! Is it possible!
Ellida. Yes, it is so. It was to him!
Wangel. But how on earth, Ellida! How did you come to betroth yourself
to such a man? To an absolute stranger! What is his name?
Ellida. At that time he called himself Friman. Later, in his letters he
signed himself Alfred Johnston.
Wangel. And where did he come from?
Ellida. From Finmark, he said. For the rest, he was born in Finland, had
come to Norway there as a child with his father, I think.
Wangel. A Finlander, then?
Ellida. Yes, so he called himself.
Wangel. What else do you know about him?
Ellida. Only that he went to sea very young. And that he had been on
long voyages.
Wangel. Nothing more?
Ellida. No. We never spoke of such things.
Wangel. Of what did you speak, then?
Ellida. We spoke mostly about the sea.
Wangel. Ah! About the sea--
Ellida. About storms and calm. Of dark nights at sea. And of the sea
in the glittering sunshiny days we spoke also. But we spoke most of the
whales, and the dolphins, and the seals who lie out there on the rocks
in the midday sun. And then we spoke of the gulls, and the eagles, and
all the other sea birds. I think--isn't it wonderful?--when we talked of
such things it seemed to me as if both the sea beasts and sea birds were
one with him.
Wangel. And with you?
Ellida. Yes; I almost thought I belonged to them all, too.
Wangel. Well, well! And so it was that you betrothed yourself to him?
Ellida. Yes. He said I must.
Wangel. You must? Had you no will of your own, then?
Ellida. Not when he was near. Ah! afterwards I thought it all so
inexplicable.
Wangel. Were you often together?
Ellida. No; not very often. One day he came out to our place, and looked
over the lighthouse. After that I got to know him, and we met now and
again. But then that happened about the captain, and so he had to go
away.
Wangel. Yes, yes. Tell me more about that.
Ellida. It was just daybreak when I had a note from him. He said in it
I was to go out to him at the Bratthammer. You know the headland there
between the lighthouse and Skjoldviken?
Wangel. I know, I know!
Ellida. I was to go out there at once, he wrote, because he wanted to
speak to me.
Wangel. And you went?
Ellida. Yes. I could not do otherwise. Well, then he told me he had
stabbed the captain in the night.
Wangel. He said that himself! Actually said so!
Ellida. Yes. But he had only acted rightly and justly, he said.
Wangel. Rightly and justly! Why did he stab him then?
Ellida. He wouldn't speak out about that. He said it was not fit for me
to hear.
Wangel. And you believed his naked, bare word?
Ellida. Yes. It never occurred to me to do otherwise. Well, anyhow, he
had to go away. But now, when he was to bid me farewell--. No; you never
could imagine what he thought of--
Wangel. Well? Tell me.
Ellida. He took from his pocket a key-ring--and drew a ring that he
always wore from his finger, and he took a small ring I had. These two
he put on the key-ring. And then he said we should wed ourselves to the
sea.
Wangel. Wed?
Ellida. Yes, so he said. And with that he threw the key-ring, and our
rings, with all his might, as far as he could into the deep.
Wangel. And you, Ellida, you did all this?
Ellida. Yes--only think--it then seemed to me as if it must be so. But,
thank God I--he went away.
Wangel. And when he was gone?
Ellida. Oh! You can surely understand that I soon came to my senses
again--that I saw how absolutely mad and meaningless it had all been.
Wangel. But you spoke just now of letters. So you have heard from him since? |
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